Plop

One of the best lessons I ever learned was how to start a fire, courtesy of my Granddad. "Daniel," he would say, "some people like to set up a tipi or build a house out of the wood. Me, I do this." He would plop down a bundle of wood into the pit, throw in a match, and instantly it would ignite into a strong burning flame.

I always marveled over how such a strong fire could come from something so careless.

I've taught special education for three years and counting now. It's not a fair job. I realized that from the beginning. While my colleagues were pushing the barriers of educational excellence and shattering HSA scores, I was chasing an enraged student down the hall while he screamed out profanity-laced threats. I can't whine or complain, though. It's what I signed up for. But there have been countless days where my soul feels overloaded with brittle wood and fresh kindling, just ready to ignite.

Fires can start any time. Last year, my kids collaborated with the general education classes for a history project. On the final day of the unit, we were going to share each other's work. We would visit the other students in the large classrooms, and they would come out to the portables and check out our projects as well. For me, it meant more than just the project- it meant that we were part of the rest of the school's success and they were part of ours.

Unfortunately, no one showed up to see us. My kids went out to the other rooms, saw the other projects, and then came back to an empty portable. The bell rang and it was over. The truth is, it wasn't even any one's fault. We simply ran out of time. It wasn't a big deal at all- harmless and irrelevant, like the piles of wood my grandpa used to drop. But to me it was a microcosm of a greater problem. I only had one thought running through my mind.

We came to them. But they didn't come to us.

Today I stumbled upon some unsuspecting controversy, and it sparked something fierce inside of me. I was placed in the position of grade level chair this year, which basically means I get to run weekly meetings dealing with 6th grade housekeeping and logistics. I was casually reintroducing last year's system of delegating general education teachers for IEP meetings (stay with me here), which was an indiscriminate, alphabetical rotation. For every meeting dealing with special education, a general education teacher needs to be present, so last year we set up a rotation for teachers to attend meetings that I thought was pretty fair.

Well, a couple of teachers objected, saying that attending IEP meetings wasn't required and the rotation went against the union agreement. I knew I wasn't going to win this battle, but I couldn't just let it slide. I've attended countless IEP meetings, many of them for the teachers who were objecting, and not once have I had the liberty to exercise my union rights like that. I announced this thought, with as much tact as I could muster at the time, and one of the teachers reminded me that attending these meetings was part of my contract. "It's not like I'm getting paid any more than you to do it," I said. The way I saw it- the only way I could in the moment- was that I had attended so many meetings for them that I didn't think it should be an issue for them to attend a few for me. We argued about it for 10 to 15 minutes, and then moved on. But all I had was one thought.

We come to them. But they don't come to us.

There are A LOT of people, many who I work side by side with, who care A LOT about special education. But I also think there are a lot of people who don't.

I've spent most of my life somewhat privileged, usually in the in group. Being on the outside, being overlooked, really pisses me off. It's a can of gasoline and a match. Last year, after three years of teaching self-contained classes in a portable, I told my principal I couldn't do it anymore. I told her what I wanted to do and she let me do it. I got to start the first four-core inclusion program at Wheeler Middle School. When the deal was finalized and my job was set in stone, I only had one thought.

They don't have to come to us. We'll come to them, and we'll stay there.

It's not going to be an easy task, and already the first two weeks have been extremely challenging. But the way I see it, the path that my students and I have taken over the last three years has been a rugged, treacherous, and neglected one. Now it's up to me to go back and pave it into a highway.

Plop.

I can still hear the sound of the wood being carelessly dropped into the pit. I still hear the comments of others who don't care about or understand what we do.

And just like that, the fire roars.