I never paid much attention to IQ scores, but I was well aware that they had a lot to do with which kids were placed in my special education classroom. Many of the students, but certainly not all, came to me with something more than a low test score - maybe significant needs with mobility or self-care, or, even more likely, behavior challenges that others preferred not to have to deal with. Ellen was special, entering our class a little after the start of the school year, with only that low score going for her. And I quickly determined that a variety of factors might be at play. She could speak, but seldom did - instead responding to almost every question or comment with a charming smile and maybe a quiet shy "Yes." Her family had moved often in her seven years of life, and she was being raised in a bilingual home where English was not her parents' native language.
So, maybe she was in the wrong place, but we all loved her and wanted her to stay. She spent a good part of every day in second grade, where she was mute, but welcome, and gradually warmed to the attention of the teachers and classmates out there in the mainstream.
While she was in the special education room, she was fascinated with the activities of our busy, often noisy classroom. In particular she was drawn to the interactions we were having using Facilitated Communication (FC). If I were working with one of the other students using a letter board, Ellen would silently draw near and watch intently. Eventually she managed to position herself between me and the letter board - and asked if she could try. That first time she only hit random letters, but we had opened the door, and she was determined to do what the others were doing.
It was during one of our daily discussions of the news of the day that we had our first breakthrough. Ellen was seated at her desk, along with four or five classmates, all of whom were using FC to answer my questions. I asked her if she knew the name of the President. She smiled, nodded, and extended her finger. Slowly and very carefully, with light physical support, she spelled out C-L-I-N-T-O-N.
I shared this story - and others - with Ellen's parents, but they had a very hard time believing she could really be answering my questions. According to them, there could be no way she would know the name of the President. I understood their skepticism, but didn't let that slow us down at all. Just a few short weeks later, Ellen typed the following:
YOU SHOULD TRY TO STILL FREE US FROM THIS PRISON WE SEEM TO BE IN. WE ARE ALL VERY SMART AND WE ARE REALLY INTELLIGENT. YOU SHOULD DEVELOP POSSIBLE PLANS TO HELP US.
Ellen was with us for daily instruction in reading and math, joining her second grade classmates for most of the rest of the day. It took some time, but she was eventually able to demonstrate that she could read and spell, and could do basic math computations --- but only with my hand supporting her using FC. Without that she struggled, and that is what caused her mother to challenge all of us when she visited the classroom. "Why do you have to be holding their hand?" "Why are you using this with kids who can talk?" "How can they do this when they aren't really looking at the board?"
Ellen used the letter board after the visit to share her thoughts: I AM SO CONCERNED ABOUT MOM. . . . DONT YOU EVER STOP DOING THIS. . . . JUST KEEP TRYING TO GET MOM TO BELIEVE. . . . DO HEAR US . . . KEEP ON BELIEVING IN PEOPLE WHO CAN FACILITATE.
Toward the end of October, 1993, PBS-TV aired an hour-long show on FC ("Prisoners of Silence") that turned out to be devastatingly negative, and just as quickly as we had opened this door for Ellen, it slammed shut. Her parents demanded that I stop using FC with her immediately and the school administrators backed their decision.
One of the hardest things I have ever had to do as a teacher was the day I tried explaining to Ellen that I could no longer use FC with her. Harder yet was seeing her standing outside our classroom door, silently crying and touching the wall where her school work from earlier in the year had been proudly displayed. It was time for Parent-Teacher conferences and I felt obligated to remove the evidence. The scene is etched in my memory forever.
It was a long year after that, and I will share just one more story. On a day in early spring, I was working at a table with another student on an assignment from her regular class. Ellen was sitting close by, playing with the Canon communication device (similar to a label-maker) that we had often used in our days with FC. I asked if someone could please get an eraser and had to repeat my request several times before anyone responded. As I thanked my helper and started to make the correction, Ellen pushed the device toward me and said, "I did it!" I glanced at the paper strip coming out of the Canon, and saw a string of about seven letters followed by the word ERASER. She was unable to repeat this word, or any other that we tried, but we kept that evidence to tell and retell her story to all those who believed in her. Sadly, her parents dismissed the event as some sort of weird coincidence.
Ellen's parting words to me at the end of the school year were spoken clearly, with rare direct eye contact: "Mrs. Brandl, I am going to a new school. I am going to have a new teacher. I will miss you."
She gave me a hug as if to reassure me that she was going to be all right. Her family moved again shortly after that and we have had no further contact.
Link for more stories:
http://grandmacharslessonslearned.blogspot.com/2021/04/shifting-focus.html
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