Why Inclusion Matters (to me)

This blog is primarily to advocate and move our school community to a fully inclusive model.  After years with the segregated special unit alongside our school, and instigated by a conversation with a future student and their family, I believe passionately that our school community can lead the way in modelling a move to full inclusion of all students of all abilities, rather than doing ourselves the disservice of isolating students and peers from one another due to various levels of differentiation. The reality is that ALL are different in various ways- learning about, learning from, learning with people of all differences enhances our education, our learning and who these young people become as they grow into the world. 

The two following images are helpful visuals to help all to understand what is meant by inclusion.  Our current model follows the historical misunderstanding around disability which resulted in models of exclusion or segregation. This division left little space to celebrate the diversity which society now tries to champion (but does not always achieve, shown partially in what might look like the Integration model).  Diversity enhances and nurtures the building of relationship, the quest for equity and societal changes in practice and policy that all result in genuine inclusion.

 

In this first post, I want to share my own familial story to display why these issues matter and are a particular passion, before moving to the next post that outlines our current school position and the changes that may be required.

Back in 1956, after two little boys had spent years asking for a little sister, May finally became pregnant again, and the family was overjoyed and full of expectation. In retrospect, something happened along the way, so when the time came for the baby to enter the world it was immediately apparent that the baby was not 'normal'. The abnormalities were so extreme that May wasn't allowed to see her new baby, and that baby girls was placed somewhere quiet with the expectation she would just die quietly.

After five days, with minimal care or attention, that little baby was still alive, and some attention began to be given to her.  Lyle, her Dad, was finally allowed to see her at that stage, and it's hard to imagine what he saw.  With half of her face basically missing, it must have seemed like a nightmare.

For the tiny baby, it began a lifelong series of surgeries to make her look okay enough, and with little sense of what capacities for life she would have, given the presumed damage to her brain also. But for May and Lyle (May finally saw the baby when she was six months old, already pregnant again with the 'replacement' baby they'd been told to go and make) it began a private and public trauma of trying to understand what they had done to deserve such a child, and the burden that she would be.

I know there was abuse, and mental health consequences for all the family, the 'replacement' baby was soon the older sister raising the disabled sister, both older boys escaping the home as quickly as they could, Lyle in a cycle of alcohol and abuse, and May just being the housewife she was able to cope being. 

Whether the judgement was private or public, it was felt. Not enough was understood about how or why the severe disabilities had happened, but they were obvious and apparent. Church attended as an act of redemption, confession and sufferance - the times of such situations being an obvious punishment from God. 

That little baby, neglected and left for dead at birth, went on to learn to read and write with just the one eye on the beautiful side of her face (mostly unrecognised by comparison), having survived the abundant surgeries needed through until her growing concluded. She spent significant time in the care of the "Spastic Society" (Yes, that's what they were really called!), and as an adult lived in supported care around half of the time.

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This is a story of my own family - my Mum was the little sister who basically raised her big sister because their mother couldn't cope. I share this story for two reasons.  Firstly, it show's how far we have come as a society- not only has science explained and to helped us understand that there are always causes for such issues to occur - they are not a punishment from God, nor are they usually anyone's fault - nor are they judges publicly or privately as such. Additionally, in the current medical environment, scans would have reveled such issues, and in all likelihood, interventions would have been made. The ethics and dilemma of that last point regarding interventions leads to my pending second reason.

My aunty Susie, after whom I was named (Susan), died when I was seven. I was only just beginning to know her, understand her, and not be scared- I was growing into loving her as my Mum did. My Mum spent years (decades) dealing with her mental health trauma following her childhood and the consequences that Susie's life had on her whole family.  But I also know, having asked, that she also wouldn't change what happened.  She named me after her beloved sister for a reason, and I've carried that as a deep treasure for as long as I've understood.  

My grandparents and uncles made a choice to use "Someday We'll Understand" as their mantra, to the point it is etched on her gravestone.  Despite the psychological work she needed to do, my Mum (and now I) understand that it just was/is what it was - part of shaping who we are, and enriching the human experience.

 And so, secondly, I share this story to highlight, champion and celebrate the invitation to move towards inclusive education. When preparing for this task, I went to my Mum, with the trauma disclaimer I always offer when asking potentially challenging questions, and asked her opinion on Susie's education, which was primarily in mainstream classes with her peers. More regarding her peers than Susie herself, I asked the impact she had. Her immediate answer was that it helped her classmates understand, help, show compassion and admire Susie all the more - and that it enriched all concerned. While Susie would have been more delayed in her learning, she was able to grow and learn in different ways alongside her classmates, and in late primary school, achieve adequate levels of reading and writing. The mutuality of the learning as a class, however, cannot be measured.

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In my next post, I will explore further what this can mean for our own classrooms and for the lifelong formation and education of ALL of our students

This is a photo of Susie holding me as a baby - 

almost all photo's of Susie were taken from her "good" side.