Friday, 8 November 2025

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.