Archive for January, 2018

Flooding Tears

I recently visited a local high school with a friend. Her son who has Down syndrome will be a student at this school next year. The transition to high school is a big one. She and her family have been working on this transition for years, fighting the status quo in our state, which is to keep kids with significant disabilities in special classes away from their non disabled peers.

Special classes for kids with disabilities are called self-contained classes. Self-contained as opposed to mingling about and switching teachers, classrooms, and subjects throughout the day. Typically these self-contained students stay in one classroom all day long and receive their instruction from one teacher with the help of several aides. Sometimes the students in these classes are allowed to go to elective classes or lunch with other kids. But for the most part, they are kept hidden away in private classrooms without any interaction with non disabled students.

My friend and I and several other friends of ours have been fighting against this status quo for years. We believe that our children should be educated right alongside peers who do not have disabilities. We believe that the positive peer pressure from being with these students and the friendships with these other students are life-giving and important. We believe that even if our children can’t demonstrate that they are learning everything the other students are learning, they deserve to be exposed to everything the other students are learning. The difference is literally as plain as our children still learning about the calendar and the weather and counting to 30 in high school instead of learning about the Periodic Table or the Cell Cycle. (Disclaimer: perhaps that is a simplified example, but it is true to what I have witnessed and heard about in Texas high schools)

So the other day while visiting this local high school, my friend and I stood talking in the entryway to the school, right outside of the front office. We stood in an active, busy thoroughfare of the main hallway of the school. We watched groups of students filing to lunch and to the library; then we watched students filing from lunch and on to class. The students, of course, came in waves as the passing periods came and went in the middle of the day. I love teenagers so I enjoyed watching them come and go, laughing or joking or cutting up as they went.

But then, surprisingly, when the hallway was quiet since it was not a main passing period, a group of about 8 or 10 students came parading by. A couple of them were holding hands with teachers and being led down the hall. It became clear that this was the special education class. The self-contained class. The kids with disabilities. The hall was empty except for these few students. They didn’t even pass paths with their typical peers during passing periods. They didn’t even see other kids on their way back from lunch. It was just them in the empty hallway.

My friend and I watched silently.

“Oh my gosh,” I finally whispered. It was as though I had been punched in the gut. I could not breathe as I watched them walk by.

And then the tears came. And they came hard.

Now, I am not a crier. I don’t cry. But here, in the entryway of this high school, I started crying. And I couldn’t stop. I think I mostly controlled my heaving breaths that were trying to escape my lungs as I tried to control my tears, but the tears certainly came.

It broke my heart. It made me angry. It made me sad.

And the emotions flooded.

This. This is why we fight. This is why we work so hard to get inclusion for our kids. This is why we help families. This is why we spread the word that inclusive education is important.

I was overwhelmed with the injustice of it all — the injustice that somehow these students were deemed unworthy to be learning with the other students. The realization that without loud, vocal, fighting mamas– this is exactly where our kids would be, separated from the rest of the world, parading down the hall with these students all the way to their private classroom, away from the other students and away from the rich learning taking place in those other classrooms.

And I realized that all the nights I complain about helping Chloe with her difficult homework from her 9th grade biology class or her Algebra I class, I should have been so thankful that she had the opportunity to learn biology and algebra instead of being ushered down the hall away from those subjects. All of those nights of hours of homework with her are worth it!

That hard World Geography semester review that had frustrated me the night before? I was suddenly so very thankful that Chloe and I were able to struggle through it. Because the alternative is no homework, no world geography, and no inclusion.

That parade of students showed me, reminded me, that everything we do and everything we’ve done has a purpose and it’s all worthwhile. All the fighting, all the work, all the rocking of the boat and questioning the norm has a purpose. We are fighting so that our children won’t be a part of that parade that passes by after all the other kids are in class. We are fighting so that our children can learn everything that the other kids are learning. We are fighting so that when a friend mentions their 3-D cell project or the Periodic Table, our children will know what the heck they’re talking about.

Yes, the tears came. And, yes, it was awkward and embarrassing. But the tears and the emotion were strong enough to remind me of the importance of our fight. The emotion reminded me why we speak up. And the emotion reminded me what we’re fighting for and what we’re fighting against.

I believe that my kids have the right to be educated right alongside the other kids. And I believe that ALL KIDS have the right to be educated right alongside the other kids.

I only wish I could help more students. I only wish I could convince more families to fight. I only wish I could stop that private and sad parade going down the hall while the rest of the world is off learning together.

Oh, how I want to change the world. Oh, how I want to change the status quo.

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Happy Birthday!

As I recently explained, Chloe has become quite the party animal lately. Everything is a party. All day, everyday, party, party, party.

Another consistent thing in Chloe’s day is the birthday song. It pairs nicely with the whole party scene, don’t you think?

photo source: cliffordgarstang.com

Chloe has a couple of different apps on her ipad that play the birthday song. And the song has been on repeat for months. We sing happy birthday to all of her stuffed animals and all of her babies. We sing happy birthday to the cello, to the Christmas tree, and to the Walmart employee who brings our groceries out to the car. We sing happy birthday to singers who come on the radio, to our dog Flo, and to the sunshine.

There is a routine to the singing of the birthday song. Once the birthday object has been identified, Chloe plays the song on her ipad, we sing the birthday song, hug the lucky birthday object (if possible), and then we always tell him/her/it to have a fun party. It’s a very rigid birthday routine. The routine is greatly loved and very carefully carried out multiple times each day. If there happens to be something handy that can stand in as birthday candles, then we add blowing out the candles to the birthday song routine, too. Sometimes there are even gifts exchanged.

So fair warning, if you run into us somewhere, be prepared to be the birthday boy or girl! And guess what? You can play along with us and pretend it’s your birthday even if it really isn’t. And if you’re lucky, you might get some pretend candles to blow out and a birthday gift to enjoy for a couple of minutes. Don’t worry. Don’t get weirded out. Don’t feel awkward. Just let us celebrate you for a minute. You just might enjoy it. 🙂

Everything’s a Party!

Our girl has become a party girl. For the last six months or so, everything’s a party! Literally EVERYTHING’s a party.

In talking about her upcoming orchestra concert, it’s not a concert, it’s an instrument party. Her cheer practice is now a cheer party. Church is a worship party. School is a friend party. The Baylor football game is a football party. The halftime show is an instrument party. You get the idea.

One day when we were headed to the cemetery to take flowers to Papa’s grave, she named it a grave party and a flower party. While she sat there on his grave, she continued to proclaim it a party. A sweet memory, to be sure.

 

Literally everything is a party. Everyday, multiple times a day, there are parties left and right. You wouldn’t believe the parties you’ve been missing.

While her brothers at times find the multitudes of parties slightly annoying, the truth is, we can yet again learn something from our girl. Just think of the joy we would experience if we approached everything as a party! If we shared Chloe’s outlook and viewed everything as a party, we just might find ourselves enjoying even the mundane tasks in life.

Why do the laundry when you can instead go to a laundry party or a folding party? Don’t think of it as rush hour traffic; instead, call it a car party! Dreading fixing dinner? How about an ingredients party or a cooking party instead?

It’s not hard to catch on to the whole party scene. In no time at all, we, like Chloe, could become total party animals! And we just might find ourselves smiling with each step throughout the day.

Got any parties on your agenda this week? No? Hmmmmmm.

Well, pardon me for now while I head off to Walmart for a grocery party! 🙂

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