This is a story from 30 years ago, still filled with so much joy and sorrow that I almost can't find the words. Maybe this is another lesson for me, one of many still being learned. Just this week, I met with L, age about 30, who has come a very long way in his ability to use typing to bring about changes in his life and get his feelings out. He was full of smiles, with what appeared to be a calm, relaxed body ready to answer our questions or share thoughts of his own. But it didn't go that way, and in the hour we spent together he actually typed very little - just enough to help us understand that he was simply too full of mixed feelings to get the words organized enough to type them out. His earlier school experiences were a partial cause of his obvious distress, with typing never being included as part of his school day, and his intelligence never being recognized by teachers along the way. Sometimes it can be hard to find the words to describe your feelings.
My first real experience with inclusion in a regular elementary school had gone quite well, but then it happened that the particular school building needed "our" room for other purposes in the coming year, and we learned that we'd be moving to another school, another district nearby - where they happened to have a room available. We took our final trip in the tan van to visit the new school - checked out the lunchroom and the playground, met a few of the folks who worked there, and decided we could make the best of things and find lots of good in our new surroundings.
We left behind the tan van, along with many staff members who had become good friends and strong advocates - the school secretary, the custodian, the only other special education teacher, and several regular education teachers who had made us feel welcome and at home. I paid little or no attention to something else that I was personally leaving behind, something that would become a serious problem in a very short time.
I had been employed by the county for the many years I worked in the special, segregated school, and I was now going to be employed by the new district. I became, after many years of teaching, a "probationary" teacher, with virtually no protection for my professional status. I knew this, but I was certainly not worried. What could possibly go wrong?
As the new school year started, we were now in the district that was the home district for most of my students. There were several other special education classes already in that district; we were again located in a room that was right in the middle of a busy hallway; and the elementary level teachers were a very experienced, very caring group of educators.
About half of my students were able to attend regular classes for much of the day, with little or no extra support. The ones who needed more support spent a greater part of the day with me in our room, but we also had more than one paraprofessional who could provide the help they needed when they did go to regular classes.
This is where I was teaching when I first learned about Facilitated Communication (FC). Since all of my students at that time were able to speak, and most could even write, it didn't seem at first that FC would be relevant, or helpful in any way. Just a reminder - this teacher, who was at the time a brand new grandmother, had a lot to learn.
The local newspaper did an extensive story about what was happening back at our special school --- where so many of the nonspeaking students who had been our friends while we were there had finally found a voice through spelling on a letter board. I shared the story and pictures with my students, and they were fascinated.
We established a routine in our classroom, and as time went on also established ourselves as an integral part of this new environment. And then one day, I tired using FC with just one of my students who was struggling to give an answer to a question. The support I provided to his hand allowed him to slow down his thinking process as well as his bodily impulses, and he found a way to successfully get his words out on the letter board. Others were very interested and eager to give it a try as well.
Before long, there were five students regularly choosing to use FC to answer questions both academic and emotional in nature. We were having a great time, and one teacher in particular approached me to say that he didn't really know what we were doing in our room, but he sure had noticed a difference in my students when they were in his art class or in the hallways of the school.
Gradually, I was able to increase the amount of time these five students were able to spend in regular classes, and thus make inclusion even more of a reality. But some started to pull back; they wanted me with them in those classes so they could truly participate and show others how much they were understanding and learning when they were exposed to the "regular" curriculum.
We did our best to make this work, and were just finding our groove, when PBS Frontline aired a devastating attack on the new phenomenon known as Facilitated Communication --- essentially dismissing the method as a dangerous hoax. This was followed by similar segments on all of the major TV networks. I was immediately ordered by the parents of one student to stop using the letter board or FC. More quietly, school administrators started paying attention to what I was doing.
By the end of the school year, I was forced to resign, in spite of strong support from all the other parents, most of the teachers, and the teachers' union. The truth was that as a probationary teacher I could be dismissed for virtually any reason.
It was an extremely painful departure, but I had no regrets about standing my ground and refusing to stop using FC. I had found the courage I needed, and I had learned that administrative support can make or break a teaching situation. I was also comfortably sure that that the parents who supported my efforts would never again allow their children to be seen as intellectually deficient. I swallowed my pride and joined the ranks of the unemployed for the first and only time in my career.
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