Here is an English teacher's dilemma: How does one teach special education students and a handful of other students who find English difficult while also teaching students for whom reading and writing come easily? That is the quandary I first faced in the 1993-94 school year when I began teaching the most mixed group of 9th graders I had ever encountered. Of the 20 students in my English class, some could read sensitively and write cogently; others had difficulty reading complex sentences; a few could not produce complete sentences or coherent paragraphs.
Educators might call this class an inclusion class because it included three students who never took classes in a general education curriculum. They had spent their first nine years of public education in classes of fewer than five students, taught by professionals specially trained to understand their learning problems. I preferred not to label this class an inclusion class because the term implies that, for some, the curriculum will be less rigorous than a general 9th grade English class. Indeed, initially this was a real concern among a few parents. But my reading list and writing assignments were similar to those I used for my other classes, with fundamental changes only in classroom activities.
Further, here at Hastings High School, we do not include everyone, as the term implies, only those students who we believe might benefit from such a class. Our general policy is very fluid. Some special education students remain in their small, self-contained classes for only one or two subjects, or they may return to these classes if they don't do well in a larger general class. We also rotate teachers and ask for volunteers. For example, last year, another English teacher took over my mixed class, and I'll rejoin the same group of students this coming year when they'll be 11th graders.
Open Questions
How did this mixed class come about? Much had to do with wondering. Educators in our small school district in the Hudson River Valley wondered whether more special education students would benefit from being in a general education class. They encouraged teachers in all subjects to open their classrooms to special education students. For that reason—and because of the federal mandate to place these students in the least restrictive environment—we have fewer self-contained classes than we have had in the past.
There is, of course, fiery argument over whether such mixed classes are educationally sound. A study by Chira (1993, p. A17), for example, shows that when special education students are placed in general education classes, they fail 61 percent of the time, as compared to 14 percent in special education classes. But this raw statistic does not distinguish among the different kinds of classes that special education students are thrown into. Some programs provide little or no support for the general curriculum teacher or the special education student. The statistic remains disturbing, but it should not preclude a long-term examination of classes where these students appear to be prospering.
I entered the fire relatively ignorant of the details of the debate, but wondering whether the presence of a special education teacher in my class—one who was alert to learning problems—would make me a better teacher. An aging literature buff, my shtick was reading, writing, and literature. Although I had taught special education students, they were deemed able to work in a large class as long as they received special assistance, usually tutoring by a special education teacher at some point in the school day.
Further, I had never taught as part of a team. My teaching partner, Andy Lubitz, was also in the dark. Although he was an experienced special education teacher and learning specialist, he had never taught English to a large group of students, nor did he have extensive training in literature.
A Honeymoon and Hurdles
The first two weeks of classes were like any other year. Students exuded enthusiasm, studiousness, and optimism. When Andy led the class through an activity, I mingled and helped students when necessary. Several weeks passed before either of us sensed the need to interrupt or amend activities when students needed further explanations or more time to understand concepts or finish reading. But classes rarely proceeded as planned.
My special students' first hurdle was learning how to act in a large group. Adam, the seemingly most limited of the three, was accustomed to more informal gatherings and kept shouting out answers. Because I call on students to answer other students' questions, the special students were occasionally disconcerted. They expected more of an authority in the class and wanted immediate answers to questions. Sheila, our one student with emotional problems (I'm using pseudonyms throughout), refused to engage in discussion and declined virtually every time she was called upon. Group discussion, in which the students had to listen patiently to their peers, was strange and occasionally tedious for the three students.
Adam: An Important Contributor
Andy and I spent most of our time struggling with how to teach Adam. Adam expressed enthusiasm in disruptive ways, such as by being excessively talkative. Some of his manic activity was out of his own control. Yet Adam knew himself to be intelligent; he saw this class as an opportunity to show his friends that he was. The one thing we had going for us was that he wanted to be in the class despite its challenges.
On occasion we spoke to Adam after school about his behavior, giving him the typical explanation: We were responsible for 20 students; everyone was entitled to speak. We praised his verve but insisted that he follow some basic rules. He understood our reasoning, but still felt frustrated when he couldn't speak up when he knew an answer. Still, he usually cooperated with gentle reminders to raise his hand, open his book, or take notes. Only on those days when he broke his glasses while playing with them or lost his notebook or keys did his anxiety demand attention.
Adam also had great difficulty reading aloud in class, and often misread words. (We required every student to read at least one sentence aloud, but they could then call on someone else to continue.) From the beginning, Andy or I would read Adam words and sentences he could not decipher so that he would gain confidence. He soon was eager to read aloud.
