I began my part-time job as a substitute teacher yesterday at Falling Branch Elementary.  I took the place of a special-ed aide named Mrs. Flad, who is normally in charge of a very sweet first-grader named Jared.

 

When I arrived at the school, a friendly boy named Eric gave me a complete tour of the school.  I met the principal and the teacher whose class I would be attending for the day.  She discussed Jared’s mental retardation with me and told me that I, “need[ed] to do just about everything for him.”

 

When I finally met him and saw how polite and personable he was, my apprehension diminished.  I pulled a chair next to his desk and he and I joined in the class discussion and exercises about deserts.  I gave him some clues about what kinds of things were found in the desert, and he quickly raised his hand to share his ideas with the class.  This good behavior continued until recess.

 

At recess, I noticed that Jared could barely communicate with the other children in his class.  They all came up to me, the new guy, and shared intelligent, yet childish, inquiries and stories.  They were excited to see me dance to the “chug-a chug-a” song and clapped when I broke into an extemporaneous solo.

 

Jared, however was unable to focus.  After recess was over at 1 o’clock and we returned to the classroom, he couldn’t keep his hands from either pulling things out of his or his neighbor’s desk, or striking himself in the face.  I, as an aide, found that I was not giving a little extra assistance and explanation, but rather making sure that he was physically restrained.  Of course I never raised a hand to him or used any actual force, but I eventually had to slide his chair out of the reaching distance of anything smaller than a shoe box, and hold him arms to prevent his violent face-punching routine.

 

While the class was reading a worksheet out loud, he, in his own world, was thrashing and trying to escape my strong, yet gentle grasp.  I offered him a brand new pencil if he promised to be good.  He promised, but again began to lose control within a few minutes.

 

When reading time came, the class began to practice spelling words like “mule,” “tube,” and “flute.”  Jared’s teacher handed me his special reading words, which were “I,” “in,” and “is.”  He didn’t struggle with these words because he couldn’t look at his sheet.  No matter how much I pleaded, and eventually demanded, he would not stop obsessing about his eraser and striking himself when his frustration became overwhelming.

 

Eventually the day came to an end and I walked him outside to meet his babysitter, who remained in the car to which Jared ran with unbridled enthusiasm.

 

When a child is severely handicapped, at what threshold does inclusion in public schools fail to be an option?  At what threshold does a school deem a “normal” education futile for a disabled child?  How much can a child not understand a standard curriculum and still be permitted to attend class?

 

I know there are special schools for sweet, yet slow, children like Jared.  Judging by his dirty clothes and the car that picked him up, I doubt that his parents have the financial means to provide him with an appropriate private education.

 

So if his parents can’t afford to send him to the right school, his only option is to enter the public school system.  Aides earn between $9.15 and 12.45 per hour at Montgomery County Public Schools.  Assuming the median wage ($10.80/hour) is in effect, the county will spend $13,608 per 180-day school year per child.

 

I would hate to risk my job as a substitute teacher and aide, but isn’t there something a little better we can do with that $13,608?  I wonder what the tuition is at a special school?  Can the school somehow provide a comparable voucher?  In my one day of experience with Jared, I didn’t observe a healthy academic or social growth in his normal classroom.  

 

Why am I, the taxpayer, paying to make sure that the kind, handsome, playful, yet mentally retarded little Jared has the same education everyone else?