Cap & Gown

Micah walking across the stage with a big smile.

On Thursday, May 7, 2015, Micah wore a cap and gown, he crossed a stage when his name was called, received a pin and certification for his work toward earning a noncredit certificate in Disability Studies, his name was listed in the Syracuse University College Graduation program, his classmates, friends, trainer, college professors, and family cheered when he walked. In the official remarks opening this commencement, Dean of University College, Bea Gonzalez, confidently and enthusiastically acknowledged the significance of Syracuse's InclusiveU program (the program Micah completed) and the students' participation in this commencement. 

Micah returning to his seat with his friends and family. 

I have spent a lot of time this school year trying to unpack the social and academic elements of inclusion -- in a classroom where what I want, what I can do, and what may be "possible" conflict and meld together. It has been exhausting and rewarding. I have worked hard to figure out and think through what it takes to ensure that "all means all" -- from recess, friendships, counting, story problems, reading, telling stories, making mistakes, having consequences, and celebrating successes. 

 As I sat at Micah's graduation, I couldn't help but wonder about some of my own students. How do all families know what is possible for their child? How do peers know what their classmates are capable of? How do my individual students learn to dream, build determination, and constantly advocate for what they need to show what they are capable of? 

Micah with me (his sister!). 

After Micah's graduation, I went to a house party where dozens and dozens of people flooded the home. I knew maybe a handful of people. This was Micah's world. This was Micah's community -- his friends, his professors, his students he had when he co-taught courses in the School of Education. These were people he cooked with, people he went to bars with, people who he had mock dates with, people he stayed with when he was worried about his heart surgery last winter, people who felt loved, supported, and respected by Micah. No pity. No "buddy." No charity. Simply friends and community.


Micah reminds me over and over again that this work -- this work of creating the beloved community -- must involve intentional and authentic inclusion. Micah is who he is because inclusion (and Micah!) is working at its very best. 

Micah at his graduation party, looking at his phone.

His inclusion has authentic age-appropriate experiences like wearing a cap and gown (he wasn't allow to wear when he attend Oakland University), like walking across the stage (some students with intellectual disabilities aren't allowed to walk across the stage for their high school graduations because they can't get the diploma until they age out of the system), like drinking alcohol to celebrate his accomplishment. These moments are not necessarily about an IEP Goal or about growing academic or job-related skills. These are moments that allow Micah to see himself as a valued and respected member of his community. These are moments that allow his community to see his full participation.

His inclusion has intentional experiences like attending an inclusive university program that facilitates academic and social interactions on campus, like creating circles of support since he was in elementary school so that when Micah moved from Michigan to New York he knew what he needed to feel supported without his parents nearby, like having parents that constantly, lovingly, and fiercely keep expectations and possibilities high so that phrases like "he's not capable of that" or "that's not within his IQ" doesn't limit him, like using technology so that he is learning what he wants to learn about both possibilities and injustices in the world. These are moments that allow Micah to travel interdependently in his community. These are moments that allow Micah to see that learning is truly a life long process. 

Micah with his parents who are smiling and laughing.
They both just received "Syracuse Dad" and "Syracuse Mom" shirts.

So as I continue to work at better understanding inclusion, now as a teacher and not just as a sibling to Micah, I hold Micah's story. 

I hold on to the moments where my students need opportunities to grow academically as mathematicians, readers, scientists, writers, and artists. They need intentional academically rich experiences. 

And equally, they need opportunities for authentic experiences. They need opportunities to wear their caps and gowns and cross the graduation stage. They need opportunities to "get in trouble," to learn how to annoy and not annoy their classmates, they need to learn how to stand on stage with their classmates and perform at the music concert, they need to ride a bike (however they do and whatever their "bike" looks like), they need to go to nurse when they fall and go to the nurse when they're bored in class, they need to eat school lunch and sneak in the lunch line to grab a second slice of pizza,  they need to share their writing in front of the class, and they need to have friends and community members who constantly help them and their family know what possibilities exists (and have yet to be imagined). 

What happens if we don't make inclusion of people with intellectual disabilities intentional and authentic? We limit possibilities and potential for people and deny their (and our) humanness. That's a lot of power. 

I don't know what the world will look like for my 1st & 2nd graders in 10 years when they are leaving high school. My hope, like my hope has always been for Micah, is for them to surround themselves with people who challenge them -- people who believe that a sense of safety, confidence, and growth comes from taking risks -- people who see that inclusion must both be intentional, authentic, and always, always on-going.  

The Gift of Snow

Boston has had record snowfall this year. At this point, we’ve already had 6 snow days (and now 2 more for this week!), the city is running out of places to put all of the snow, and people fight over parking spots. I haven’t had a full of week of teaching in weeks and I feel worried about how this inconsistency has impacted my teaching and the learning of my students.

There is a gift that snow brings.

After indoor recess and lunch, my students come back to the classroom and start their independent reading. It is magical to watch young, new readers get invested in their books. Some of my kids are reading aloud and I have to remind them to make their voices quieter. Some of my kids are reading with an adult, talking about what they see in the pictures of the book. Some of my kids are enthralled in their chapter books that they don’t even look up when another kid tips off of his chair. Some kids are making letters with play dough. We are all reading. 

It is evident that my students are all different. Sometimes the differences seem to be screaming out. There are interruptions in teaching. Things get thrown. Pauses in speech seem to be everlasting. Bodies run out of the classroom. Learning seems to be forgotten. Unkind words are exchanged.

I have an inclusive classroom. I have students with and without disabilities in the same classroom. I have students who represent the economic, racial, and linguistic diversity of Boston. It is a practice I believe in and feel committed to. It is also something that can stress me out, make me feel inadequate, and make me worry about the learning of all of my kids.

I’m all about honoring differences and helping children (and adults) learn how to talk about what they notice and how to support each other given our differences.

And there are moments where sameness is beautiful too.

After independent reading, we have outside time. I believe that kids need many opportunities to play, especially outside. Our district and school has policies about what the temperature has to be in order for kids to go outside. There is no policy for the amount of snowfall, though. Even with indoor recess, I took my kids outside. It was warm enough.

They all pile outside of the classroom. Putting on snow boots. Borrowing gloves from the lost and found. Zipping up snow pants and coats. Soon the kids say, “I’m hot!” while they wait in line for their classmates to join them. I even change my shoes to boots. Our playground has practically 3 feet of snow on it.

We walk down the stairs and as I open the door, the kids start running out. Smiles consume their faces. All of them.

I hold one kid’s hand who says, “Emma help!” as she puts one hand on the railing to walk down additional stairs to the playground.  Our feet and legs slide deep down into the snow. We laugh. Soon she starts running and slipping deep into the snow. Just like her classmates.

All of them slip deep into the snow and laugh. All of them. Right now, no one is different for how they walk or the speed of their bodies.

I look across the playground and they are crawling on their knees. Eating snow and licking icicles. I tell them, “It’s dirty!” They keep eating snow. That’s what kids do. All of them. Right now, no one is different for putting something in their mouths.

The slides are a hit. Jumping is exciting. There is a safety snow seems to give my kids. If they fall, they fall into snow.

The kids take turns sliding down. I hear, “excuse me” and “watch out below” before they zoom down the slide. All of them. Right now, no one is working on their social skills in isolation.

They laugh as they land into the snow face first. All of them. Right now, no one is crying.

The differences in my students make me a better teacher, a better person. But right now when all my kids dive into the deep snow, and smile with satisfaction, I am loving their sameness. 

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