Chapter 1. Establish a Culture of Equity and Inclusion

Andrew looks at his lap tray again and touches the word you.

Jesse repeats it aloud: "You."

Then Andrew moves to the letter area, touching f, o, r, and g.

"Forgot?" Jesse offers.

Andrew nods, smiling, and then looks back to his tray, touching you and r.

Jesse says, "Your."

Andrew starts spelling again: b, o, o, k.

Jesse gets it. "Oh man, you're right! I gotta have the book for English. Thanks for reminding me. I'll catch up. Maybe you guys can distract Ms. VanArk so she doesn't notice I'm late!"

Andrew and Sean head off to class while Jesse runs back to his locker. When they get to Ms. VanArk's classroom, Sean opens the door and Andrew rolls in. Sean moves a chair that is blocking Andrew's path, probably mistakenly left there by the last group of students. It's all very ordinary, and no one seems to notice the give-and-take between the boys.

In another part of the building, a group of teachers is meeting during planning time and working through a series of learning progressions for a unit of study on the American Revolution. They are discussing the flow of the daily lessons and which materials they want to use to build student mastery of the content. Teacher Brad Henderson says, "In our last unit, I'm not sure we had students reading enough from primary sources. I'd like to see our students do more of that. There are so many great sources from this time period. We could select some and then have them ready in large print, audio, and adapted versions. I would like to use them in small groups this time so that I can see how students are responding to the texts."

There is general agreement. Then teacher Amal Ali says, "Before we go any further, can we revisit the assessments we'll use? I've been thinking about it, and we need to give students more choices for how they can demonstrate mastery. And I think they all should have practice with a formal assessment and options for how to demonstrate understanding in creative ways. Thoughts?"

The team continues discussing their plans and building an inclusive set of experiences for students. They do not talk about "what to do about SPED students" or how to adjust developed lessons to accommodate specific learning needs—the sort of conversation that is prevalent in many schools. It's not even clear which of the teachers are "special educators" and which are "general educators." What is clear is that all of the teachers present value the learning of all students in much the same way that Andrew, Sean, and Jesse value each other—casually, as an ordinary matter of course. This way of regarding all students as "our students" is far from common. But that could change, and it needs to.

Beliefs Drive Inclusive Education and Equity

We start with the culture of inclusion because it's foundational to the creation of schools that work for all students. The philosophy of the staff within a school directly and significantly affects the systems of support that are available for students. We have learned the hard way that meaningful improvements in what a school does only stick and have purpose when the adults in the school reevaluate what they know and come to a new understanding of the labels and language they use, how instruction and intervention should be delivered, where students are served, the roles of everyone in the school, and what their expectations are—for both their students and themselves.

Shanice's family moved to a new city the summer before she started high school. The first 10 years of her school experience were spent in self-contained special education classrooms with no participation at all in the general education classroom. During elementary school, she and the other students with disabilities even ate lunch at a different time than the rest of the student body. They were different, a group apart.

At Shanice's new school, all of her classes were general education courses: Earth Science, English 9, Algebra I, Art, and Biology. When Shanice's mother called at the end of the second week and asked to meet with the principal and special education teacher, they worried that something was wrong. In fact, when they sat down to meet with Shanice's mom, the first question they asked her was, "Is everything OK?"

Shanice's mom started to cry. It took her several minutes to compose herself, and when she did, this is what she said:

It's like you gave me a different kid. She has grown so much in academics and social skills. I can't believe that I agreed to keeping her out of regular classes all those years. I'm glad I trusted you this summer when we met and you said that your philosophy was that students belonged together and that you could organize supports. I let you try, but really, I was expecting you to call and tell me that it wasn't working. But you didn't, because it is. Thank you for all that you're doing for my daughter.

Did Shanice's needs suddenly change over the summer? Or did Shanice change in response to her new experiences in a school committed to the belief that all students had the capacity to meet high expectations and committed to maintaining systems of support to align with that belief? We, and the actual parties involved, know it was the latter. Shanice became different because the new school she went to was different. It was more sophisticated, and the members of the staff valued the membership of all students and had figured out how to support students' various needs. We have never encountered an inclusive school in which the faculty did not believe in what they were doing. As you will see over and over again in this book, it's the philosophy that drives an effective system.

