My parents made the decision to send me to an elementary school for kids with physical disabilities – Sunnyview Public School. We lived in the suburbs and the school was in the city, an hour bus ride each way in rush hour traffic. I can’t say exactly how they came to the decision to enrol me in a “special” school rather than our neighbourhood school down the street. I don’t know if the choice was easy, or whether it was something they mulled over for months. I don’t know if they had a checklist of pros and cons and if they did, it was probably ruled by one main criteria: where would their fragile daughter with OI be more likely to stay safe and break-free. Sunnyview was the clear winner, with small class sizes, an abundance of support staff and physical therapy on site. I was 3 years old. My main source of mobility was my bright yellow wheelchair with a sign mounted between the push bars over my head that read ‘Fragile: Handle With Care’. I had already broken over a dozen bones. It was 1986. I don’t think others thought twice about my parents’ decision to send me to a “special” school. Segregation was still fairly common then. But when I talk about my childhood now in 2021, and I speak of my early school experiences I receive many shocked, almost horrified reactions that I spent 11 years in segregated education. Today, parents fight endlessly and tirelessly to have their children with disabilities integrated and included in typical neighbourhood schools. I absolutely believe that integration is good; of course, it’s common sense, kids and adults with disabilities should be able to exist and thrive in the same neighbourhood, same buildings, same schools as those without disabilities. But I want to offer another perspective, one that we don’t normally hear. For me, my segregated elementary school worked. And here’s why.
I learned, like most kids without disabilities, that I was no more special than the next kid.
I learned that the world did not revolve around me and that the needs of others were just as important as mine.
I learned that the expectations for me were the same as those of my classmates.
I learned that I wasn’t just the recipient of help, but that I could help others as much as help was given to me.
I learned that we all have strengths and we all have weaknesses and the world works really well when we come together and support each other with our unique strengths.
I learned how to live with a disability because I saw others around me doing it too. Because of my disabled friends I learned about wheelchair sports, accessible recreation programs, accessible transportation, the latest in wheelchair innovations and accessible technology. I learned from my disabled friends how to climb onto countertops, carry my books, push with my elbows, bump myself down curbs, and it goes on. I learned that different and awkward can still work pretty damn well and is actually okay and normal. And with all this, I learned confidence, compassion and humility. I developed a strong sense of self and sense of pride and I took this foundation with me when I entered my neighbourhood high school of 2000 students, and as I went on to University and Grad School, interviews, dating and now in my career.
If disability is thought of as a culture, as a set of shared, common experiences, as a minority group that has historically been oppressed, stereotyped, discriminated against, and still must fight for basic access and human rights, then we cannot diminish the value of disabled people coming together to learn from one another, share stories, rally and mobilize themselves, and empower each other. I don’t think this can or should only be achievable through segregated schools, but this is what my elementary school did for me. As we fight for integration and inclusion I do think we should remember and appreciate the benefit of disability community, and actively seek this out for children who are too young to seek out these connections themselves.
