One thing I love about school is when the bell rings. Metaphorically, at least. There are no bells at our school. (Maybe it’s a sensory thing?) Our body certainly has a reaction to bells, alarms, sirens. We have to prep our students for fire drills. Some wear headphones. It’s an overload of panic and anxiety.
I feel that too leading up to the bell. I want everything to be perfect. I want to make sure I have thought of everything, prepare for any surprises. (As I type that I realize how ridiculous that reads. How can you be prepared for surprises?) I walk through my lessons plans over and over in my mind. Make adaptations for individual needs.
The bell, however, means you just have to start. To paraphrase Loren Michaels, “You don’t start because you’re ready. You start because it’s 8:30.”
So that’s what this post is. It’s the ringing of the bell. I thought forward and back about what I wanted to say, how to say it, tone, rhythm, but in the end I will post this because it’s time to start.
I want you to know right away that I don’t have all the answers. You’ll figure that out eventually, so it only makes sense to state it clearly at the beginning. .
My midwest-ness is keeping me from even acknowledging my experience, as if I’m bragging somehow. But I at least need to introduce myself, explain how I became a part of this wonderful, beautiful community of people working with students with disabilities.
I’m so fortunate to teach at a school specifically designed for students with intellectual disabilities. I get to feel a part of that special community everyday.
So experience with my daughter. She was born with a genetic disorder called Angelman’s Syndrome. It can be lonely having a child with a disability. You don’t tend to have the adorable posts for social media. You don’t have typical milestones to share with family and friends. My daughter didn’t walk until she was three. Her being non-verbal means I will never have a story about her first word. (But oh, the stories I have about her communicating.)
And I know you have stories too. I can’t wait to hear them as I share my own. This is the most amazing community to be drafted into. It transcends race, culture, economic status. It’s all about who you are as an individual.
Seeing the amazing people who first worked with my daughter the PTs, OTs, Teachers, Associates, Speech Pathologists, Nurses, Case Managers, everyone. It was incredible to see. The love and care and expectations they gave her inspired me. And I thought, I want to be a part of this. I think I have something to offer too.
I went back to school to get my Masters in Education. And now I’m so fortunate to teach at a school specifically designed for students with intellectual disabilities. I get to feel that community everyday.
But I recognize that many teachers don’t. They are the room at the end of the hall, different, separate from the rest of the school. Gen Ed teachers don’t understand what you do. They wait for you to solve whatever problem “your” student is causing during assemblies or music. (Even though your student loves music, and you’re trying to give them that experience that they deserve and have a right to.)
And so you take on all the blame, and shame, and side-eyes so your student can participate. And we wear that proudly because we know it’s about the kids. And they deserve our best effort.
You are seen. We know what that’s like. And so I’m hoping this blog and podcast or whatever it turns into becomes a place where you and everyone can feel part of a community. Maybe we share some tips or resources to make our jobs easier. Maybe we just learn that there are others going through the same struggle. Sometimes that’s enough.
Thank you for being here. For caring about your students or your children enough to seek out a community, to continually look for better and better solutions for the children in your life. We can take the glances from adults who don’t understand, and the frustration from lessons not working. We can deal with surprises. And while I guess we can’t actually prepare for them, we certainly expect them to happen.
We do it everyday. Not because we’re ready. But because the bell rang.
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