“Thank you!” I said, beaming, while Ward nodded to her and made the thumbs-up sign.
The special services person from the district ignored her comment, instead asking the kindergarten teacher, “What are you recommending?”
“We see him in the developmental classroom,” she said, gesturing toward the special education teacher.
As if on well-rehearsed cue, the special education teacher joined the conversation.
“My students have their own classroom. They do come up for the specials—art and music. At those times, they’re with the regular students.”
“Come up from where?” Ward asked.
“Their classroom is in the basement,” she replied.
At the word basement, I felt like I had entered a time warp. I saw Monty—the young man from my youth who was in the church basement—hidden away. Then, I saw Thorin who would never make it to the Walt Whitman High fantasy of Room 222. I shook inside.
Ward and I were adamant: this was unacceptable. The meeting became a stalemate, and the woman from the district suggested we end the meeting and scheduled a continuation for the following month. When Ward and I got home, we were equally furious.
“Why was that kindergarten teacher so angry?” Ward practically yelled.
“I don’t know! Why was she allowed to say those things? It’s so blatant.”
“Because it’s business as usual. A lot of parents probably say, ‘Thank you for telling me where so-and-so should be.’”
We decided not to make the same mistake of waiting too long to say what needed to be said. We agreed I would speak to the principal. Unfortunately, she didn’t return my phone calls. The next time I called, I asked the receptionist what time the principal was scheduled to arrive the following day. At the appointed time, Thorin and I roamed the staff parking lot, waiting for her. She was quite surprised to see us, but, to her credit, she pretended to be happy about it. I think it helped she had her son with her, who was a student at the same school. She suggested we walk to the playground. Once there, Thorin took off to explore, and her son found his friends. I started our conversation.
“I love your school. I could picture Thorin here—but in a regular classroom.”
“We’d love to have him.” As she said that, we both noticed—at the same moment—her son asking Thorin if he needed help climbing the stairs. Thorin shyly nodded yes, and the boy gently supported his back as he took each step.
“Your son is thoughtful.”
“Thank you,” she smiled.
“Okay, about the transition meeting for Thorin. I don’t understand why the kindergarten teacher was allowed to say he shouldn’t be in her classroom?”
“Oh, I wished I’d been at that meeting!”
“What? You were at the meeting.”
“I was?”
“Yes. Yes, you were. You recognized me just now in the parking lot because I met you at the meeting.” I felt like I had been dropped into a Joseph Heller novel.
“When was the meeting?”
“Last week.”
“So, she said that?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t I remember that?”
I sensed I was seconds away from chocolate-covered cotton balls.
She wasn’t going to fess up to it so I said, “I don’t know, but can we talk about a regular classroom right now?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. That’s the kind of thing I like to leave up to my staff.”
When I called Ward, he yelled, “She lied! This is a conspiracy!”
If Ward’s passionate outcry had been made by a character in a John Grisham novel, I would have agreed and said, “Yes! Let’s take her down!” But, there was no documentation that the teacher had made the statement “he shouldn’t be in my classroom.” We didn’t tape the meeting, and if the principal was saying she didn’t hear it, how many others would follow suit? In my mind, Grisham had an easier time constructing complicated plot lines than we did living them.
“Let’s figure out Plan B,” I suggested to Ward.
A family from Thorin’s preschool had a son, David, who also had Down syndrome. He had been attending another elementary school an equal distance from our house and was in a regular classroom. I talked to his mom about the school; she was enthusiastic and positive. She gave me a great deal of information about the school, including the fact the classrooms were wired with state-of-the-art amplification.
We would have to make the case for an out-of-neighborhood school transfer for Thorin. We knew we couldn’t make it based on the other child with Down syndrome. But, we could make a case that Thorin would be better served in a state-of-the-art acoustic facility with his mild hearing loss.
First, I found out the name of the system they used at the school. I spoke with a technology person from the company, and he was beyond excited to have a real-live person talk to him about the wonders of his product. I probably could have gotten off the phone fifteen minutes earlier than necessary, but he was just so thrilled. He directed me to several research articles based on product data and those written by independent evaluators. What he had shared was confirmed by all the data I found: the system benefited students with distractibility issues and mild hearing loss—evidence of both had been well documented by Thorin’s teachers and specialists.
Then I sent the information to Thorin’s ear, nose, and throat doctor who, after reviewing the research, agreed to write a letter of support for Thorin to attend the out-of-neighborhood school. Days later, as I compiled my last pack of documentation for each meeting attendee, Ward suggested we all go out to dinner to celebrate my braininess. I felt, in a little way, like Julia Roberts in The Pelican Brief.
At the transition meeting, part two, we completely sidestepped the request for a regular classroom and asked for an out-of-neighborhood placement. I presented my data and referred the attendees to various texts that I had thoughtfully highlighted for them.
Check-fucking-mate!
Grumbling and futile attempts were made to rebut the request. The kindergarten
