There are moments in education that don’t announce themselves as defining. They arrive quietly and dare you to decide who you are. Mine came during an IEP meeting with a student’s future in the balance and a table of adults who seemed to have made up their minds about him. I was the special education teacher and chairperson at a large, transient middle school in North Mississippi. The needs were high, and I tried to have patience for the educators in the room, knowing their jobs weren’t always easy. Then came the moment that forced me to stop extending grace and start telling the truth.
I had watched all year as a veteran teacher, someone whose craft I respect, made it clear she did not prefer students with disabilities or behavioral challenges in her classroom. One day during a transition period, my student, a 13-year-old Black male with ADHD and a history of impulsivity, attempted to enter his assigned ELA classroom. The teacher called him “the devil” under her breath to a colleague and slammed the door in his face. He responded with inappropriate language. She reopened the door, and they exchanged words.
Here’s what I witnessed: A student was publicly humiliated by an adult in authority, and that child responded predictably. But that was not the official report. The discipline referral erased the teacher’s actions. It told one viewpoint—hers—and left his on the floor.
When Silence Is Not Neutral
In the IEP meeting that followed, I sat with an assistant principal, a discipline officer, a general education teacher, a professional school counselor, and my student’s mother. The group wanted to move the student to an alternative education placement for a nine-week period. I could see in his mother’s stillness, that eerie quiet many parents carry into rooms where decisions are made about their children, that she knew something was wrong.
When educators know they have support, asking hard questions becomes part of the culture rather than an act of individual courage.
What struck me most was the silence of the adults who knew what had happened and said nothing. The omission of the teacher’s role was not accidental, and every person who sat quietly made a choice, too. I had a choice of my own: I could protect professional relationships. I could let the silence of others become my silence. Or I could say what I saw.
So, I walked through the student’s behavior plan and explained that it explicitly stated his trigger was disrespect by adults. The teacher’s actions created conditions that made his regulation difficult. I said that we should not remove a student who responded to being called “the devil” by an adult responsible for him. The room shifted. Not comfortably. But it shifted.
Elevating reflection means we take responsibility for the roles we play in challenging behavioral moments. The student deserved to be seen as a child, not a disruption. The outcome was not perfect, and the conversation did not become one of collective reflection. But the student was not alternatively placed.
Small Discomforts, Important Outcomes
If we are serious about cultivating belonging in our schools, then we must be honest about what disrupts it. Belonging is built when students are seen fully, especially in their worst moments. Alternative placement is also not a neutral decision. For Black boys with IEPs, it can become a closed door on education opportunities that does not easily reopen. When educators make decisions based on incomplete narratives, we reinforce inequity and raise questions around race and discipline in schools.
Speaking up changed something in me. I began to pay closer attention to the stories attached to discipline referrals, to what was documented and what was missing. In future meetings, I was more intentional about naming context and encouraging colleagues to consider adult actions and environmental conditions surrounding student behavior. I knew these conversations had to happen more widely—not when a child is already on the edge of removal, but before the table ever gets to that point.
What stayed with me most was that there was no organizational policy change. A quiet tension followed me. I had disrupted a narrative that had been easier for everyone to accept. Integrity did not feel like courage; it felt like wondering whether I had said too much. It cost me collegial ease—no small thing in a profession where relationships matter. But this is the work of reimagining the decisions we make about children’s trajectories. The question is, will we ensure that decisions about students are grounded in context for them, not convenience for us?
How to Speak in the Silence
Advocating for students is not only the work of special education teachers. These moments belong to the assistant principal who sets the tone, the administrator who decides which referrals move forward, and the instructional leader who determines whether behavior plans are treated as living documents or forgotten paperwork.
If we are serious about cultivating belonging in our schools, then we must be honest about what disrupts it.
If you are the one with the information, use it. Advocacy does not mean assuming ill intent or undermining a colleague. Ask the questions the room is moving too fast to ask: What happened before the behavior? Was the student’s plan considered? What support was offered? When a student’s needs are overlooked or a concerning pattern is dismissed, silence can become part of the problem.
If you are one of the quiet ones, remember that silence is not neutral. It often has consequences for a child long after the meeting ends. Not everyone in a room will feel ready to challenge what is happening, particularly when hierarchy, relationships, or fear are involved. You do not have to dismantle everything in the moment. But one honest question can change the outcome.
For those in leadership, accountability goes deeper. If your school consistently removes the same kinds of students—Black boys, students with IEPs, kids whose behavior makes adults uncomfortable—and no one asks why, that pattern is a leadership problem before it is a student problem. Educational leaders create the cultural conditions that determine which disciplinary concerns get taken seriously and which ones do not.
Changing this culture requires creating structures that slow down decision making long enough to consider context. Leaders can examine discipline and referral patterns for disproportionality, train staff to identify antecedents (or lead-ups) to an issue, and require teams to review intervention plans and circumstances thoroughly. Just as important, leaders must create conditions where staff can name concerns without being viewed as difficult. When educators know they have support, asking hard questions becomes part of the culture rather than an act of individual courage.
It’s everyone’s job to speak up. The table will go quiet again. What you do before it does is work, too.
