As a parent, I really enjoy school programs. However, as an NCA preschool teacher (2013-2015), my level of love for school programs dropped drastically. Herding 20 four-year olds onto the big stage (careful that they don't fall! and don't let them touch the $500 mics!). . .half of them terrified and the other half trying to get as much attention as possible. I appreciated that the preschool students would perform first--but then, it was our job as teachers to keep them in their seats and quiet for the duration of the 60-90 minute program. This task was always made more difficult by the fact that the children had just seen their mommies and daddies in the audience, and wanted nothing more than to be with them and not us, their teachers.
Now, I'm the SOAAR coordinator at NCA--facilitating inclusion for students with a diverse range of needs. And programs terrify me. I walk into our performance center without a class. My incredible assistants are seated by a few students that need a higher level of support. I have no direct responsibilities, and yet, my palms are sweaty and my heart is racing. Will Dylan get up on stage? If he does, will he have a meltdown? Robert has refused to practice at all. . .but yesterday, he decided to jump up on stage during the dress rehearsal. Will he go up on stage today? Will he act "appropriately"? Will Semira be a distraction to the audience? Will Josh remember to put on the wheelchair break before she rolls off of the stage? Will Sylvia, who used to HATE to dance to the point that she would cry and fall down, dance? When will I get the parent letter I have nightmares about?
"Dear Mr. Ippel, I noticed that a student involved in the SOAAR program would not stand still on the stage. In fact, he blocked my own child and I couldn't get a decent photo shot. He didn't even sing; should he be included in the next program? It just doesn't seem fair for the other students--to MY child."
Programs give me anxiety. . .thus, I can't imagine the level of anxiety experienced by a few of my "anxious" students that I'm blessed to work with. Hundreds of eyes--many strangers--watching them on stage. Cameras, flashes, loud and sudden noises, blasting music and bursts of applause, bright and colorful stage lights, dangling decorations, birds flying in and out of the auditorium, sweaty peers bumping into you. Absolute sensory overload. Is mom watching? Did dad come? Meltdowns just waiting to happen. In public. On a stage. And I'm so, so far away.
I now have to remind myself to watch my own children when they come up on the stage--it shouldn't be hard to miss the tallest kids in each of the classrooms--but yet, my mind is elsewhere. On Dylan, Robert, Semira, Sylvia. I'm glad Ruth takes pictures of Henry, Mae, and Charlotte!
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| "Fidgets" always on standby! |
Programs terrify and exhaust me. An audience ready to judge. Ready to reaffirm disability stereotypes with one hand flap, one sudden yell, one unexpected stage exit. And me, someone who loves to control the entire "sensory" environment, standing alone in the back of the room, waiting. Praying. Praying that no one will "notice" "SOAAR" students, yet praying that these students get the recognition they deserve just for making it up on the stage. The sound guy came up to me today right before the program and said, "You look tired." "I was praying," I told him. It was true. When I have no control. . . well, it is up to Him now.
School programs also challenge me. They challenge me to trust in a school community that is able to include students with disabilities, when it is beautifully executed, and when it is messy, too. They challenge me to trust in a group of parents, who I know look deeper than the two-minute picture they get of a classroom when in the spotlight. These programs challenge me to trust in our incredible students, who don't mind getting bumped, or pushed behind a student unaware that he is taking up too much stage space, or who doesn't quite know all of the moves. Students who know Who they are performing for. They challenge me to trust in my own abilities as a teacher, not to worry about perceived judgement, imaginary letters that haven't yet come (and likely never will!), and for me to trust in my firm belief that inclusion is a GOOD thing, even when it is hard and nonsynchronous, even when it is on stage front and center for what it is.
Today, Dylan stood with his class like a champ, calm, cool, and collected. I tried to go up on stage with him yesterday for the dress rehearsal, and he turned with hands pushing me away and said, "No. Me go alone." And sure enough, he went up on the stage alone today as well. And stayed for the entire song. Robert ended up getting up on stage, somehow with a costume and a prop and danced and smiled the whole time. A perfect Mother's Day present to his mom, who was pretty convinced he would never get over his anxiety enough to stand on stage. . .ever. Semira got a round of applause for her "part," rolling across the stage in style. The wheelchair brake was not forgotten, and no one tumbled off of the stage. Sylvia felt very sick ahead of the performance and she was dripping with sweat, but you wouldn't have guessed it later. I bought a bottle of cold water for her from the school cafeteria, and she ended up nailing every move. She doesn't really mind dancing, she's told me before, if it is for Jesus.
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