I promise to get back to my communication series soon, but I’ve found myself troubled over the last week about the very premises with which we approach education and interaction with those who are disabled. All of the high-tech AAC, all of the professional development on literacy instruction, all of the videos about inclusion working around the country are meaningless if we haven’t changed our very lens, the foundation upon which everything else is built.
That foundation must absolutely include:
- Every child has worth and value to contribute.
- Every child learns.
- Every child has a right to equal opportunity.
The catch is — there can be no caveat. There can be no imaginary ceiling that we have placed in our mind, even subconsciously. And it’s not a smile-and-nod, “yes, these are my angels, they are so sweet, they teach me so much” condescension. Those things come through. They come through in the decisions you make (sight word instruction!) and the access you provide (ASD? We must start with PECS!). They come through in the goals you write, the interactions you have, and even the things that you celebrate. If low expectations harms children without disabilities, why would we think it any different for our students who receive special education services?
We don’t have to constantly being surprised by kids — or, worse, never be surprised because we didn’t even give the opportunity. I’ve experienced more times than I can count when a person doesn’t showcase a skill simply because of how much the other person just. did. not. get. it.
My daughter is a great example. We were at a recent medical appointment that opened with, “well, of course she can’t do that, just look at her.” My daughter then proceeded to refuse to use her talker, refuse to stack blocks, and checked completely out. The medical professional had their own opinions confirmed, but never looked to whether they were creating an environment where only their truth could exist.
Meanwhile, my daughter met our new superintendent several weeks ago. She was at school with her classroom staff that completely believes in her. The superintendent was lovely, sitting with her, speaking with her eye-to-eye, not dumbing down her language or speaking around her. My daughter then proceeded to have an entire conversation, introducing herself, telling her how old she was, where she goes to school, what she likes…
Expect greatness. You can start right here, right now, with the students you have in front of you today. Teach to their unlimited potential. Ask yourself: what would change if I really, truly believed that there was no end to what this student could learn? If I remembered that learning shows up in many forms? If I said, “It might take fifty years, but that’s okay because learning never ends”? If I thought — how can I be sure that my students are living the experience of having the right to a well-rounded education, to a voice, to autonomy? To be seen and taught as critical thinkers, as problem solvers, as global citizens?
How many words would think should be available on a communication device? What would your reading instruction look like? How much further than basic math facts could you go? What kind of problem solving opportunities and project-based learning and sense of community could you create? Would you have “Fun Friday” and movies every week if your class was filled with general education students? Would you skip creative writing if your class was filled with general education students?
There’s a lot of things we cannot control. I get that, I do. I teach in a more restrictive setting. And I often teach toddlers, which means no access to same-age peers in public schools. But there’s also a lot of things that we can control. Our expectations are at the very top of that list.
Know that you can never fully know what any individual is capable of, disability or not. My daughter has already far surpassed every limit that has ever been placed on her — and she still has so much left to show the world. My students do it every year. Learning and growth don’t end at a certain grade level or at a certain age. There is no ceiling. This doesn’t change for our students with disabilities.