"MR. LAZ," CURTIS SAID, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "I can't do it. I just can't do it!" He threw his pencil down, folded his arms across his chest, and stared at the blackboard.
It was a typical scene. Almost all the guys performed it at one time or another. On several occasions, in fact, I found it more disturbing than annoying.
"What do you mean, you can't do it?" I said. "Don't give me that stuff."
I sat down at my desk, ignoring his theatrics, and awaited the inevitable line. It came.
"What do you want from me, man? I'm LD, okay?"
L.D. – learning disabled. I had never mentioned it in my class and I had never hung a sign on my door that proclaimed this was Mr. Laz's LD class. I purposely avoided the label. True, it was a "special" class, but I tried to make it special in the most positive sense of the word; and that had nothing to do with drawing attention to handicapping conditions, disabilities, disorders, dysfunctions, or the million-and-one catch-phrases so common to this field.
Still, there was no fooling my students. They had gone through the processing. They were duly stamped and labeled. They knew why they were in my classroom where we do things differently and have a maximum of ten kids. But label or no label, they had very normal adolescent tendencies. Accordingly, each displayed an average proficiency toward clever and manipulative behavior. The LD defense was tossed about whenever they got frustrated or bored. Their work was calibrated to their current level, so it wasn't overly-difficult. In fact, I spent hours matching their assignments to their individual needs.
It was the phrase itself that upset me. It implied more than simple manipulation... it meant they had actually bought into and partnered with one of the biggest and more dangerous theories perpetrated by us wise, consenting adults – the notion that there is a "learning disabled" population.
This label is a contradiction in terms. It absurdly tells a child, "You cannot learn, because you are learning disabled. The others are learning abled; they can learn!" It's not only unfair in a moral sense, but it is simply untrue. Terrence may have had auditory memory problems when it came to traditional reading materials, but it sure didn't apply to memorizing entire rap tunes he heard on the radio. Bobby had difficulty with long division, but at the age of nine he could gamble you out of your shoes. He had a "street sense" about money that put him years beyond his peers.
Thus, they do learn. Not always what we prefer them to learn, but they learn. As "informavores" they process information and react to it. But rather than notifying a parent, teacher or child, that he or she learns at a different pace, or in a different manner, the LD label conveys the message that when it comes to learning, this child is disabled and cannot do what "normal" and "regular" children do.
Innocent parents fall victim to the same folly. After doing an educational assessment-and-evaluation of their child, I'm almost always asked the question, "Well, is my child learning disabled or not?"
A hundred thoughts and responses run through my head. What can I answer when the LD field itself has no concrete definition of what LD is? So-called experts have grappled with this issue for the past twenty years. Depending on which definition is used, the incidence of LD in our schools ranges from 3% to 20%!
The Federal definition offers little clarification. It is vague, leaving cloudy areas for leeway, loopholes, speculation, and arguments. It also contains the famous "exclusion clause" which basically states what LD isn't, and not what it is! For example, LD is not attributed to hearing loss, vision problems, mental retardation, emotional disturbance, and the like.
During my many years in this line of work, I have never had nor seen a homogeneous grouping of LD kids – or regular kids, for that matter. There just ain't no such creature! It matters little whether the setting is an inner-city public school or a Yeshiva LD program.
A class of ten LD students is made up of ten uniquely distinct individuals, each with his own personality, strengths, weaknesses, learning difficulties, and style. This same class of ten typically has three to five learning groups for each academic subject; (in order to adapt the material toward auditory, visual and other learning tools). Indeed, if it were possible, the ideal situation might call for ten different groups. In other words, total individualization. Of course, there is only so much time in a teacher's day.
A classroom of kids does not take on the convenient entity of a dozen eggs just because we've grouped them together. Gestalt doesn't work here. The whole is not greater than the sum of the parts, no matter what labels adults use for educational purposes, (i.e. developmentally disabled, emotionally disturbed, educable, mentally retarded, behaviorally disordered, persons-in-need-of-supervision, learning disabled, etc.). In special education we were always taught to be flexible, to think outside the box, to be creative, to individualize. We're also taught that labeling is, in fact, disabling. For a field that pretends to dislike labels, we sure have lots and lots of 'em floating around and making their way from the diagnostic tests to a nice, fat stamp on the kid's foreheads – often in permanent marker.
Once, while sitting in one of my graduate classes at Buffalo State College, my professor, Dr. Bernie Yormak, a.k.a., Dr. BBY, (former head of the Exceptional Education Division), directed our attention to a large, impressive building across the university lawn. Surrounded by a huge fence, and sporting bars on its windows, the place looked like a maximum security prison, but was, in fact, a state hospital. The hospital catered to people with serious psychological and emotional problems.
Dr. Yormak turned and wrote two words on the board: FID and GOK.
"FID," he said, pointing to the psychiatric facility, "is what separates you from them!"
We sat perplexed, waiting anxiously for his explanation. He is a brilliant, captivating teacher with a knack for doing the unusual to keep his students' attention. Once, in the middle of a class, he suddenly stopped teaching, pointed at a big, blond-haired student and yelled, "Your pipik, (Yiddish for bellybutton), is showing!" The few Jews in the class that understood cracked up.
"Doovid," he said to me in his best, put-on Yiddish accent, "Tell him vat pipik is!"
I explained, and as the entire class shared in the joke our colleague quickly pulled his shirt down.
"Ok, now tell them what FID is!"
I wondered what he had up his sleeve this time. FID, as far as I knew, was not a Jewish word.