With the rapid growth in programs to support students who are struggling, it can be tempting to latch onto one of those as a starting point. School leaders may, for example, attempt to nudge the needle of inclusion by launching a full-tilt multi-tiered system of supports (MTSS) effort, implementing a reading intervention program, or digging into a complete overhaul of their individualized education program (IEP) process. While these are essential components of successfully inclusive schools, starting with procedures rather than with the vision dooms a school to a series of never-ending "tweaks" and a seemingly infinite number of "initiatives." Achieving the outcome students deserve requires a complete reimagining. Equity and inclusion must become the ethos of the school. Excellent education for all should be the objective and the impetus—what drives every initiative, program, or strategy.

Shifting the culture of a school to embrace inclusion is much more complicated than simply sharing the research that says inclusion works (e.g., Fisher, Roach, & Frey, 2002). It involves dismantling the status quo, disrupting long-held beliefs about learners and about teaching. Fundamental to this work is replacing a climate of sorting and ranking students with one of mastery—believing and expecting that all students can achieve at high levels.

Having a culture of mastery means every single person in the school embraces every student, without exception, as worthy and deserving of their best. It means never turning our back on a student because "she's yours, not mine." It means never giving up on any student, because there's an expectation that every student can achieve at a higher level than ever before. In a culture of mastery, everyone on staff believes that in order to meet the needs of all students, it's necessary to meet the needs of each student.

Language and Labels Matter

If excellent educational outcomes for all is the goal (it is), the sobering truth is that there is a long way to go. Regardless of whether the measure is achievement scores, graduation rates, post-school employment, or college acceptance rates, the conclusion is the same: students with disabilities are not faring well in the current education system.

These poor outcomes are fueled in part by the damage done when disability labeling lowers expectations. Students identified as having disabilities encounter bias from their teachers, especially in the form of lower expectations, more negative evaluation of behavior, and negative predictions about whether they are likely to earn an undergraduate degree (Shifrer, 2013). And this culture affects all marginalized students, not only those with disabilities. Because of the evolution of essentially separate systems, special education has long been used as a way to label and segregate instead of support. The dichotomous sorting of our education system has led to inappropriately labeling a disproportionate number of African American students, particularly boys, as having behavioral disorders (Cooc & Kiru, 2018). The majority of U.S. school systems are staffed by adults who are largely white, female, and middle class, and they can struggle to understand behavior expression unlike their own (Delpit, 2006). Most often, the problem isn't even students' behavior per se; it's the mismatch in cultural expectations and a misunderstanding of high- and low-context behaviors.

When Hattie (2012) used meta-analyses from 50,000 studies to calculate the magnitude of 250 different influences on student achievement, he determined that the overall effect size (the magnitude of an influence) equivalent to a year's worth of academic growth in school is .40. The practice of not labeling students (e.g., as "struggling," "gifted," "high achieving," "special ed") has an effect size of .61, meaning that it accelerates learning. Although it is necessary to identify whether a student qualifies for an IEP in order to receive special education services and safeguards, in the daily classroom, labeling has a negative effect. The label often becomes "the reason" why the student is not progressing. Students develop low expectations for themselves, because that's what everyone else does, and the self-fulfilling prophecy is realized when students meet these low expectations. Kirby (2017) notes that the combination of poor self-concept and negative views of teachers has a lasting effect on students, which is counter to the mission of educators. As he puts it, "The education system should be decreasing the impact of disability on a student's academic performance, not exacerbating it" (p. 183). In short, labeling can too easily marginalize and hurt rather than help.

The practice of "tracking" students, common in the 1970s and 1980s, illustrates exactly the harm that results from leaving student needs unmet. As early as kindergarten, students were sorted into ability groups based on their academic performance and perceived potential (low, medium, and high). The idea was to provide greater academic challenges for students who were ready to move forward and greater support to those who struggled. In actuality, though, students in the lower groups received slower-paced instruction as a replacement for core instruction—which effectively trapped them within their track throughout their elementary and secondary years. They sank further and further behind, and by high school, many of these students were grade levels behind in crucial literacy, problem-solving, and mathematics skills. This service delivery model failed students who could have been college- and career-bound by not providing them with simple interventions in early childhood. For students with disabilities, the situation was even worse: they were tracked into segregated special education classrooms with an even weaker curriculum.

