|
Every day like clockwork when I was three years old, the bus arrived at 7 a.m. My mother walked me to the curb, carried my car seat up the steps, and strapped it and me in place next to the driver. She placed my backpack and Winnie the Pooh lunchbox on the seat and whispered to me of the invisible heartstrings that bound us together: “From my heart to your heart, we are connected, even when we are apart.” She waved to me as the little yellow school bus drove away, taking me to my special day class for children with developmental delays.
Much preceded that year of daily bus rides nearly an hour from my home. By the age of two, I spoke, but my words were wholly unintelligible to most. I would remonstrate plaintively, “Jag är hungrig” or something equally confusing, leading my older siblings to declare I spoke advanced Swedish. On my second birthday, I began pre-school and intensive speech and language therapy. My therapist insisted it was essential that the entire family supported my use of standard English, but my several brothers and sisters declared my foreign language “cute” and were of little help.
I celebrated my third birthday severely language impaired.
Early childhood intervention meant my designation as a special education child and my mother’s entry into a world with its vast array of confounding acronyms. My IEP—Individual Education Plan—designated that I attend a school established for children with a variety of developmental delays. I would receive support in speech and language therapy and occupational therapy, among the several interventions.
As the weeks passed, my teacher, Elle, gently, but insistently compelled me to speak so that I might be understood. We had many a standoff at the classroom door, where she declared me unable to leave the room until I enunciated in perfect English, “May I go to the playground?” As my teacher worked with me, “Jag älskar dig!” became “I love you,” and she soon found that mired amidst my garbled speech was an early reader.
By the end of the school year, I had improved so dramatically that I became the poster child for early childhood intervention programs in my county. Dressed in yellow linen with patent leather shoes, I sang before hundreds of donors at a benefit concert, not entirely clear what their thunderous applause meant. From then on, when handed a child’s picture book, I would read with the same passion I had when younger, but now others understood my words.
As a result of my disability, I became acutely attuned to those with special needs and particularly compassionate toward any who might suffer discrimination. A year later when I entered Kindergarten, I befriended Michael, a special needs child who was the target of young children’s jokes and antipathy. At recess, I became his champion, playing with him in the sand box or on the slide, defending him against any ill will that came his way. In class, I became his tutor, helping him to learn to read.
At some point in each of our lives, we need a helping hand. For some of us, it may require more than one hand and for perhaps even a lifetime, as was the case for Michael. Today, when I serve in disadvantaged communities, I extend to those individuals the same dignity I was shown as a child. Today, when I see the little yellow school bus whose blinking lights signal the approach of special needs children, I smile broadly, even though it meant giving up Swedish.
Kay E. Reilly
My youngest child, Kay, wrote that essay when she was a senior in high school. As the mother of a child, who at the age of two, was diagnosed with special needs, I encountered the labyrinth that becomes the path of any parent or guardian whose child needs specialized support. While not a trained speech and language pathologist, I had had a couple of courses about language development during my master’s degree and teaching credential work, so I recognized early on that Kay needed help. Navigating the system, however, can be daunting even for those of us who are educators. Imagine the challenges families face in advocating for their children if we add other factors such as immigration status, English language proficiency, race/ethnicity, health insurance status, and more.
In our School of Education, we are privileged to have several exceptional professors whose expertise is in special education policy and/or disability studies. This year, Dr. Michelle Dean is serving as CSUCI President’s Faculty Fellow, where she is conducting a study on the Channel Islands campus about disability support services. Dr. Tiina Itkonen already serves as Provost’s Faculty/DASS Inaugural Liaison. Along with one of our graduates, Jessica Clay, who holds an MA in Education with an emphasis in disability studies, and William Nutt, Manager of Institutional Equity from CI’s Disability Accommodations & Support Services (DASS), they presented to our entire leadership team this week. We discussed how diversity, equity, and inclusion are only possible when we add the lens of disability. Each presented compelling data and stories that help us to better support our students and community.
As we prepare for our annual SOE Social Justice in Education Conference scheduled for Saturday, March 4, that will feature Dolores Huerta, and for which you can now register, let us be mindful of her words:
Every moment is an organizing opportunity, every person a potential activist, every minute a chance to change the world.
All children deserve access to the little yellow school bus and to so much more, and we are called to ensure this.
Looking forward,
Elizabeth
Elizabeth C. Orozco Reilly
| 
