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It can all feel overwhelming. If you’re a parent, teacher, service provider, or play another role in the life of a child or adult with a disability—and especially if you’re a person with a disability—it seems there’s too much on our plates! Inclusion, education, assistive technology, behavior, employment, supports, modifications, mobility, communication, and living accommodations are some of the issues we probably face every day. With so much to deal with, we may try to simply maintain the status quo—doing more is just too much. We may try to do it all, and experience little or no success. Finally, some of our best, most well-intentioned efforts may not have much impact on a person’s life.

When my son, Benjamin, was a kindergartner at our inclusive neighborhood school, my husband, Mark, and I were excited to visit the kindergarten class during Parents’ Night. Twenty-five pictures of cows were displayed on the walls—all looking pretty much the same—so parents had to get close to find their child’s name on the paper. Mark and I, however, spotted Benjamin’s picture from 30 feet away; it was a Picasso-type cow. Benjamin said it was a cow and we believed him—and we loved his cow!

See the third-grade boy having fun, playing with his classmates at recess? Sometimes his pals give his wheelchair a push, other times he wheels himself. Their teacher, Mr. McHale, arrives to escort his students back to class, and he calls out to the boy, “Hey, Hollywood, let’s round ‘em up and move ‘em out!” Hollywood grins, and his eyes light up behind his sunglasses.

Many years ago, at my children’s inclusive elementary school, I was asked to observe in a fifth-grade classroom, and to share my ideas on better strategies for Chris, a boy with autism. Chris received intensive adult support: a teacher’s aide usually sat right next to him. During a spelling test, Chris told her how to spell each word, and she wrote for him since his writing was illegible to everyone except Chris. But most of her efforts were to keep Chris in his seat. It was painful to watch as—every few minutes—Chris fidgeted and started to rise, and a gentle, but firm, hand on his shoulder kept him in his seat.

Imagine you're a child or an adult with a developmental disability: You just want to live your life, like everyone else. But at some point in your young life—probably at the time of diagnosis—everything changed and people have treated you differently ever since. Most people pay attention to what you cannot do. Few make the effort to see what you can do. And some of what you can do looks different as compared to others, so it's still "wrong" or doesn't count. Throughout your life, you've been surrounded by people trying to "help" you: trying to get you to do things you cannot do—"normal" things—that must be important to them. Your feelings about these things, and your other wants, needs, hopes, and dreams, don't seem to matter much to anyone else. And for as long as you can remember, people have "placed" you in special settings, surrounded by others who also cannot do "normal" things. You're not allowed to have experiences like other people; your parents, teachers, service providers, etc. think you're not ready, not able, not competent. You're also not expected to do what others do, like learning the three Rs, being responsible for yourself, living on your own, having a real job, and more. They also work hard to protect you. So you learn not to expect too much out of life; you learn not to do too much; you learn not to try, because it doesn't make any difference; you learn to be helpless. You've never really had friends—not really, not like other people do—no one to call when you're lonely or when you want to share a secret. You'd like to fall in love and kiss and more, but that will probably never happen. You'd like to have the freedom to do what you want, when you want, how you want, and the freedom to say NO—but that seldom happens. There are so many things you want to do, so many places you want to go, so many people you'd like to know, and so much you want to feel—and you've wanted these things for days, and weeks, and months, and years. You've waited and waited and waited; it's so hard to keep waiting. You really feel angry and you also feel sad. You don't feel very important; you don't feel needed; and you haven't accomplished much in your life—but then no one expects these from you, so maybe you shouldn't expect these things for yourself. All the different people in your life exert a great deal of control over you, and they probably all have good intentions, but...

What are manners? Years ago, I read a meaningful definition which described manners as “making another person comfortable.” Most of us probably try hard to have good manners, but many of us lose the art of manners when it comes to people with disabilities. While I was presenting the “History of Disabilities” at Idaho Partners in Policymaking, Howard (who is fifty-something) said he wanted to share how individuals had been treated and talked about in the past, based on their disability diagnoses.