Unfortunately, tracking lives on. There are still permanent ability groups of low-, middle-, and high-achieving students in some elementary classrooms. Students remain homogenously grouped with similarly achieving students throughout the day. The low-achieving groups are especially vulnerable, as they lack the language, social, and academic models that are present in heterogeneous groups. Although needs-based small-group instruction is an effective practice, permanent ability grouping and tracking have a detrimental effect on students' self-efficacy and on their level of school engagement (Dumont, Protsch, Jansen, & Becker, 2017).

Changing the culture of a school to be receptive to real inclusion starts with changing the language educators use. First, labels belong in the conversation only when discussing services and rights; they have no place in a conversation about the systems of support for a student. Second, in times when it's necessary to speak of disability categories or supports, all faculty should feel the importance of, and embrace the use of, people-first language. Rather than "autistic child," say "a child with autism" (when talking about services and supports)—or just call the kid by his name: Timothy. Rather than say Angela is "wheelchair-bound," you might mention that Angela "rolls to class." Changes in language serve as the foundation for the widespread change in mindset that must occur if schools are ever to deliver on the promise of equity for all students, including those with disabilities.

Not only is there a history of the overuse of disability labels, but too many schools have also acquired the habit of labeling students based on the supports they need: "Let's have a meeting about our Tier 2s and 3s this afternoon." There are no "special education students" or "Tier 2" or "Tier 3 students," and students are never exclusively "yours" or "mine." Every student in the building is our student first and foremost. Special education and Tier 2 and 3 interventions are supports that are provided. They are nouns, not adjectives, and they should never be used to describe a student's permanent or long-term status. They are not any student's identity.

What's more, all students in the building are on the specialist's or special educator's caseload. Any child who can benefit from a specialized strategy, accommodation, or modification is their responsibility. And do you know of any student who has never needed support with anything academically, socially, or otherwise during their formative years? To deny expert assistance to a student in need because there is no IEP in place is to deny that student an equitable education.

Everyone Deserves to Belong

The 1970s also introduced the practice of mainstreaming—an early attempt to create less restrictive placements for students with mild disabilities. In this model, students who demonstrated competence could receive their education in the general education classroom. But this approach placed the burden on students: they had to somehow catch up to grade level while receiving a lower-level replacement curriculum, and then they had to maintain progress in the general education setting. In other words, these students had to continuously prove they "belonged." As problematic as this was for students with mild disabilities, it proved to be even more discouraging for students with significant disabilities.

This "prove you belong" mindset persists. During one IEP meeting Julie attended, a therapist said, "When Justine develops some of her daily living skills—like toothbrushing and feeding herself—she might be able to spend some time in general education." In this therapist's mind, membership in the 4th grade class was dependent on personal care. Doug attended an IEP meeting during which a special educator said, "Once Brad has mastered 100 sight words, he can probably go to the regular class." Does mastery of any number of sight words predict success in the general education classroom? And what better place for Brad to learn sight words than alongside his peers, who already know them? Reading instruction does not stop or start at sight words, and the instruction necessary for all aspects of reading can be provided in the general education classroom. Students with disabilities in general education classrooms deserve the supports and services their IEP teams have designed. In addition, general and special educators deserve to teach in environments engineered so that students can perform at high levels.

In many schools, the default for students with disabilities is still to either put them into the lowest track in general education or assign them to a segregated special education classroom. Although this could technically provide access to grade-level curriculum, too often the special education class is taught by someone who does not have deep content knowledge, and thus, expectations are lowered. We visited a high school in which the special education teacher was expected to teach three different history classes (World History, U.S. History, and Government) in the same period to different students. And the special education teacher had neither a history degree nor credentials in that area.

The long-term outcomes for this practice are dismal. The gaps in learning that persist are evidence that teaching students below-grade-level content is not working. The model of "pull out and replace the curriculum" isn't effective for students who need support. The approach that works is an inclusive one in which students receive the general education instruction and supplemental instruction (Fuchs et al., 2006; Torgesen, 2002).

