Not so Special

One of my earliest memories of school was being slapped in the face by a metal gate.

I didn't see it come rushing towards me as it slammed closed. Blood exploded from my nose as teachers rushed to usher me inside, away from the prying eyes of other kids who were trying to get a glimpse of the action. I can remember one teacher asking, "Why did you not move out of the way of the gate?" As another replied, “he’s special.”

I was sent home covered in my own blood, which by that stage had dried and crusted on my skin and clothes. My mummy was furious, and back to the school we marched to let them have her piece of her mind.

I didn't feel special.

I felt angry. Why didn't I see the gate? Why did things like this always happen around me? Why did my eyes make me clumsy? Why did teachers call me special? Being special meant that instead of doing the regular work all the other kids were doing, I got to do arts and crafts, organise the teacher's stationary cupboard, draw, or take a walk with my classroom assistant.

My classroom assistant was the only thing I liked about being special. She didn't make me feel special the way teachers made me feel, and I didn't feel I had "Special Needs” with her. She made me feel special because she talked to me about Pokémon, my hobbies, and my family. She brought me Pokémon cards, and stickers, and even baked me Pokémon cakes on special occasions. Bernie, my classroom assistant, was my friend. Whenever I was struggling in the classroom, she was there. But Bernie was only there in the afternoon.

In the morning, being special wasn't so special.

At break, the other kids didn't want to be my friend. I tried everything to fit in. I tried telling jokes, I tried telling the other kids about my obsessions with Pokémon or Star Wars, and I even pretended to like the same things, but they didn't want to be friends with me.

Deep down, I knew it was because I was the "special" kid. The kid who needed help, the kid who couldn't play sports, the kid who needed all his work enlarged, the kid who needed a classroom assistant, the kid who got his own special kind of work.

I was the special kid, or in less ableist terms, I was Disabled.

Labeled “Special Needs” by the education system. But special meant bouncing a ball over and over by myself as the other kids took PE class.

Special meant teachers telling my mum that I needed to "man up" because I got picked on for being special.

Special meant doing tasks designed to keep young children busy and quiet as my peers received an education.

Special meant being spoken to by teachers as though I was incapable of understanding. Being treated as special, but feeling far from special and worse of all treated differently from my classmates. I wouldn't say I was the sharpest crayon in the box, I’m still not, but I did like learning, or more so, I wanted to learn. But being labeled Special Needs as a kid in mainstream education in the 90s meant that this special boy only learned exclusion. He learned that Special Needs wasn't the safe, cozy language that it was made out to be.

Special meant the other kids alienating you, bullying you, teasing you, making you feel anything but special. Special meant difference. Special Needs meant different from everyone else.

When I look back at my first realizations of internalized ableism, I think of this moment and all the other moments after.

I think of the language teachers used. The pity in their voice or the softening of their tone as they almost shamefully used the words special or the horror they seemed to express when they said Disabled. I didn’t realize that being in an environment filled with ableist euphemisms, such as “Special” or “Special Needs”, impacted my view of Disabiity. Creating negative and harmful thoughts about myself. Creating a shame that only grew deeper as I progressed through the education system. A shame that only added to the internalized ableism I still carry. Special.

What was so special about my needs? What was so wrong with saying I was Disabled? Why did that make me special? Special surely implies a positive thing.

The Oxford dictionary defines special as, “More important than others; deserving or getting more attention than usual.”

But this was not and never has been the case when it comes to Disabiity. If our needs were so “special,” surely, they would be being met?

Disabled people are twice as unlikely to be in employment as non-Disabled folks.

90% of websites are inaccessible to Disabled People relying on assistive technology.

We experience ableism each and every day, but yet our needs are special?

How can our needs be more important, when they aren’t even being met? By the way, that’s the Oxford dictionary definition of special, “more important”.

When we use the word “Special” or “Special Needs” as a substitute for Disabled or Disability or any other ableist euphemisms, (Differently Abled, Diverse Abilities, Enabled, please no more, I hope you know what I mean here), we are only reinforcing that there must be something shameful about using these words. This only contributes to the systemic ableism that exists in our society and which is so ingrained in our language.

Our needs aren’t special simply because they are different from yours.

We all have unique needs, but that doesn’t make them special.

We are Disabled by Society. We face inaccessible barriers daily as we navigate a society tangled in a web of ableism, racism, sexism, ageism, classism, etc. Our needs aren’t special simply because society is designed for one way of thinking, one way of doing things, one inaccessible, neurotypical barrier after another. That doesn’t make us special. It does not make our needs special. It simply means our needs are not being met.

Our access needs are not being met. Our educational needs are not being met. Our supportive needs are not being met. Our needs can’t be special because our needs are never met.

And yes, you might think, "Well, language doesn’t matter as we have XYZ to accomplish." But let’s be real, you can’t address inaccessibility, Disability exclusion... without addressing systematic ableism. If removing ableism from our language doesn’t seem like an issue, then we’ll still be having the same challenges for years to come.

Disabled young people leaving education carrying the same traumas from a label that deems them special.

The same inaccessibility, the same belittlement, and less favourable treatment of Disabled people and we’ll still be sitting here talking about how systemic ableism is a bad thing, but yet to you, language only seemed like such a small part.

I appreciate within the education space “Special Needs” is used regularly and there are many parents and teachers who are very for this terminology, trust me I’ve had quite a few back-and-forth comments, and let me just say this.

I get that parents may want a way to describe that their child is Disabled and saying “they have Special Needs” seems kinder, but it’s not the kindness we give it credit for. It only creates a shame in the word Disabled. It does not take into account that your child will most likely have to continue to fight for their needs to be met, but that does not make them special, Special implies that their needs are met. Our needs are often never met, parents you know this too well as typically you are our greatest ally. I love my mum and all she has done to advocate for me, but I do not thank her or anyone who would have used the term Special Needs.

Teachers, I get you want a way to know which students may require some support but there needs to be a better way than ableism.

Supportive Needs, Accessible Needs, Individual Support, Tailored Support, Personalized Support Plan, Access Support, Tailored Care,

There are so many better ways to go than ableist euphemisms.

I don’t know the answer, I am one voice in a diverse community.

A community with intersectional identities, unique challenges, unique experiences, and their own views and thoughts.

But that is the answer.

That is what is needed to change the ableism ingrained in our language, in our education system, in our society. Disabled voices at the table leading the conversation.

This was a ramble and quite emotional to write. Opening old trauma isn't always easy. I want to dedicate this to my classroom Bernie. Bernie passed away a few years ago, but to this day I still think of her. The woman who guided me through the classroom.

Disabled By Your Content

There is still time to sign up for my next Content Accessibility Course.

Disabled By Your Content

Date: 29th September 2023

Option 1: 9.30 am - 11.30 am (BST) https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/676529035557?aff=oddtdtcreator

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Please note options cover the same material.

Until Next time......

Love Registered Blind AuDHD Rhino

XO

#MondayMotivation #Ablesim #DiversityAndInclusion #DisabilityInclusion

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