Our first daughter S was born in 1999 with Hydrocephalus (fluid on the brain) then at age 2 was diagnosed with Bronchiectasis, a chronic lung condition. Two years ago our third child I, then aged 14, was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes.
The last few days has been markers for both. S decided a few years ago that, despite frequent inpatient admissions, she can’t get enough of hospitals, and on Sunday graduated as a doctor in a ‘declaration ceremony’. On Monday I finished the 24-exam marathon of GCSEs. After a tough year when the juggling of revision levels and blood sugar levels threatened to overwhelm, he has… we think… got his act together in the way Year 11s often do.
Of course, both have material and other advantages that so many children in our schools lack. However, both also feel like inclusion success stories for our education and health systems. Medical advances mean that both can live full and generally healthy lives. And their schools have supported them in very different and individualised ways. For S this meant giving her work to do when in hospital, and being not just tolerant of but kind about extended absences. For I, inclusion often meant being treated the same – not letting diabetes or possible ADHD stand in the way of a good start-of-Y11 kick up the arse, but also enabling good exam adjustments.
Now I am back teaching, I’m of course seeing the myriad ways in which inclusion and SEND regulations, policies and practices play out in schools. It’s easy to be lost in system-level issues, and also in general catastrophising about SEND. And there is lots of truth in this, and value in thinking through solutions and campaigning for the resources that our SEND system now needs. Whoever designed this so-called ‘system’ needs to learn from some obvious design faults and unintended consequences – did policy really intend private equity to march into the special school space, to take one particularly distasteful example? Of course we might not have been able to predict everything: the rise in autism diagnoses; covid; but it feels like the civil servants, lawyers and others responsible for policy just didn’t do the basic ‘gaming’ to think through risks. Labour’s manifesto commitments, aligned with their broader approach to education reform, but give us a canvas for a full system redesign:
Labour will take a community-wide approach, improving inclusivity and expertise in mainstream schools, as well as ensuring special schools cater to those with the most complex needs. We will make sure admissions decisions account for the needs of communities and require all schools to co-operate with their local authority on school admissions, SEND inclusion, and place planning.
And yet, as people debate, criticise, lobby and advocate around SEND reform, I’d love everyone to remember and recount the joy that these children also bring to our schools.
Children with SEND feel like mystery prizes, ones you might never quite be able to fully unwrap, and ones that no ECHP, IEP or any other piece of paper can completely explain or solve – if indeed they do need ‘solving’. My favourite classroom moments can be when I have managed to set most of the children to a decent Direct Instruction-fuelled task, and all of them are cracking on (I wish this happened more often, but I’m getting there). At this point, I can spend a precious, golden bit of time focussing on one or more of the children with SEND – often just observing what they might be doing with any TAs who are supporting them - or working with a group of children with lower ability in that particular subject, a point where I often realise that my Direct Instruction was less decent than I’d assumed.
Meet four of the cast I’m lucky to spend time with.
If R. sees a gap – in the classroom, hall, playground or in adults’ attention – he will probably try to spin into it. As he spins, his head moves like a trained dancer, eyes glued to a spot that will stop him falling. R has limited verbal language and is reading simple words. He is slowly learning to call everyone in the class by their names. H. an academically able child with a cocky slant, shows a totally different, patient side to his personality when with R. I am not sure this part of H’s character would reveal itself if R wasn’t in the same classroom.
M. doesn’t talk much, apart from repeating what you might say, but helps me take the register, and seemed to know all the words to the songs we put on during the Eid party. M is also learning to integrate better with those in her class, using her body appropriately, but is also making strides in maths and literacy. Usually with and often frustrating her TA, M. can work well in a three, listening and occasionally participating and rarely disrupting as the other two lead any task
Y has been silent – at least in classrooms – since his best friend left the school a few weeks ago. He struggles to focus on written tasks for more than about 15 minutes a time, but likes praise more than he tries to let on, and is taking increasing pride in his work.
A. is more than vocal about his ADHD, and allowances given to him for movement breaks and a large amount of fidgeting – some of which is expressed through amazing rapid drawing, or creating 3D stuff out of post-it notes. Sitting directly in front of the whiteboard, the mess he creates can distract. But he listens well and his responses can sharp, creative and articulate. His writing might also be this, but is currently too illegible to know. His written work always looks like he wants it over as soon as possible.
These are four of the more obvious mystery prizes in my classrooms. There will of course be others who I might not have had time to notice, who may be bringing me and other teachers and staff members much more pain than pleasure. These examples, and seeing inclusion work in my school lead me to no shiny new policy brainwaves. When it comes to SEND, I feel like a novice teacher and am likely to stay that way for a while. I’m intuitively drawn to the conclusions of two proper experts – Tom Rees and Ben Newark – and this beautiful plea.
An alternative lens through which to consider SEND reform – one in which we see all people as complete in their humanity as opposed to having something missing or broken. This lens would allow us to see ability and disability not as binaries, but as a continuum through which all of us move at different points in our lives.
I’ll also risk a truism: Children with special education needs can’t wait for perfect policies. Their needs are very present now, as every school and parent who are dealing with them knows. I sometimes worry that current SEND debates are dominated by issues around better funding, identification and allocation of resources, rather than the possibilities of better utilisation of the resources we already have. So as I continue my own teaching journey, here are four questions I’ll be asking myself.
- How can we think through an ‘ideal day’ for each of these children, carefully picking the ideal moments for integration with other pupils, tailored interventions (in class or out-of class), or just breaks from all of this?
- How can in-class grouping of pupils, whether mixed ability or otherwise, best be configured to support the subject-specific needs of all children?[1]
- How can we best use the time, wisdom and commitment of Teaching Assistants, especially those assigned to individual students, to make the most difference to learning outcomes?
- How can I, as a teacher covering a few classes, move from slightly random ‘golden precious moments’ of personal SEND focus to something more structured, deliberate and systematic?
These are probably not the best questions; I’d love advice on better ones. But as wallow in nostalgia about the personal journeys of my own first and last children, and as I get deeper into the inclusion journeys of those I now teach, I will try and keep coming back to the joy. There are children in my classrooms who fifty years ago would not have got near any real opportunities for learning. We – teachers and other pupils - are so lucky to have them with us.
Finally, for those with three or more kids, or two kids, or maybe no kids, here’s something beautiful from Barbara Kingsolver.
‘A first child is your own best foot forward, and how you do cheer those little feet as they strike out. You examine every turn of flesh for precocity, and crow it to the world.
But the last one: the baby who trails her scent like a flag of surrender through your life when there will be no more coming after - oh, that's love by a different name. She is the babe you hold in your arms for an hour after she's gone to sleep. If you put her down in the crib, she might wake up changed and fly away. So instead you rock by the window, drinking the light from her skin, breathing her exhaled dreams. Your heart bays to the double crescent moons of closed lashes on her cheeks. She's the one you can't put down.’
Barbara Kingsolver, the Poisonwood Bible.
[1] I am still absorbing Peter Kutnick’s recent talk to the Centre for Educational Neuroscience UCL Centre for Neuroscience about ability grouping – a brilliant summary from a range of evidence sources. We are getting a lot wrong.