A Culture of Intervention for All

The inception of special education legislation in 1975 established, via funding mechanisms, the practice of sorting students into two groups: those who have a defined disability and those who do not. Ever since, the "disability" label has determined whether students qualify for an IEP, special education services, and the legal protections of the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA, 2006).

For example, a student could receive an intellectual disability diagnosis by scoring at least two standard deviations below the mean on a standardized test of intellectual functioning. A student with an IQ score of 70 or below would be eligible for intellectual disability diagnosis and thus qualify for and receive special education services and support. A student with an IQ score of 72 would not be eligible for the diagnosis, the services, or the support. There is no grey area in this model; students are "in" and get support, or they are "out" and don't.

Of course, narrowly missing the test range doesn't mean that a student's academic struggles will suddenly disappear. What about the student who "narrowly misses" the definition of autism? Or learning disability? Or any other disability? The truth is that the students we serve are on a continuum, and while some will formally qualify for special education supports and services, others will not—and yet, these students still have needs to be met.

While this overly simplified sorting strategy may meet the technical definition of providing students with disabilities access to the general curriculum, it has little to do with addressing the core question: What do students actually need to be successful in the general curriculum? Some students who need intensive support do not meet the criteria for a disability label. And many students who have a disability label do not need intensive support. The definitions are simply a way to identify some students and provide them with, as Snow (2005) says, "a sociopolitical passport to services" (p. 2).

It's essential to remember that a student's disability status is not the same as a student's needs, and the two should not be confused. Disability status is a means for schools to assign fiscal and personnel assets. A student's need for support may not result in a formal designation or paperwork such as an IEP, but those needs are also met through fiscal assets in the form of personnel, curriculum, and technology. Think of it this way: a student who needs intensive intervention to learn to read fluently should be provided that intensive intervention. It doesn't matter if the student isn't reading fluently because of a learning disability, because English is a second language, because past years' reading instruction was dreadful, or because of frequent absences. It doesn't matter if no reason is ever identified at all. The student has a need, and it's the school's responsibility to provide the support to address it. Disability labels are largely irrelevant to everyday teaching because they tell us so little about what individual students need; there isn't "autism math" or "physical disability reading." By removing a focus on labels, we can concentrate on the important work of planning and providing meaningful instruction for each student. Students who have disabilities do not have "special needs"; they only have special rights. And any student who has a need, with or without a disability, may benefit from the expertise of a specialist.

Accommodations and Modifications for Every Student

Disability status doesn't inform instruction; it should not be the sole criterion when making decisions about providing accommodations and modifications. If students need support to succeed, it should not matter whether they have been identified as having a disability. If a child needs help, why would we not provide it?

Issues of fairness are often raised in response to this question. Maybe you've heard, "It's not fair to give a student extra time on this test unless they have a documented disability." But think about where the lack of fairness really lies. Taking a close look at what accommodations and modifications actually accomplish, it becomes clear that these are simply necessary strategies to help students learn. In other words, they are part of the equity efforts schools use to ensure that all students ultimately succeed. Just as the expertise of specialists can benefit all students, truly inclusive environments ensure that accommodations and modifications are available for any student who needs them.

Accommodations

Accommodations (see Figure 1.1) are changes to the curriculum or assessments that provide access to the general curriculum but do not fundamentally alter the learning goal or grade-level standard. These supports "level the playing field" (Freedman, 2005, p. 47). Put another way, accommodations are support for a skill that is different from the skill being taught and assessed (Jung, 2018a). Take, for example, a student learning to drive. The skill being taught and measured is driving. If the student is nearsighted and needs glasses during driving instruction and during the driver's exam in order to read street signs and see other vehicles more clearly, wearing glasses is an accommodation. It makes mastering the skill of driving easier, but it doesn't make it easier than it would be for anyone else; the accommodation simply levels the playing field. And it does not matter if a person who wears glasses does not fit into a disability category; the accommodation is provided any time it is needed. In fact, if a person needs glasses, driving skills cannot be measured with validity if the glasses are not allowed. Putting fairness aside, this is a basic measurement issue.