"FID," he said, looking out of the window, "stands for frequency, intensity, and duration. F-I-D. You do the same things they do. You have the same hang-ups and idiosyncrasies they have, but they do it more frequently, with greater intensity, and for a longer duration of time!"
We laughed nervously. His words could not be denied.
"So what's GOK, you're wondering?" he continued. "Good question. I'll tell you. GOK is the ultimate answer to anyone's learning difficulties. After all is said and done, after all the reports have been turned in and the kid has been to the principal, the resource room teacher, the assessment team, the social worker, the neurologist, the psychologist, the physician and, of course, to you guys for observation...what is the true nature, etiology and remediation for their learning problems? It's GOK. G-O-K. God Only Knows!"
Again, we laughed nervously, partly because his words hit some inner chord. Once struck, it rang loud and clear, refusing to be silent.
"One more word of caution before calling it a night," Dr. Yormak added, "remember, that when it comes to LD, we've all got 'em! Each and every one of us. No exceptions. See ya next week."
By the middle of my first year at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School, I was sick of hearing the line, "I can't do it, I'm LD." I was tired of my students believing they were somehow inferior to others. I decided the time was ripe. I would go into "no-man's-land" and approach the subject with my students. For better or worse, we would discuss it out in the open.
"Fellas," I said. "I want to tell you something important. It's been on my mind for a long time."
"What'd we do now?"
"Nothing," I said, "Nothing bad anyhow. It's just that something's not right. You've been doing it, you've been saying it, and I've been letting it ride. But it hasn't been sitting too well with me. I haven't said anything thing about it until now, but it needs to be said, and you need to hear it."
I waited in front of the class until I had their full attention.
"Every so often, a lot more than I would've imagined, one of you guys will say 'I can't do it. I'm LD. I'm LD this, or I'm ED or OCD that!' Everyone, absolutely everyone, has problems learning, adjusting, and coping. There ain't nobody walking around in perfection on this planet."
They stared at me, not knowing how to react. Perhaps they thought I was being condescending, or just trying to make them feel better. Their expressions, however, told me they simply didn't believe me. They had swallowed their label, hook, line and sinker. I felt like screaming into their ears to make sure this awareness penetrated, that it really sunk in, that it made perfect sense to them, too.
"Look," I said pointing to the board. "My handwriting's a disaster. You should be teaching me how to write. My wife, a college graduate, is tone deaf. She can't carry or remember a tune for the life of her. She sings Happy Birthday off-key. Others can't learn to dance, no matter how hard they try; they're total klutzes! Some very smart and very grown-up adults can't follow directions, and some people fall apart looking at instruction manuals. Some grown-ups aren't even adept at making conversation, or freeze when it comes to making new friends. Everybody has a dis-ability and has to focus instead, on their ability, and strengths."
One of my students raised his hand.
"Everyone?"
"Yup. No exceptions," I said. "Even Moses. Moses, the greatest leader of the Jewish people, had a serious problem. No too many people know this, but he had a speech impediment. Hey, if he were around now, we'd do our best to give him speech and language therapy, and probably full time, at that! But – and here's the main thing – his problem didn't stop him."
"Even Dr. D?" Leland asked incredulously.
"Even Dr. D what?" I asked.
"Even Dr. D had ability problems?"
I laughed.
"Not had. Has! Even Dr. D has things in life that he has difficulty with."
"No way," he responded, shaking his head. "How come he's a doctor? How come he's a principal? He ain't no LD like us!"
"Yeah, but he sure got emotional problems," Phil said, rubbing his backside. We all laughed, thinking about Dr. D's famous wooden paddle.
"Okay. Fine." I said. "You don't believe me. Go ask him yourself!"
"Shoot. You crazy? That big dude'll rip my head off and hang it on his wall like a trophy!"
"Don't go up to him and say, 'Hey, Dr. D! You're LD, aren't ya?' Just ask him if there's anything in life that he has trouble doing or learning."
For a few moments, it was quiet.
"Go ahead," I said. "I dare ya."
Later that day, taking me up on the challenge, he questioned Dr. D about it. "The Doc" told my student about some of his own learning problems. It was an enlightening experience for all of us.
This same sort of incident has repeated itself in every school I have ever taught in, from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School, to Yeshiva Torah Ohr, (Manhattan Day School), and the alternative high school I ran for six years.
Understanding this message, however, is only half the battle. Not only do we all have learning problems of various degrees, (FID), but at the same time, everyone is unique, worthy, and capable of adding something to the world that no one else can.
Both facts need to be conveyed to parents and educators, and most importantly, to our children. It is both a humbling and uplifting message.
The labeling system is, I guess, a necessary evil that serves the purpose of obtaining government and state funding to help develop and maintain remedial programs. Clearly, there is an identified population of children that – despite their innate abilities – do not grow to their maximum potential.
Traditional classroom methodologies are not enough. These students require smaller, more individualized settings with a variety of hands-on, motivational techniques. In other words, the population exists, but we've given them the wrong label! They can learn! If LD is to continue to stand for "learning disabilities" then it should be worn by each and every one of us. A better solution would be to change the meaning of the two letters to "learning differences." This term better acknowledges the uniqueness of the individual and makes no blanket statement about the person's capacity, (or lack of capacity), to learn.
And, you're probably wondering how I actually answer parents who question: "Is my child LD or not?"
"Well," I usually respond, "I can tell you about certain strengths and weaknesses in your child's learning patterns and I can make recommendations and suggestions for remediation. But if you ask if your kid is learning disabled, I've got to tell you that we all are."