introductions & expectations
August 23, 2013 § 8 Comments
For the past two years I have been fortunate enough to sit with my son among teachers and support staff in the quiet halls of his middle school just before the beginning of a new year. Prior to introductions my son is a name attached to a series of diagnoses and lengthy reports; in person he becomes the sum of his smile and I am the voice of his needs. I do this so that each member of my son’s team knows I am a committed partner in my son’s education and will advocate for classroom resources that enable greater success.
Beneath the informal introductions is a subtext: this average looking child has exceptional abilities and frustrating challenges, but he is capable academically. He will struggle to make eye contact during your lecture, but will retain your lesson almost word for word. He will fail to perform written exercises in traditional form, but verbalize coherent, complete answers as naturally as he breathes. He will act socially immature at times, because it is a foreign language he is largely fluent only in textbook application. No one is more aware of his differences than my son who lives in a body with a mind that is often overlooked because his needs are largely invisible, until they become inconvenient. His abilities often humbling us when we uncover his strengths.
This year, for the first time, an educator gave me pause. I could feel their displeasure as clearly as if it were a physical being absorbing the air from the room. Heavy walls stretched between us and while I measured the distance separating our perspectives for a path that might create shared expectations, I could not find common ground. For the first time I identified undertones of prejudice. Despite the tightness in my chest and lump in my throat, there was much to learn from listening. I set aside defensiveness and sadness to educate.
My son lives everyday with needs that make simple tasks overwhelming for the social undertones. I could easily place him in a modified academic setting, but I would be compromising his education and undermining him and his peers’ ability to navigate shared space. The behaviors that some might see as inconvenient to their day are not intentional acts of misbehavior, but invisible handicaps typical to his diagnoses. If my son’s legs were broken we would give him tools to aide his movement. If he could not speak or see, we would give him tools to perform alongside able-bodied peers. Patience is our greatest accommodation. I have never compromised my expectations, rather my son strives to meet a standard that is often higher for the effort it takes to balance his needs to perform among peers as an equal. My son faces unkindness and frustrations with determination. It is because of his abilities that I advocate for him, not his inabilities.
In truth, I admire uncomfortable honesty as a promise of possibility. We learn from one another in lessons that extend far beyond thoughtfully prepared classrooms. Each year I am wiser for the team of educators I partner with and I hope their lives are richer for the experiences we lend them. We begin with introductions and expectations to mark a new path.
scribblechic 
I am so sorry you’ve encounter a teacher like this one. I did, too, and it was a miserable slog through middle school trying to get her and her team to accept my son’s special needs in their world. It was supposed to be a gifted program, but proved to be a program for children who excel at note-taking and homework. My son repeatedly asked why he had to be graded on behavior-related tasks when he could easily show mastery of the concepts. I never had a good answer for him nor did his teachers. Good luck to you this year. I’m sure you will handle this educator far more gently than I was able to deal with my situation.
I think the most frustrating piece of this experience is an educator’s close-mindedness. Fortunately, this is the exception and not the norm.
As always, I am so grateful for your company along the way as a voice of understanding. Thank you!
To this day one of my daughters greatest asset is that she works at camouflaging her disabilities… she was raised as normal as possible. To this extent she views the rest of us as disabled and she is here to take care of our deficiencies.
As for the teaching game of “Thrones” i tell all my parents “you are you child’s first teacher” and always will be. Fortunate and unfortunately you are their ‘advocate’ also.
All my best 🙂
My favorite teachers are those who see my son without disabilities and celebrate his strengths. This experience was disheartening, but an opportunity to educate another. Hopefully, this educator will come to appreciate other students with similar challenges as valuable assets to his classroom setting.
Your daughter and your students are fortunate for your wisdom.
This is such a wonderful, honest, well written perspective. Thank you for writing it! As a classroom teacher, I can see many angles of these challenges and always appreciate more.
As a parent I try to be mindful of the increased expectations placed on educators when teaching an inclusive classroom. My depth of gratitude for those tireless souls willing to see the individuals that compose each larger group is endless.
“It is because of his abilities that I advocate for him, not his inabilities.” That’s one of the things that makes your son so lucky to have his parents on his side. And maybe it will help him to grow up instinctively knowing how to work and get along with others — despite their inability to do the same.
Thank you. I think I’ll hold that thought closely for encouragement.