Category Archives: Disability

Adaptations I’ve Used for My Disabilities

A few months ago, I wrote a post in which I described my limitations in as much detail as I could. I had just agreed to settle on a brain injury diagnosis rather than autism, so had to figure myself out all over again. Since then, that diagnosis was revised several more times and I finally decided to want a second opinion. I want answers to what’s going on with me.

The good point of that post I wrote, however, is that I felt free to describe my limitations in a non-judgmental way. As a follow-up, I am going to write a post today on the adaptations I’ve used throughout my life for dealing with these limitations.

The first adaptations I remember using, when I was about four, were not for what most people think of as my primary disability, ie. blindness. When I was four or five, I had to have my left foot in a cast to prevent my heel cord from becoming too short. This problem is common in children wth motor difficulties like cerebral palsy, though it occasionally happens to children with other neurological conditions too. I also had limited strength in my hands, so I got to use scissors which bounce back automatically. When I finally got to use a Braille typewriter, it had lengthened keys which were easier to press, too.

When I went to the school for the visually impaired at the end of Kindergarten, I was introduced to large print adn later Braille. I started learning Braille when I was seven-years-old. Because I was a print reader before I became a Braille reader, I had an advantage and a disadvantage. I could already read and knew my letters, but Braille wasn’t my first written language. I didn’t become truly proficient at Braille till I was around twelve and still can’t read it as fast as some blind people.

Apparently, around age seven, I had enough vision to ride a bike. I didn’t have the balance though. I still don’t know whether it was my parents being pushy or I truly had enough vision to safely ride a bike, but in any case I got a large trike paid for through the city department of disability services. My parents transported it to our new city when we moved when I was nine, even though this required approval from the authorities. I used the tricycle for about five years, until I became too blind to safely ride it even for purely leisurely purposes in my quiet neighborhood.

By the time I transferred to the school for the blind at age nine, I no longer needed most adaptations for my motor difficulties. I could use a regular Braille typewriter and in fourth grade, we weren’t crafting anymore anyway, so no scissors. I had also by this time become a full-time Braille user, though particularly in fifth and sixth grade I still peeked at the large print atlas every now and again. I got a handheld magnifier for my birthday or St. Nicholas around that time, because without it I couldn’t use the atlas. I had a large collection of tactile maps too, which I also loved.

When I was eleven, I got my first laptop with Braille display. I had occasionally used my parents’ computer before then, but had by this time long been too blind to even see very large letters on the screen. I tried for a bit to use a screen magnifier on the school computer, but I quickly learned to use Braille and syntehtic speech on my own computer.

I also had a white cane, of course. I started cane travel lessons when I was around seven, but rarely used my cane until I was fourteen. Then, when I had entered eighth grade in mainstream education, I had realized I was going to look blind compared to all fully sighted fellow students anyway so I’d better use a cane.

I went through school using mostly my computer for learning. We had a number of tactile educational materials, but I rarely used these. I hated tactile drawings, because I had an extremely hard time figuring them out.

In college and university, I used my computer with Braille display only. I also had gotten a scanner, so that I could scan books that weren’t available in accessible formats. A few years ago, I bought myself an OpticBook scanner that is especially good for scanning books. I rarely used it though, because eBooks became accessible to screen reader users in like 2013. I also rediscovered the library for the blind and last summer, like I’ve said, became Bookshare member.

I never used adaptations for cognitive impairments even after my autism diagnosis. I wanted to learn to use some and I still badly want to get a weighted blanket someday. I also am currently exploring adaptations for my fine motor issues. Because I felt more secure this way, I did for a while use a mobility cane. However, it was too long, then when someone had sawn off a piece it was too short. Also, it isn’t safe to use a mobility cane for me without also using my white cane and because of limited use of my left hand, I can’t use both. The adaptive equipment store does sell mobility canes with the white cane look, but these only have the advantage of making one recognizable as blind. They can’t be used for feeling around for obstacles. I could of course use a mobility cane with the white cane look in place of my white cane when walking sighted guide. However, I have learned to use my white cane for some support. The main reason I choose to use my white cane rather than a mobility cane with white cane look, however, is that I feel too self-conscious. I feel that I’m not mobility-impaired enough for this. I do wonder whether I’d feel more confident walking if I had a mobility cane, but I fear people will judge me for exaggerating my disability.

Describing My Limitations

Many years ago, an online friend of mine was part of a disabled people’s ministry that explored what it meant to be disabled. She wanted to get me involved too, but at that point, the ministry was closing down, so she started her own discussion group. The first question we got was to introduce ourselves without mentioning our disabilities. I don’t know whether I did this with my last post, but I don’t want to do things over again. The second question was to describe your limitations. We could mention diagnoses, but the focus was on how disability limited us. I am now trying to answer this question in this post.

My first disability is blindness from retinopathy of prematurity. My vision is measured as light perception only. Technically, this means i can see the eye doctor’s flashlight when it’s brought into my visual field but I cannot tell what direction it comes from. This commonly leads to the misconception that people whose vision is measured as light perception only, are essentially completely blind. In truth, I can orient to light – just not the eye doctor’s flashlight. I can visually locate windows and see whether a light is on or off. With that last one, I do often need to check twice to be sure and I often find it easier to memorize the position of the switch than to depend on my vision.

Then it gets hard. I used to have a diagnosis of autism, but since that was removed, I now have to describe my limitations without depending on a catch-all label. Let me try. I have sensory processing difficulties. I am oversensitive to sounds and textures. With regards to taste, I am a sensory seeker, in that I crave spicy food. I can also be a seeker in the vestibular sense. I used to love to swing and when the movement therapist at my old institution had a trampoline set up, I was over the moon.

