32
Rebecca
Mr. Allen and two dozen parents attend the March school board meeting. The board members sit around a table in padded chairs, while we parents sit in wooden chairs that line the walls. Mr. Diller, the school board president, calls the meeting to order and announces that mainstreaming handicapped children will be discussed first. Mr. Diller is professional, all business. His face shows no emotion, not even a hint of a smile or frown. Perhaps the clients he defends in court every day have made him callous. I hope he’ll at least listen to our plea. To support our cause and explain the benefits of NSD, Jill Ramsey from NSD has come to the meeting.
Mr. Diller recaps the law, stressing that the Grand Island School System is obligated to educate handicapped students living in the school district in the least restrictive manner. “Are there any questions or comments?”
I raise my hand, feeling like a schoolgirl asking for permission to speak. “I’m Rebecca Willman.” I stand; my palms are sweaty, the room stuffy. For a moment I feel lightheaded. “My daughter, Amy, attends the Nebraska School for the Deaf in Omaha, as do the children of several other people here tonight. Other parents here send their children to the State School for the Blind in Nebraska City. We’ve had our children in these schools from three to ten years. We’re pleased with the specialized education they are receiving at their schools. How do you plan to educate our children locally?”
Mr. Diller scans the board members, waiting for one to respond; they avert his eyes. “I thought Mr. Carstens would be here tonight. He’s more familiar with the special education programs than I am, but I understand there’s a special education class in every school now. Your kids would be put in that class, and would participate with kids in regular classes when possible.”
“So all handicapped children, regardless of their age or disability, would be put in the same room?” I meant this to be a statement, but my voice conveys an astonished question. “How can one teacher educate a room with deaf, blind, retarded, emotionally, and physically disabled children? Each of these children needs to be taught in a specific manner. Will the teacher know Braille as well as sign language?”
Mr. Diller stares at me. I feel as if I’m being visually cross-examined. “I’m not a teacher; I can’t say how it will be done, but the law requires these children be educated in the least restrictive manner, which in most cases means in their home community. What the Grand Island Schools will provide may not be perfect, but it will comply with the law.”
Jill Ramsey asks if she may speak. I sit and she explains the educational, athletic, and social programs provided at NSD. She stresses the need for the deaf children to receive the specialized education that NSD offers.
After she sits, I stand. “I don’t think our children’s education should suffer because of this law. Our kids are receiving quality education at their residential schools. At NSD, as Jill explained, all the teachers know sign language, the rooms are equipped with flashing lights to warn of fire or other emergencies, the PE teachers and coaches know sign, the children can participate in sports. Can the Grand Island schools offer this?”
“Obviously the answer is no.” Mr. Diller responds. Several board members fidget in their chairs.
“No parent should be expected to remove their child from a quality program and enroll them in one that can offer little in the way of education. We want our children to continue their education at the schools they currently attend.” I sit down, not knowing what else to say.
“Thank you for your comments, Mrs. Willman. You too, Mrs. Ramsey.” Mr. Diller scans the parents. “Does anyone else want to speak?”
“May I address the Board?” Mr. Allen asks. Mr. Diller nods his approval. Mr. Allen sums up our pleas, reinforced by letters from additional staff from the residential schools, statements from the parents, and from the older children at NSD.
“Give me a copy of your report. The Board will take it under advisement and give you our decision next month.” Mr. Diller consults his agenda. “The next item is equip …”
After the meeting, I confront Mr. Diller in the hall. “Why are you being so hard on us? Your granddaughter is autistic. You know how difficult it is to obtain decent education for special kids. Why can’t we leave our children where they are? They’re happy, and we’re happy.”
“I understand your concerns, but when I’m presiding at the school board, the fact that I have an autistic granddaughter is not relevant,” he replies. “I must be impartial.”
“Yes, but you’re trying so hard to be impartial that you’re not being fair.”
Several board members approach with questions for Mr. Diller, rescuing him from further conversation with me. Outside, Mr. Allen says, “I’d tell you all not to worry, but I know you will. I think we made some good points tonight. All we can do now is wait and see.”
Wait and see. That’s easy for you to say.
By conversing with other parents at NSD, I discover that students from small school districts, like Kelli Thomas, Tricia Tighe, Teena, Jeannie, Linsay, and Daniel are not facing a struggle with their school board, like we are. The smaller school districts cannot afford to implement education for their special needs children as required by law, so allowing them to attend the residential schools is the best option for these school districts.
If I lived in a smaller town, I wouldn’t be faced with another hurdle to jump so Amy can receive a good education. Whoever said “life is not fair” was right.
Two weeks before Amy finishes the fourth grade, Mr. Allen and the parents are once again at the school board meeting. Seated against the wall, we look like a group of children waiting to be lectured by the school principal for misconduct.
After calling the meeting to order, and dispensing with the minutes, Mr. Diller says, “First on the agenda is Public Law 94-142. After an extended review of the information provided to us by Mr. Allen, the Board has decided it is in the best interest of the children currently attending schools outside of the Grand Island school district to continue their education there.” My shoulders relax. “But, from this point forward, no more children from this school district will be allowed to attend those residential schools.”
Hurrah! A victory for Amy, but I ponder the long-term effect of the Board’s decision. Amy can finish her education at NSD, but I wonder what quality of education young deaf and blind children will receive in the future, when all school districts mainstream their special needs children into classrooms designed for “normal” children. How can any teacher provide extensive individual attention to a special needs child, when teachers are already challenged to spend individual time with twenty “normal” students? I think we have won the battle but lost the war.
Amy receives the news with her usual positive attitude, “I knew I would win.”
I envy her confidence.
By August, Amy is anxious to return to school and her friends. This year she’ll live in the girls’ dorm, which is similar to a college dorm, except there is a small room downstairs with a teletypewriter, which allows after-hours contact between the girls’ and boys’ dorms. Deaf teenagers are not unlike hearing kids; nothing is more important than gossip, sports, and young love.
John helps Amy tote her blue trunk upstairs, while I follow behind carrying a box of pillows, stuffed toys, and miscellaneous items. I open the trunk to unpack her clothes. Amy nudges me toward the door, saying, “I can do it myself.”
Forcing Amy to become independent has drawbacks. My sigh is filled with joy and sorrow. Happy, because I won my battle with the school board and that Amy is becoming independent, but sad because she’s growing up so fast. After a long hug, from which she struggles to free herself, Amy walks us outside.
Several high school students are seated on the steps. Their fingers fly, talking so fast I only catch a few words, not enough to know what they are saying. Kelli and Tricia, two of Amy’s classmates, rush up the sidewalk to greet her. Amy signs something, and points to a window on the second floor. Kelli and Tricia ask in sign, “Where my room?”
“Show you,” Amy signs. Before she escapes, I give her a final hug. Amy signs, “I love you.” Without looking back, she hurries into the dorm with her friends.
“Well John, looks like we’re not needed here anymore.” I slip behind the steering wheel.
“Yeah. All I’m good for is lugging her two-ton suitcase upstairs.”
As I drive out the NSD gate, knowing I’m facing nine months of weekly trips to Omaha gives me a dull headache. I look forward to the day John can drive, so we can share this chore. “Just think, John, in four years you’ll be old enough to drive.”
“I don’t want to learn to drive.” He slumps against the car door.
I think he suspects my plan.