Figure 1.1. Types of Accommodations

The same applies to academic content. Consider a social studies class where the purpose of a lesson is to teach students to evaluate the credibility of sources. At present, Akemi, a student who is an English learner, is much better at expressing what she knows verbally than in writing. So the social studies teacher, Ms. Kintzler, allows Akemi to complete the lesson task orally instead of in writing. The teacher sits with Akemi and asks her to describe how she evaluated the sources of evidence for credibility. Ms. Kintzler asks follow-up questions, as do two other students who are included in the conversation because Ms. Kintzler believes exposure to Akemi's explanation will help them strengthen their own written responses. The content of Akemi's responses is evaluated as any other student's response is evaluated, against the same requirements or standards. It's an accommodation made to allow for valid measurement.

There are likely several students in any class that would benefit from these types of supports. One key to meeting the various needs in a classroom is to mobilize peers. Collaborative learning allows students to engage in meaningful tasks while the teacher meets with individuals or small groups. In addition, peers can provide support to members of their class.

In Ms. Kintzler's social studies class, some students with test anxiety need additional time or a separate setting when undergoing assessments. The teacher also reads questions or prompts for one student who has significant difficulty with reading. These basic adaptations are accommodations because they support skills that are different from the social studies standards being taught and measured. And, just like wearing glasses while driving, it doesn't matter whether a student fits into a disability category; the accommodation should be provided any time it is needed. Accommodations do not make the content easier; they permit access to it. Again, this is a measurement issue: without providing these students these accommodations, Ms. Kintzler would be unable to measure the students' skills in social studies because the expression of those skills is affected by an outside influence (e.g., test anxiety, reading difficulty, writing difficulty). Disability status is irrelevant here; all Ms. Kintzler needs to know when designing and implementing accommodations is that there is an issue, separate from an understanding of the social studies content, that prevents her students from being able to show what they know or are able to do.

Modifications

Modifications (see Figure 1.2) function differently from accommodations; they are changes to the curriculum and assessments that do fundamentally alter the learning goal or grade-level expectation. Unlike accommodations, which simply level the playing field, modifications "change the game" (Freedman, 2005, p. 48) and support the skill that is being taught and measured (Jung, 2017b). Returning to the vision example, if a person wears glasses or contact lenses during an eye exam, this changes what is being measured. In reporting the results of any assessment with modifications, it is important to record the modification provided, because something different was being measured. In this example, the optician might be measuring the effectiveness of the contact lens prescription.

Figure 1.2. Sample Modifications

Suppose students in a class are working on algebra problems that require multiplication of fractions. Erik needs support. He is working below grade level in math and is learning multiplication with whole numbers. Erik's practice work and assessments do not include the grade-level algebraic problems that require multiplication of fractions. Instead, he is practicing with whole-number multiplication problems and one-step algebra problems requiring addition and subtraction. This is a comparably rigorous skill for this student; the adapted skill is just as difficult for this student as the grade-level skill is for students who do not need support. What is being taught and measured has been changed, however, and the math skill being assessed is the skill that is being supported.

It is important to clearly record when a student's progress is based on modified expectations. Making modifications to assignments or other tasks and reporting the student's performance without acknowledging the modification sends the message that the student is performing at grade level. Teachers should always aim for accurate communication regarding how students are performing.

It is also essential to note that modifications should be provided any time they are needed, but not unnecessarily. As we like to say, only as "special" as necessary. Modifications change what is expected of the student, in effect saying, "This student is not currently on track to master the grade-level expectation. We are putting into place a comparably rigorous modified expectation." This is serious business, and modifications should be used only when absolutely necessary—and this should be a team decision, supported by data on the student's performance in the context of high-quality instruction and intervention. Teachers also need to be on guard against providing "accidental modifications" through well-meaning support. A teacher might not go so far as to formally modify expectations for a student, but sometimes cueing and scaffolding and prompting and hinting result in providing an accidental modification.

