Dialogue in Family

I have been blessed with grandparents who have lived long, connected lives to their grandchildren. Recently the first of my grandparents passed away. Grandma Pearly lived in Florida for much of my life and while I loved her deeply, we didn't always get along. At times, I did not feel respected by her for who I am. I share the following story and accompanying details because one of the deepest lessons I learned from her came out of this struggle.

My hair was always too short for her. In middle and high school, the first thing she'd say to me when we talked on the phone was "Do you have a boyfriend?" (or at least that's how I remember it). She was annoyed with my baggy t-shirts often saying, "That should be ironed." Sometimes before I went to visit her in Florida, I would strategically go shopping looking for more "feminine" clothes (a tighter shirt, less baggy shorts). And even when I would wear these clothes -- I would hear the same comments. These comments wouldn't anger me -- they were just annoying. Once I came out as gay and had a girlfriend, I wondered when or if I would talk to her about this identity of mine. I remember thinking, "Did she know this about me all along and think she was going to change me with her comments? Or will she be relieved that I finally started dating? Or is she homophobic?"

One of my last visits with her in her Florida home I decided I'd come out to my 90+ year old grandma. It is a conversation I hold on to so dearly now.  "Grandma, there's someone I want you to know about," I said as I pulled out a picture of me with my girlfriend, at that time. "Nooo," she said shaking a bit. "I don't want to know." She didn't say this in a stern way. It sounded to me like she didn't want to know this truth about me. I continued anyway. "This is my girlfriend" and preceded to tell my grandma about her, what we did together. She asked me if I was sure I was gay and I said yes. Then she wanted to know if I just couldn't find a boy. I said I wasn't interested in men. She continued to search for clarity about why I "turned out this way." I asked her why she didn't want me to be gay. You can't have kids, was her reply. I dispelled that myth for her. She wanted to know if it was because I went to an all-women's college. I dispelled that myth for and I told her I came out in high school. She talked about the Holocaust and the discrimination I would face as someone who is gay. She talked about my liberal "hippie" parents. I said it wasn't about them. She shared some of her other fears with me. I can't even remember them all anymore. Our conversation remained calm--it was a quiet dialogue about stereotypes, differences, identities, generations. Almost an hour passed and the conversation ended with her telling me about another relative in our family that is gay and how supportive she was to this family member. And then she said, "Okay, Emma. Your grandfather and I used to invite my school principal over for dinner when I was a teacher. He used to bring his partner over." That's how it ended. For me, I said what I wanted to my grandma. I wanted her to know more about her granddaughter. And by the end, I saw her final comment as a way to say, "Emma it is okay that you are gay."

It wasn't perfect after that conversation. But after some gentle reminders from my dad to "ask Emma about her partner," she did (although often asking, "How is your friend?"). I would smile upon hearing this because to me it showed me that people can change.

Change is slow and requires that we be open to dialoguing with others -- sharing insecurities, questions, stories. We must share our vulnerabilities with others. Sometimes we can plan parts of the dialogue, as I had done. Sometimes dialogues come at unexpected moments, catch us off guard and we can respond with anger and hurt, as some moments had felt with my grandma. In the end, I am so honored and blessed to have had a grandma who at 90-something was willing to sit with her 20-something granddaughter and talk. I could be honest with what I needed and wanted from my grandma and say confidently, "I am not changing." And she could eventually hear this and say, "Okay and I love you."

In my last visit with her, I showed her some videos of my teaching. She was a teacher in New York City. It was a beautiful last visit that I will forever cherish, especially when she said with excitement, "You can wear pants as a teacher!" We ate some Jewish baked goods and Noodle Kugel. And without any prompts she asked me about my girlfriend. Change is possible at any age, indeed. 

Reflections from Elementary Educators

It has been challenging for me to find a way to reflect on the year -- in a way that encompasses the range of emotions and experiences I have had. The elementary residents came together and wrote small reflections on our year. Then we each selected one sentence, one phrase, and one word from our own writing to highlight from the year. The poem below has all of our voices and together, I think, showcases the incredible journey we took together. 

