A Lesson in Acceptance from a Second Grade Play
Many teachers have stopped me over the past week to tell me that they have seen Benny in rehearsal, and that he has been doing a fabulous job in the second grade play. They tell me that I will be blown away by the performance of Peter Pan on Friday. I believe them, but am conscious that my reaction falls short. They each try with their eyes to communicate something more than their words can express, but something within me is not receptive. We know each other well; we have spoken frequently over these past two years, ever since we relocated in order to place Benny in an inclusive classroom.
Friday comes and David and I are a little nervous as we walk into the school auditorium. The memories of chasing Benny around toddler time classes, and the many years we have spent cajoling him to be like his peers, while trying to accept his differences, have become a permanent part of the tapestry that conjoins our lives. We wait for the curtain to open, listening to the happy chatter of parents all around, while inside we are too restless to talk, even to each other.
The moment the children walk on the stage and I see Benny, I relax. I can sense David soften in his seat, and we enter the space of our parental peers. Benny is playing a "lost child," he is one of ten, and they stand together with a solidarity I find comforting. They each wear a torn tee and blue jeans. Benny dons a purple bandanna on his neck, and he stands beside a wide eyed girl. She is holding his hand - they all began with hands held, but she does not let go. A gentle touch keeps them united for much of the play. She can't help but glance at him periodically. I scan the stage and I see why. Benny is breathtakingly handsome, his skin glows, his dark head of wavy hair shines brightly, and, after years of physical therapy, he stands with regality. There is no egotism in his eyes common to those with exceptional beauty- a lifetime of struggle has planted modesty deeply and firmly within.
The first few moments of his success circulate quickly throughout my body and turn my nervous energy into something resembling excitement. It is clear to me from just the first few minutes that Benny will be fine. I am both grateful and surprised to find myself so calm, and then sadness rises up to consciousness as I fall back to a time when he was not given these kinds of opportunities. Just two years earlier he was in a class reserved for children with special needs. In this class there were 12 children and two teachers, and still Benny was having trouble functioning. Each day the teacher would greet me at the door and ask me to have him transferred immediately to another classroom, a classroom with fewer children, less distractions, a classroom in a school just for children with disabilities. Each day I would explain that soon we would be moving, to a district nearby. I did not tell her we were going to place Benny in an inclusive classroom, because inside I was afraid it would not work. Even after a successful (20 year) career as an educator I knew very little about inclusion, and I was afraid. The move was a gamble I was willing to take in the face of few other options. I fumbled about each day trying to explain myself while keeping the essence of our move a mystery. I could not bear to hear her predict his failure before we even tried. Most days the conversation was the same- she suggested that he was frustrated because he had little academic potential, his behavior was deteriorating and creating chaos, and the sooner he was out of her classroom, the better for all. All of this I could tolerate somehow, but the day she told me she would be sending him directly to the Principal's office instead of the musical assembly scheduled for the morning, was the last day I sent him to her class. For the next six weeks, which fell during a particularly frigid winter, I took Benny to school just long enough for him to receive his therapies. I had no energy to complain or protest; I needed my strength for the months ahead. Instead, I waited with Adam, my younger child, in a bagel shop nearby, my face streaked with frozen tears by the time I arrived. After many years of struggle and disappointment, the day Benny was excluded from the assembly was the lowest point for me, and it was that moment still alive within me that kept me guarded as the day of Benny's play approached.
I snap back to the present and I am riveted to his role. The children are on rafters and he is on the third tier. I wonder how he will move up and down given his instability on stairs, but he does so with grace. When the time comes for him to speak, his voice is clear. He has a small dance routine with a few classmates, and then they sing a few songs. It is only minutes into the play and all my anxiety vanishes. There is a connection present between these children and Benny. Benny is spectacular. He does not simply follow, or merely function, he soars on that stage. He has reached a comfort level that enables him to fly. Like a musician who knows his part so well, he does not need to think, simply to feel. Benny floats across the stage, his hands and body telling the story, even when he has no actual lines. There is no awkwardness to his movements. He does not have to rely on all the neurological connections, which at times do not cooperate with his plans. The hour plus feels full, not rushed. His triumph on the stage seeps into me; it is soothing, calming, sustaining. Adam watches too with an enthusiasm beyond his years. He gets up out of his seat and moves over as Benny travels the stage. He wants to absorb it all.
