The Illusion of Inclusion: No (Typical) Child Left Behind

For this article I would like to discuss the illusion of the word inclusion. In education, inclusion means that a child with a disability spends time (most, if not all) with general education students. Sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?

Welcome to my world. I am like most special needs parents, existing between two worlds. The normal world, where everyone else lives. And “Holland,” the special needs world. Most families understand the Holland reference. If you’re not familiar, check it out here. For the record, I disagree a bit with this, but that’s a subject for another time.

My boys, ages 9 and 14, started school last week. Both the high school and the elementary school had open houses. It was a festive atmosphere. Friends reuniting after the summer vacation. Teachers greeting students and parents alike with smiles. Promises of a wonderful and productive school year. Heartwarming.

Of course, that was the normal world.

My daughter, my Princess Warrior, went to her open house. To the only elementary school out of six that offered inclusion. I know, I know, I should be happy. She gets to go to school like a typical kid. Incidentally, she LOVES school.

So, let’s talk about inclusion here. At the school, all the kiddos with disabilities go in a separate entrance (it does have a ramp). They also come in a half hour before the typical kids do and leave about a half hour before they do. All their classes are in the back half of the school, so they never have to interact with a typical kid.

With me still? Good. Confused? Good. If you ask about it, it’s for the safety of kids with special needs (which is of utmost importance…).

So, my Princess’ open house. Only the regular entrance was open. The one with the stairs. The ones I had to carry my Princess, in her wheelchair, up if I wanted her to go inside. The same ones that the other wheelchair-riding warriors must have had to navigate, too.

This inclusion thing. I think something was lost in translation.

We follow the crowd into the gym where these giant posters of all the classes are displayed. They are separated by grades, and each poster has the teacher and the students he or she will be educating this year.

Odd. Can’t find my daughter’s name anywhere. She’s supposed to be in first grade. Maybe they mislabeled her. Hmmm. Not on the 2nd grade lists. Or 3rd. What the hell? A faculty member walks by and we ask where the Life Skills class lists are.

Back to inclusion. Why are kids with disabilities relegated to Life Skills? I get that they should learn basic functional skills. However, a lot of these kids have higher cognitive levels. Why can’t they learn their ABCs like their typical counterparts?

So, the faculty member looks at the paper in her hand and finds my daughter’s name. And with the same smile that she has been toting all day (likely), names our daughter’s class and points to the back of the building. The special needs side of the building. When we question why the kids in Life Skills don’t get their name on a big list too, the smile broke. She didn’t have an answer. Instead, she offered to walks us to the classroom.

She takes us to a dark room. No lights. No teacher, and she says, “Here you are!” Why is the light off, you ask? So did we. Where was the teacher? We wondered that, too. Turns out she was chit-chatting with another teacher down the hall. So, we had to wait until she came to turn on the lights to see our daughter’s class.

By now I’m sure you’re thinking, are you sure they meant inclusion? I know I was. Looks like they were going out of their way to make sure the warriors with disabilities knew they were placed away from the general population. Making sure they knew they weren’t as special, or as deserving of the same treatment.

Typically, I would have made heads roll and wheeled my daughter out of there. Problem? The girl LOVES school. She already has to lose out on so much. Lost the ability to eat this summer. Can’t run, can’t speak. Found out her vision is impaired. I refuse to take away what makes her happy. And this…establishment…makes her happy.

Fortunately, her nurse goes with her.

Still, whenever I hear someone talk about how awesome their school is — that same school my Princess attends — I just want to sit them down and discuss the word inclusion with them. Vehemently. Maybe violently.

I need to do something about this.

Y.F. Desince, II is the father/cheerleader of a daughter with cerebral palsy. He’s a family man, and a collector of stories. He grew up in NYC before meeting and marrying the love of his life here in Indiana. Currently working on his Master’s Degree in Education, he hopes to start a local village of special needs parents, for the support they all need.