Reflections from Elementary Educators

This was one of the most challenging yet rewarding experiences of my life.
I never imagined the lessons I would learn from a class of ten year olds
As this year began, I didn't realize all the ways that learning with such dedicated, vibrant students and teachers would shape me. 
But at that moment, and in this one, this year was also about us – how we held one another up and learned to teach, together.
I learned more about myself than I could imagine.
This was a year I did almost everything I vowed never to do - yell at kids, teach from unfinished lesson plans, and tell myself that I wouldn't make a good teacher.
Call it a community, call it a family, me I call what we had a strong foundation for the success and support of each other as teachers and people and also the students we have served and have yet to meet.
“Those are your coworkers? That’s awesome!”
We share a bond of understanding and support - played out in hugs, in laughter and biting sarcasm, in detailed conversations about student work and lesson plans, in tears, in speaking the foreign language of "school" and "BTR", or just in the comfort of another person working late into the night after everyone else has gone home.
When I began this program I had no idea that Connie would not only be my literacy CTE [Clinical Teacher Educator] but also my therapist!
Teaching is the most challenging thing I've ever done. 
It's all about the kids.
The same kids that make us want to pull our hair out during our lessons could make us feel better after a horrible debrief.
My students quickly became my inspiration.
I am so glad to be done.
This year, I learned how teaching is public and personal.
After years of searching, I found exactly what I was looking for.
“Teachers should feel like they are doing a great job” this is advice that was given to me by one of my students.
I have never cried so much in my entire life.
We have laughed, cried, giggled, swore, hugged, worried and persevered, and somehow we have made it through. 


reaching an "ah-ha" moment
story time with Nancy and Liz
Boston into a home away from home
rubrics and data projects and binders and exhaustion
Change was inevitable
That's ableist
the never-ending sound of forward thinking minds
Let’s unpack that
a deep plunge into the struggles and the joys of life in a school
a community of dedicated, passionate, kind, supportive, generous and intelligent teachers
Appreciate the connectivity and constant laughter among elementary residentsfriends and collaborators
a teacher's dream - three snow days in a row!
Go to the power chair
respect for myself, my colleagues, and my students
pregnant lady
constant questions and unexpected assignments
makes me believe in something bigger, deeper
erase moments from my mind and from egnyte
after this year, BTR just let me go 



learning
laughter
13 months
disrespected 
Family
connections
Challenge
Hope
Resilience 
unexpected
community
Gateway
Growth
laughter
advocate
1st grade scholars
learners
done
resilience
family

(Apologies: I couldn't find a photo that has all the elementary residents)

Through the White House Door

Today I found out that Micah was invited to take part in the ADA Celebration on the White House Lawn later this month. I couldn't help but marvel at the incredible journey he has taken our family on. As I head into my first year of teaching in the fall, he continues to remind me of the power of making sure all students are given opportunities to share their dreams, build community, and strengthen their self determination skills.

Recently our family wrote a number of articles for the National Gateway to Self-Determination (http://www.ngsd.org/). You can read them here on pages 20-25 : http://ngsd.org/sites/default/files/research_to_practice_sd_-_issue_6.pdf

My Brother’s Journey: A Sibling’s Perspective About College and What Comes Next 

I love telling people that my parents, who reside in Michigan, live at least a day’s car ride away from me (in Boston, MA) and my brother (in Syracuse, NY). This is a BIG deal. My brother and I visit each other in our different east-coast states without our parents. This is a BIG deal. My parents talk to my brother and me, at most, a few times a week. This is a BIG deal. Never could I have imagined that this would have happened. Instead, sometimes, having a brother with an intellectual disability, I grew up wondering things like: Who are Micah’s real friends? Will he ever live on his own? How will he live a dignified life when most of society doesn’t value him (and his label)?

In many ways, Micah had a picture perfect inclusive K-12 education experience (this doesn’t mean it was easy to create or actually perfect in execution) – he had a circle of friends, he ran on the Cross Country team, he was elected to homecoming court, he played on the local soccer team, he won the social studies department award. Inclusion has always been a foundational belief and practice in our family. It was an essential part of Micah’s education experience and unlike some special education students, his inclusive journey continues well beyond grade school.

However, it wasn’t until he and I both went to college that something finally clicked for me as his sister. Inclusion became real and practical. Up until this point, inclusion made me feel good. In grade school, I felt safe knowing that Micah had things to do on the weekends, like his peers. It felt good knowing that Micah’s peers cared about him. In the back of my mind, I had always wondered if people really wanted to be his friend (or did it just make them feel good)?