When the last lines have been said and the final words have been sung, Benny's face lights up with a fiery glow. He holds tightly to the hands of those beside him, and they swing arms as they bow together. His eyes are full with pride- complete and total joy. His smile is so wide, his eyes can barely open, but through the slits, we can see them sparkling.
Over the past two years, I have had many conversations with educators here and elsewhere. I have been driven to understand how and why inclusion works. I have read statistics and studies, and pored over Benny's recent evaluations, marveling at his progress, but always come up at a loss for a complete explanation as to how inclusion has taken Benny to such academic and social heights.. Benny has multiple expressive and receptive language delays. He is on the autistic spectrum. He has been receiving services since he was a toddler. Numerous evaluations by top doctors placed him in the mentally retarded range for IQ, and only because I refused to accept that designation at his kindergarten placement meeting was he placed in a neighborhood school rather than a special school for children with profound disabilities. Since entering an inclusive classroom where he is one of a handful of children with special needs, in a setting with a teacher and an assistant, and much support through the day, he has reached a level of academic performance no one, except his exceptional preschool assistant director, came close to predicting. He is reading near grade level, adding and subtracting two digit numbers, skip counting to 200 by many smaller numbers, and writing essays about his life. He can also carry on a conversation, share his humor and demonstrate the depth and sensitivity of his thoughts. My husband and I had concerns both large and small as we made the move to this town. We wondered how Benny would feel surrounded by seemingly more capable children. Memories of Benny running into the bedroom, and under a blanket, making bizarre and scary sounds, when we invited another child over to play were never far from our thoughts. Yet we were drawn to the idea that there existed a place where he would be accepted, where expectations would be high, where he might have a chance to live like his peers. While we entertained the possibility that the move would prove to be a failure, we felt we had to try. His success was so immediate it seemed almost magical yet, I could not rest without a more scientific explanation. I researched. Yet even after two years of research and a book I wrote in the process, there were still holes I could not close. Something occurred in those first moments of that play which filled in the all the missing pieces. There are times when words and numbers suffice to explain it all, and there are times when a few minutes of movement across a stage speak louder and clearer than any study ever could.
After the play he gathers his friends in groups of two and three, smiling all the while, a tremendous, stupendous smile. I snatch photo after photo until I catch a glimpse of his teacher. She is looking over right at Benny, her mind filled with as many thoughts as mine. I tell her how thrilled I am that Benny has come so far in her class. Her eyes narrow with judgment. "Mrs. Linder," she says, "Benny is capable of so much more than even you know."
Benny is busy now, back in his classroom. He has mealworms to feed and a survey to finish for math class. He has had enough attention and wants us to leave. He is serious now but in his face there is still the light we all saw as he sang on the stage.
David and I leave in a bit of a stupor. Even after two years of his success here, we are surprised. We have underestimated our son and our society. We came to inclusion with fears- feeling like we had no other options. Even after Benny proved himself academically, there was still concern that somehow we had opened the door to disappointments which living amongst the typical would bring. I see now that in the right setting, Benny is not so different than his peers and that parenting a child with special needs can come with the very same emotions as parenting any child. In the end we all yearn to feel that apprehension as our children step into a world just out of reach and then deserve to celebrate when we see that they can flourish. The path for parents of a child with special needs might have more twists and turns and hurdles along the way, but I know now that places of acceptance exist, and in those places miracles can happen.
Diane Linder, MA in Mathematics Education- NYU
Adjunct Instructor Queens College, Department of Elementary and Early Childhood Education
I have been teaching for 20 years. I recently wrote and published a book called "Beyond Words, Reflections on Our Journey to Inclusion." Since then I have been giving talks and workshops to parents and teachers in the New York Metro area.
