Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, January 8, 1995 TAG: 9501070009
SECTION: HORIZON PAGE: G-5 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: KEN DAVIS
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
A second-grader with cerebral palsy, he's one of the first people I met at the new Kipps Elementary School in Blacksburg.
We stood together at the left side of the hallway with two teachers, while at the other end, nearly two dozen students were walking out of a classroom toward us on their way to the cafeteria.
Jared smiled and screeched with delight in response to the students' bustling enthusiasm. But I wondered, how would they respond to Jared?
Soon, I would learn.
After spending six weeks visiting with the students at Kipps Elementary School, I discovered that, like Jared, no one there is normal.
Not the little girl with the genius IQ who asked a teacher to admire her earrings. Not the little boy with autism who spoke to a class full of students for a Christmas presentation. And not the fifth-grade teacher who somehow managed to squeeze her 7-year-old daughter, 26 students, and two graduate classes at Virginia Tech into a 24-hour day.
At Kipps, the concept of labeling anyone as normal or abnormal is considered virtually medieval - as academically antiquated as the musty, hardwood floor of a one-room schoolhouse.
The reason is because of inclusion, a philosophy that ensures all children will be part of the same classrooms, regardless of physical, emotional or mental development.
Students are taught that diversity is something to embrace, not fear. They are encouraged to pursue their own dreams, to accept themselves and others for who they are and to find pride in their individual accomplishments.
They never really tried anything like inclusion when I was in the fifth grade. I guess the closest experiment was ... well ...
Me.
As a child, I came equipped with a bad set of joints, subsequently spending many of my elementary school years on a pair of crutches or in the seat of a wheelchair.
There were few moments of taunts or cruelty, but many moments of pure and total rejection - students and teachers with blank, lifeless faces who would stare at me and my wheelchair.
I still see them everywhere I go - those curious spectators who stare at someone with an obvious disability like they were a piece of abstract art. And though it's not directed at me anymore - my legs work just fine now and the wheelchair is history - I remember being the centerpiece of those same stares, just wishing one person would smile and say hello instead.
Gradually, I gained a great support system, from virtually all the students and faculty alike, but it was a long, painful and tedious process.
Most of those bad memories were gone until I stood in that hallway with Jared.
I remembered the same elementary school hallways of my youth, the same enthusiastic students, and I was waiting for Jared to receive the same type of rejection that I would have received 14 years ago.
But at Kipps, inclusion has taught students a different, even novel way of dealing with those who are different from them.
They looked at Jared, smiled and said hello.
by CNB