Friday, I was assisting in an elementary school alternative curriculum classroom. A few of our students join other classes for a dance class held in the auditorium—including one student who uses a wheelchair. It was my second time attending the dance class with the children from this class. The first time I attended, the student who uses a wheelchair was absent.

When we arrived at the auditorium, the students were already on stage and I asked aloud, “Is there anyone here who can help get him up?”

The room fell silent.
The adults looked at one another, unsure.
The dance teachers—there are two—were visibly baffled. One stumbled over her words, trying to offer an answer that never quite came.

Apparently, everyone relies on the classroom assistant who’s normally present—she's the one I was subbing for. But she’s not always going to be there—and she shouldn’t have to be. Every adult in that space should know how to ensure every child can safely and equitably participate.

I went to the classroom teacher to ask about the elevator. She admitted she didn’t know how to use it either—she should know as well—and sent a colleague to figure it out. He struggled, but he tried.

Then another adult said, almost casually, “Maybe just skip it for today?”

I felt my stomach turn. That suggestion—meant to be practical—was deeply revealing. It wasn’t practical. It was exclusion disguised as an option.

Without hesitation, I said, “That’s not equitable.”
And I repeated myself.

Because it’s NOT.

In my head, I was already searching for other solutions—I was appalled at where her thinking went: straight into avoidance, ease, continuing the lesson, refusal to pause and problem-solve.

Then, as the elevator beeped during attempts to make it work, the dance teacher called out to the class, “There are a lot of distractions in this world,” trying to redirect their attention away from the situation.

But inclusion isn’t a distraction!
That moment was the lesson.

Instead of pausing to model problem-solving, collaboration, or empathy, she focused on keeping the routine moving. Her goal was to keep the class going—not to ensure every student could be part of it. Not to do her job: create equitable opportunities for all students.

What struck me most wasn’t just the lack of knowledge—it was the lack of urgency. The comfort with skipping over a child’s experience instead of pausing to problem-solve.

And it’s not just a matter of lacking compassion—it’s also a matter of student rights and professional responsibility.

Under the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act, and IDEA, students with disabilities are entitled to equal access and participation in school activities. Denying that access—whether through inaction, lack of preparation, or “skipping for the day”—is not only unethical; it’s noncompliant.

Additionally, under the California Commission on Teacher Credentialing (CTC) Teaching Performance Expectations (TPEs), educators are required to:

• Create inclusive learning environments that support each student’s full participation (TPE 1.4, 2.1).

• Understand and apply principles of equity and access for all learners (TPE 6.1).

• Collaborate with colleagues and families to ensure equitable learning opportunities (TPE 6.4).

When adults treat accessibility as optional, they are failing both their students and their professional obligations.

Equity isn’t convenience.
Inclusion isn’t optional.
Accessibility isn’t “extra.”

When participation depends on a single staff member being present, that’s not inclusion—it’s fragility and dependency. When a team can so easily suggest “skipping it,” that’s not adaptation—it's avoidance disguised as an option.

That student deserved to dance that day. 
And every adult in that room deserved the discomfort of realizing why he almost couldn’t. 

Today, I was on assignment at a high school. I was in a high school, special education English class. The students were working in pairs (think-pair-share) on an assignment where they were discussing questions and filling out a chart. While the students were working, the principal and three other individuals entered the class for observations. The two students I was sitting with generally work independently--sometimes with delay--and like to figure things out on their own, sometimes needing more time. When they work in pairs I've noticed these two students prefer to use a lot of nonverbal communication. Usually I walk around the class making sure they're catching up and asking if they need help but other than that, they prefer to work independently. The observers--two of which did not greet anyone upon entry--asked the kids some questions. Clearly, the students were nervous--their body language and facial expressions made that clear. I got the feeling the observers held unrealistic expectations regarding communication for these two students. When the class left I pointed out to the teacher that these students use a lot of nonverbal communication and we talked about how that's appropriate for these students' needs to allow that. the teacher agreed and mentioned that he's had to explain this to the observers before, both of us being appealed at the fact that they don't understand the needs and appropriate accommodations of their own students. I mentioned how I constantly talk about how we as a society undervalue/underappreciate non-verbal communication. in fact, i've seen that this gets stomped out of us early on, for example, when the majority of adults don't understand when it's appropriate and realistic for their children to "use their words".