As we moved into college, inclusion felt more complex. I saw Micah being valued and I actually saw others grow in genuine ways as a result of having a relationship with him. I began to see people develop relationships with Micah because they saw the worth in who he was—not just because being his friend made them feel good. I saw Micah make decisions about who he wanted to be friends with. Suddenly everyone didn’t have to be his friend; he and they could choose to become friends.

I saw Micah grow academically from the rigor of college. There were times when we were both taking similar courses and we’d talk about what we were both learning. He didn’t “get” everything in the textbook (neither did I) – and that was okay. Not understanding everything is part of his
disability. This does not mean that we lower our expectations; it means that we don’t all have to understand everything.

College meant that Micah had to negotiate what his paid support-staff peers would do with him and unpack the tensions around “paying” a peer to support him. Inclusion in college meant that it wasn’t always easy for him; the path was not paved for him – he had agency and self-determination in creating his future. He faced institutionalized discrimination; the college would not allow him to live in the dorms. He sued, eventually won, and spent his last semester living in the dorms. Micah’s learning did not just happen in the courses he took. Like most college students, he also grew leaps and bounds
from the social interactions and genuine experiences outside the classroom. For example, as a result of his legal battle, Micah now knows lots of legal jargon. Inclusion meant he grew as a result of his (real) life experiences, not the simulated life experiences in a classroom.

Like me, Micah got to test the waters of “independence” (or at the very least, had the opportunity to see if he could make it without our parents) and develop the courage to continue to take risks. When he returned from a conference and told my parents that he wanted to move to Syracuse, this short statement seemed to reflect his entire history of being immersed in all aspects of life. As a result of his college journey, Micah had learned to create networks of support and advocate for his needs. Today, he wants to live away from our parents, create new communities, and be immersed in a community that he believes just “gets it” (disability, inclusion).  He knew (and I knew) moving to a different state in an apartment with roommates without disabilities was not going to be easy. But he had the tools to make it successful.

I was excited when Micah moved to Syracuse in January 2012, but I was also worried. And as he continues on this exciting journey there are a few things I continue to worry about. Micah has lots to share with the world and especially educators. I hope that Syracuse finds a way for him to share his stories--what he has learned, not just about inclusive education but also about disability culture and disability pride. I think what makes his story unique is that inclusive education for him has been tied to learning more about his disability and becoming part of the disability justice movement. I know he can do more than be a go-to person at Syracuse--I think he can show his PowerPoint and teach segments of disability studies and education courses. This is going to take work on so many levels so I’m excited that he’s surrounded by people who care about him and totally “get” him.

My worry is that his just being in Syracuse will be enough for Micah, that he will be so happy to be around people who respect him that he (and his community) will forget that genuine respect comes from being challenged to continue to grow. I am afraid that we will get complacent. That’s my fear, my nightmare. I hope that he is able to find ways to connect, grow, and learn from the Syracuse community. That he is able to develop, to be challenged on his PowerPoint and speaking skills. That he is able to learn more about social justice issues. That he is surrounded by people who challenge him--who tell him when he’s talked too much about himself and when he hasn’t asked enough questions about others--when his ego is gotten a bit too big (I say this with the most love in my heart). I hope
people can continue to be real with him.

While supportive, nurturing communities that help people grow as people and as professionals is something many hope for, it is particularly important for people with disabilities. I think because the struggle to create inclusive communities is challenging, it is easier to be satisfied when we think we’ve finally done it (create the community); in reality, though, creating inclusive spaces and communities is always ongoing. Efforts to include Micah didn’t stop once he was attending the neighborhood school, they didn’t stop once he was playing on the local soccer team, and they didn’t stop after he moved in the dorms at college. Micah continues to find more ways to make the world more inclusive for people with disabilities. It is process that forces him, our family, and our communities to grow and constantly strive to do better.

We’re still figuring out this new chapter in his inclusive journey through life. I can tell Micah that it’s not always perfect, that he shouldn’t get complacent when it feels safe, and that he should continue to dream. And that he’s got a community around him to help make the unimaginable imaginable and tangible for him.