Whenever possible, we gave Adam dramatic roles that he could improvise rather than read. His best moment was when he played the role of Puck in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. His classmates explained to him that Puck was tormenting the lovers in the woods. Adam deftly interacted with the students who were reading their parts, usually a sure way to antagonize. Tickling students' noses when they were engaged in heated argument was not in Shakespeare's script, but it did express Puck's impishness and enlivened his character for the other students.
Adam's writing was his severest shortcoming. At first his many perceptual and motor disabilities made it torturous for him to write. In addition, Adam's spelling was so erratic, and his handwriting so poor, that he could not decipher words he had written the previous day. After much experimentation and failure, we came up with two partial solutions. The best one was having Adam dictate to one of us.
While the class worked on an essay in the computer lab, I typed Adam's words verbatim, including expletives and wandering thoughts. I would then give him a printed copy to review for errors. He would make corrections (sometimes by himself, sometimes with my or Andy's help). After revising his essay, he would print it out for a grade. In an effort to get him to write more independently, I began to dictate the main ideas and have Adam fill in the blanks. This approach could be simplified with a dictating computer program, but I have yet to find one that is adaptable for student use.
To help Adam remember what he learned, I insisted that he record key words from the class in a notebook. To help him—and others who had difficulty taking exact notes—we designated a different student every few days as the class secretary. This student would type notes on a laptop computer. I would proofread the notes and perhaps do them over if necessary, then distribute them to any students who wanted them. I also gave the special education students the opportunity to serve as the secretary.
By April, Adam's notes were legible and coherent. By the end of the year, he wrote an article for a newspaper that his group was preparing. He advised 8th graders about what to expect in 9th grade. It was funny and included serious as well as light-hearted advice. Despite these accomplishments, Adam continued to have difficulty writing extended, logical arguments. He was able to dictate compositions that reflected organized thought and developed ideas. In addition, some of his comments and questions precipitated our most important class discussions of the year. Adam's classmates considered him an important contributor to the class.
Sheila: A Changed Person
Sheila was not sociable with other students and had a reputation of wanting to be left alone. She often would sit in front of a computer screen all day, unable to hold conversations with other people or look anyone in the eye. She was terrified of reading or speaking in front of a group, especially peers. To give her more confidence, Andy began discreetly previewing her questions and responses. We called on her when we knew she was prepared and her remarks were sound. If they weren't, we asked her to listen to other students' answers and ask them how they arrived at their conclusions.
Sheila's major obstacle was that she would not complete any of the daily homework assignments. As far as we could tell, she was able to follow the class and comprehend whatever reading we assigned. She frankly admitted that she preferred TV and electronic games to homework. Andy and I told her she had to complete all assigned work to stay in the class. We encouraged her to see us after school. Gradually, as I talked to her in the hallways, asking her about her work and after-school activities, she became much more at ease with me. She began coming to my classroom after school to ask questions about the reading. She became eager to get good grades.
Upon finding encouragement in the classroom, Sheila began handing in her compositions and essays. They were always late, but nonetheless thoughtful and articulate. Her creative writing reflected a vividly macabre imagination. She told us proudly that she was inspired by Stephen King. We never penalized her for late papers.
Perhaps as a way of getting attention, Sheila engaged in minor but aggravating pranks outside of class, such as hiding a classmate's glasses. She was regularly called to the assistant principal's office. This antagonistic behavior notwithstanding, she was beginning to be sociable with adults and peers. Several teachers remarked that she was a changed person. Her former science teacher said her newfound confidence was striking. She definitely succeeded in a general curriculum class, ultimately performing better than many of the regular students. We finally gave her an 80 average overall.
Able: A Late Bloomer
Able was our most disappointing special education student. I'll call him Able because he had seemed the most likely to succeed. He was articulate, perceptive, and intelligent. He did not appear to have any anxiety about the classroom. But it was not until the fourth quarter that he began to complete his writing and reading assignments and answer test questions.
Able's previous special education teachers told us his reluctance or inability to work was a longstanding problem that nobody could convincingly explain. Nevertheless, we did stumble on a way to engage him. Each day we distributed a form to the entire class that we actually had designed primarily for students who took notes poorly or not at all. We asked students to list four things that they had learned. We also asked them to summarize the most important point of the lesson and to think of an important question to ask for the next class meeting. This gave students a simple goal: If they completed the form, they would get credit for keeping accurate notes.