The Power of Expectations

The voicing of low expectations for students with disabilities and their families often starts very early in their lives. Lee Ann's friend Susan has a daughter named Irene who was born with a rare genetic condition called chromosome 5p deletion syndrome. The medical team told Susan and her husband that Irene would never walk, talk, or be able to go to school.

A kid named Alfredo shared in a transition planning meeting that after he was diagnosed with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, his mother was told by members of his special education team that he would "never be successful in life" and that he would never do well in school. They told her that he would never graduate from high school or be able to hold a job. His mother was devastated, and who wouldn't be?

With any diagnosis, it's impossible to know exactly what the future will hold. Today, Irene is a healthy, happy, spunky teenager who walks, talks, runs, reads, writes, jokes, laughs, lives a full life, and spends her time at school in the general education classroom. Alfredo went on to graduate from high school with a 3.8 grade point average, and he has completed his first year at a four-year university as a criminal justice major. Some might say Irene is a miracle. Perhaps it is a medical marvel that she is healthy and has the physical abilities that she does, but it is no miracle that she is achieving her potential. Her entire family has worked very hard to make sure Irene's dreams were realized. Similarly, Alfredo's mother decided that she wouldn't let her son's disability define him; she focused on possibilities and ensured that others on Alfredo's educational team did the same. This is what happens when we have high expectations and put supports in place to ensure students have every chance to reach them.

Too often, students and their families run into the wall of low and limited expectations. Educators should be very careful about predicting the future. We have no idea what the future holds, what innovations and inventions will come, and how students will respond to great learning experiences. The least dangerous assumption we can make is that students will learn and that they will have amazing lives. The most dangerous assumption we can make is that students will fail. Imagine the difference when our assumptions come true.

When professionals focus on what can't happen, they are also putting limitations on a student's ability to dream. The professionals in these stories surely didn't intend to crush children's and parents' dreams. Educators don't go into the field because they want to squash children's aspirations. But in far too many instances, well-meaning physicians, therapists, counselors, psychologists, and educators enter the conversation about a student's future with their own ideas and expectations of how this future should look. Who are we to decide what is or isn't possible for a student? No disability—whether a specific learning disability, physical disability, intellectual disability, or any diagnosis—should limit the future for any individual to have a life of fulfillment, one in which they feel they belong and contribute and receive joy in their everyday lives. This is what every human being deserves.

It is the responsibility of adult mentors to guide young people along the path to success however those young people define success. Attending to the aspirations of students and their families is an issue of cultural competence. In this way, educators take on the role of dream manager: paving a path and allowing students to meet their goals. The dream manager validates and supports the dream, no matter how lofty it may seem, identifying and removing obstacles to help make it happen. Haven't we all set what seemed to be unrealistic goals for ourselves? Even when we don't actually reach the goal, more often than not, the setting of the goal and striving to meet these goals causes us to push harder and go for something big. And how often have you surprised yourself in what you can achieve?

Hattie's meta-analyses of numerous educational studies (2012) revealed that students' expectations of their own success are among the greatest predictors of their outcomes, with an effect size of 1.44. Limiting students' ability to dream limits their actual outcomes. Our job as educators is to support the student's vision, hope, and dreams, and never get in the way or diminish the possibilities.

Throughout the IEP process, educators are wise to take advantage of families' knowledge and treat them as a full partner at the table. Families are the constant in children's lives and know their children best. This expertise is often overlooked and not used as a cornerstone for developing IEPs and transition plans. Over the course of their elementary and secondary years, children spend a lot of time in school. How are teachers connecting with families in identifying children's aspirations and aligning curriculum and activities to the goals and dreams of each child? When communication with families is strong, educators and parents can share the role of dream manager.

Conclusion

The drive for truly inclusive education is a critical part of the broader effort aimed at achieving equity in education. It means reimagining systems to expand every student's access to both the general education curriculum and intervention supports and services. It also means building a culture in which this expansion is the expectation and the norm, in which everyone agrees that there is no such thing as "good teaching" that leaves some students unserved and unsupported.

Creating this new and better model of education begins with taking action to adjust the language used in schools, the services provided, and the expectations set for students with disabilities and those at risk. Doing so establishes a climate in which students can achieve outcomes that might once have been considered unrealistic.

Changing the Culture

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