The Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA), ratified by Congress in 1975, ensures that children with disabilities have the opportunity to receive a free, appropriate public education in the least restrictive environment, just like other children. How was what we were asking for considered radical in 2012? I couldn’t believe anyone in our city or state had never asked for their child to be in an inclusive summer school classroom.
I tried finding another parent who had accomplished this near-Herculean task. I posted my question on the Facebook page of the local Down syndrome parents’ group. No one who responded even mentioned summer school. Most of the comments came from families who lived in rural Maine, and their stories were worse. Parents shared that their school could not accommodate inclusion at any time during the year; others shared that their child was bused to a developmental classroom fifteen miles away from home and the school their siblings attended; and some were in legal battles with their school districts.
I called the office of our state university, which specialized in inclusion and disability. The adage “Those that can, do. Those who can’t, teach” was apt in this case. I spoke with a professor there who was supportive, but I knew more about the school system and barriers to inclusion than he did.
With no evidence of inclusive summer school in Maine, I emailed the director of special services in our district, Joan Croft, hoping for at least a response. Eleven minutes later, I got back a four-paragraph email on the merits of inclusion! She also wrote that we should get together and talk. I was dizzy with glee.
The following week, I arrived for our meeting. I wanted to project myself as a calm and engaged parent; I wore a pencil skirt and sensible heels. She rounded the corner of the reception area as I came in. It was casual Friday; she had on jeans, a white T-shirt, and a tan blazer. I was impressed that she came to escort me to her office. During our conversation, I thanked her profusely for her commitment to inclusion.
“It doesn’t make sense to support inclusion only nine months out of the year. It’s backpedaling,” she said.
“Exactly!”
“You contacted me at the right time. We just received a pilot project grant for kindergarten and first grade inclusion summer school.”
“What? Oh, my gosh! I can’t believe it!” Talk about your wildest dreams being answered.
She laughed good-naturedly then asked me, “Would you want Thorin to attend?”
“Yes!” I said. “We would like very much for him to attend.”
She went on to explain how the class would operate.
“Because it is true inclusion, there will be a fifty-fifty ratio of students with and without disabilities. We will have co-teachers and an aide for support. Right now, it looks like eight or nine students. The students are coming from all over the city so everyone will be new.”
What the director described was exactly what I had been reading about in books and had heard at a recent conference on inclusion.
“It sounds perfect! I have one more item. Thorin needs a communication device at school. He uses Proloquo2Go, which he loves. So much of the frustration is from him not being able to talk or be understood.”
“Let’s get him an iPad and the program! I’ll have it at the summer program!”
I thought I was going to end up on the floor sobbing with true gratitude. We were finally on the right track!
Kindergarten came to a close. Despite the challenges, Thorin ended on a good note. Ms. Charles and Lo-Lo had been on his side. He clearly adored them both. Lo-Lo announced she was retiring. She told him, “I’m lucky you were my last student, Thorin.”
Ms. Charles pulled both of us into the art room on the last day of school. A couple of teachers were putting the finishing touches on gifts for Lo-Lo’s retirement party. They had matted and framed a painting made of the handprints of the students in Thorin’s class. Their other creation was a pair of over-sized, yellow glasses for her to wear at the dinner. The eyeholes had capital Ls on both sides of the openings so it spelled out “Lo-Lo,” the name Thorin bestowed on her. The glasses were yellow because it was Thorin’s favorite color. Thorin and I both squealed and clapped.
Thorin wouldn’t start summer school until July. He spent a lot of time with Bubba while Ward and I were at work. He would bring his iPad with him on his visits. The iPad also had a camera, which we didn’t give much thought to.
When I got home one afternoon, my mom pulled me aside. She pushed the camera icon on the iPad screen and revealed a photo of Thorin—more accurately a selfie. The image was Thorin’s bisected face peering into the lens of the camera; his hand was placed along his jaw with his fingers partially curled except for his pinky, which pointed toward the camera. The background was the top part of the kitchen door molding with a bit of the wall and ceiling.
I looked at my mom. “It’s such a private moment.”
She nodded, “There’s more.”
We moved from one image to another. In total, there were twenty-three selfies from that particular vantage point, but in each he did something a little different, showing more of his face, less of his face, or a different expression.
“These are good, right?” I asked.
“I think they are.”
After we scrolled through the selfies, we found photos of a box of Life cereal, his favorite at the time.
“That’s very Warhol!” I said, and we both laughed.
We told Thorin how much we enjoyed his photos.
“You like taking pictures?”