Able bought into the plan, conscientiously completing the sheet every day. One day in the last quarter, he came to class early and told us he had read Neil Simon's Brighton Beach Memoirs (1984) and thought it funny and realistic. He had read the play—in which Simon chronicles his turbulent youth—in its entirety, even though we had assigned only a few pages for that evening. He went on to complete the writing assignments and even wrote an article for the class newspaper. He liked the frankness and honesty of the characters in talking about their life together. The play had struck a chord.
In retrospect, Able may have taken a significant step toward realizing his abilities, even though he learned only a small part of the year's curriculum. He was scheduled to return to a smaller special education class where he could get more attention. Instead, he surprised us by taking a regular English class in summer school, earning a B. So the plans changed—he remained in the general class after all.
Rigor and an Open-Ended Approach
I must admit that by the end of the honeymoon period, I realized the class was exhausting. I found out what is probably obvious to any experienced special education teacher: Each special student presents a unique combination of challenges that require individual attention and planning. I could not plan based on a general idea of what a 9th grader should do; I had to think of what each student was doing, then figure out what each should do next. I realized why small special education classes are a good idea: They are practical. I consoled myself, however, by recognizing that my three special kids were learning about literature and, as adolescents do, thriving on being with friends and peers.
Our success was due in part to our class structure. Andy and I spent most of our time questioning and exploring. I usually began by determining what students already knew about the topic and then built on their knowledge or insights. This approach allowed students to talk to one another and gave special education students a chance to show off what they knew.
For example, we introduced the short story "Antaeus" by asking whether anyone had ever heard of the character. When no one had, I broadened the questioning by noting that Antaeus was a famous mythical character. I then asked whether anyone knew any mythological stories. Students responded by summarizing myths they were familiar with. Next, I asked whether students knew the way myths from the past influence modern stories. After students shared their ideas, I told them the story of the mythical Antaeus. We then read the first few paragraphs of the short story and considered the possible connections between the story and the myth. Because students were free to speculate, they could answer without fear of being wrong.
We then focused on careful reading of the story. By this time, most students had enough information to argue for one interpretation over another. After this lesson, I went on to define literary allusion. The students were able to explain the importance of allusion for Antaeus.
One of the visible improvements in the class as a whole was an ease with the improvisational mood. Some students enjoyed clarifying ideas for others, and Andy and I repeatedly insisted on having students solve problems of understanding by asking others in the class to explain things to them.
This is not to say that students did not also study words and grammar and correct their writing and misreading. But the most exciting moments came when students were able to make sense of literature and talk about it in their own terms—with some help from two interested teachers.
Grading: How Do You Define Success?
In addition to figuring out how to teach such a diverse class, the other nagging quandary was how to evaluate work. In the past I had assessed my students primarily by evaluating their writing—whether it was clear and cogent and reflected thoughtful analysis of literature. I had an imaginary model of what I could expect from 9th graders: They should be able to organize ideas into coherent paragraphs, present a thesis and prove it, and so forth.
But what of a student who could write no more than a sentence? Could you expect the same final product? I began by thinking you could—stubbornly insisting on it. If I had stuck to that standard, however, I would have perpetrated a gross injustice on Adam. Adam came to my class unable and unwilling to write compositions or even paragraphs.
In looking through his portfolio of writing, I saw enormous strides. He ended up with 80s, but he had learned more than many students who received 80s at the beginning of the year. His 80 percent did not mean the same thing as another student's 80 percent. As McCrory Cole (1992, p. 13) argues, "In heterogeneous classrooms, success for one student may not be defined in the same way as for another." Rather, success "will fall on a continuum, and what is most important is that students are progressing on the continuum."
Certainly not everyone shares this assumption about grades. If it is to be applied—and something like it should be if special education students are to be included in general curriculum classes—we need to adopt alternative forms of grading and assessment. Adam's report card would have been more meaningful if it had included a narrative evaluation of his work as well as a numeric one. This would have helped teachers and parents understand the skills he had mastered so that they could set realistic learning goals. For special education students in general classes, traditional grading can become punitive rather than evaluative.
Two Are Better Than One
Did Andy's presence make me a better teacher, as I set out to discover? It did. Further, having two teachers gave us flexibility; we could solve many problems by giving some students individual attention when they needed it.
From the beginning, I wanted the special education teacher to be involved with the entire class. I thought all students would benefit by having an additional teacher to instruct them whenever necessary. When working with groups or individuals, Andy and I gravitated to the special students, but several of the more reticent students clearly enjoyed the presence of an additional teacher. The rest of the class could continue to work uninterrupted.
In the end, all but one student could boast of success, and the only repeated complaint was that too much was required to get a high grade. My year ended with a fuller understanding of myself as a teacher and a fuller understanding of all my students, but especially three special kids.
