“W
hy don’t you have any kids?” inquired a young child. “Because all of my students are my children,“ replied my third grade teacher. At that time, I didn’t know what she really meant by this. I thought she literally meant that all of us were her children. Everyone in the class except Marc had their faces scrunched up in thought. Marc, on the other hand, was staring at the ceiling with his mouth agape and tongue sticking up. I stared at Marc and wondered, “What is he doing?” During class I noticed that Marc would always get more special attention from the teacher. She would always slowly and patiently explain things to him, while the rest of the class sped on through with the rest of the material. One day, Marc didn’t show up in class. In fact, he seemed to stop coming to school or so I thought. Marc actually was in our school, he was just in a different class. Marc joined, what we third graders called, the “special” class. One would think that the “special” class would be for students who were exceptionally smart, but it was actually for the kids with disabilities. We didn’t fully understand what the class was or what it did, but we all assumed it was for kids who weren’t as capable as normal kids. They were different, and that was bad. Even today, different is considered bad. We weren’t mean to the “special” kids, but we weren’t friendly to them either. The relationship between a kid with a disability and a “normal” kid would be one of mild reservation. Often times on the playground, there were two different groups of kids: the “special” kids group and the “normal” kids group. It was so natural that we didn’t even notice we were excluding a whole group of people.