I may also have auditory processing issues. I have trouble understanding speech sometimes, especially in a crowded place. I haven’t had a hearing test in forever, so can’t be sure that it’s processing and not my hearing itself. Sometimes though, I do hear something, ask the other person to repeat it and then before they repeat themselves, I process what was said.

I also have social difficulties. I can keep a reasonably normal-sounding conversation but it takes me a lot of energy. I have trouble with reciprocity, in that soetimes all I do is listen and sometimes all I do is talk. I can’t do group conversations, because I get overwhelmed.

I have mild communication issues too. Sometimes, when anxious or overwhelmed, I go mute or stutter or have trouble finding the right words. I remember going mute in high school too, but not sure whether I had these issues before that. It could be anxiety, since I also have that. My psychologist is considering diagnosing me with generalized anxiety disorder, which basically means you worry to an extreme degree about all sorts of things. There are also additional symptoms, like difficulty concentrating, physical tension, etc.

I have cognitive issues too. This may sound stupid, because I have a high IQ. Maybe executive dysfunction is a better word. I appear lazy sometimes, because I get easily overwhelmed by relatively complex tasks and then end up not doing them at all. I also feel anxiety when people ask me to do things, but when I take the initiative, I feel more confident. I wrote earlier that this could be pathological demand avoidance. However, when for instance my husband asks me to do something, i’m fine with it unless it’s a complex task.

Then I have emotion regulation difficulties. I used to have a diagnosis of borderline personalty disorder, but that can’t co-exist with the brain injury I suffered from a brain bleed and hydrocephalus. I don’t have the relational instability that many people with BPD have. Mostly, my emotions are extreme. In this sense, I relate more to the profile for multiple complex developmental disorder (McDD) than to that for BPD. I have never been psychotic, but I do have some delusion-like thoughts.

Lastly, I have motor difficulties. I saw a physiatrist till I was about eight, but was too young to remember the diagnosis. I have a much weaker left side than right, although I recently found out that my grip strength is equal in both hands. The fact that I use my left hand much less could indicate mild hemineglect (lessened attention to one side of the body, usually left). I also have and have always had a lot weaker muscles than most people. I have however learned to live with that. I mean, what do you need to reach your toes for when in sitting position? I do have significant balance and coordination issues. MY gait is very wobbly. I recently learned that healthy people can climb stairs without even holding onto the railing. In my home, where the staircase has only one railing, I need to hold onto the railing with both hands and wobble sideways.

These are the limitations I can think of now. I have some others, but this post has been long enough. When I feel like it, I will answer the next question I remember, which was about adaptations for coping with your limitations.

In Between: Walking the Disability Line

This week, the prompt from mumturnedmom is “in between”. I immediately thought of my life as a disabled person. For many years, I’ve thought of it metaphorically as me walking a line between being good enough to be included in the non-disabled world and bad enough to deserve care.

I am multiply-disabled. I reside in an institution with 24-hour care. I am not even in the lowest care category for institutionalized people now that we’ve faced massive budget cuts and the lower care categories got deinstitutionalized.

Yet I am intellectually capable. I am stable enough not to need to be on a locked unit, and in fact am going to leave the institution in a few months. I will then fall in a lower care category, be entitled to less care. Yet I will be able to live a more normal life with my husband.

People often automatically assume that, if you have certain abilities, you are automatically less disabled than if you don’t have these abilities. For instance, I am always seen as “high-functioning” autistic because of my IQ. This is despite the fact that I’m in a similar care category to someone with an intellectual disability who has fewer behavioral challenges, sensory issues, or is more capable in daily living tasks than me.

People also often automatically assume that deinstitutionalization is appropriate only for those with few care needs, those who are “high-functioning” if you will. People don’t take into account that institutional life requires consumers to live in a group setting, which may not be possible for some.

I struggle with this view of disability as a continuum at best and a dichotomy at worst. It makes me walk the line between “high-functioning” and “low-functioning”, when in truth, I’m neither and I’m both and I’m in between.

I am “high-functioning” because of my IQ and my language skills. I am “low-functioning” because of my poor daily living skills. In most ways, however, I’m neither and I’m both and I’m in between depending on circumstances both within myself and in the environment. Yet I’m forced to choose.

And I refuse to choose. I want to be accepted as a human being with her own set of capabilities and difficulties. I refuse to choose between being “high-functioning” and being “low-functioning”, between being dependent and independent. After all, I am interdependent, like veryone else.

mumturnedmom

Five Things People Usually Won’t Understand About Life with Multiple Disabilities

Julie of Counting My Spoons just posted a list of six things healthy people just won’t understand about life with chronic illness or pain. I didn’t know the first one – that migraine sufferers just can’t take their medication at the first hint of a migraine -, because I don’t have migraines, but I could relate to the others. I feel somewhat guilty about that, because I don’t have a diagnosed chronic illness, except for possible irritable bowel syndrome, which causes the least bothersome of my symptoms.

I do have multiple disabilities, and I thought I’d do a similar list of things people who don’t have these disabilities won’t understand. These all seem to boil down to “we are individuals”, but for some reason, this is extremely hard for the non-disabled to understand.

1. We can’t just choose one of our disabilities and get services for that and then be fine. Seriously, why do you think it’s called having multiple disabilities? My social worker once asked me which is my most significant disability, so that we would find a supported housing agency suited to that. I know, that’s how the system works, but quite frankly, it’s nonsensical.

2. We’re still multiply-dsabled even if we don’t have an intellectual disability. It’s a common idea that “multiply-disabled” means intellectually disabled plus something. In reality, those who are blind and autistic like myself, those who are deaf and wheelchair-using, etc., may still identify as multiply-disabled. I identify as multiply-disabled partly to dismantle the myth that only those with an intellectual disability struggle with “additional needs” as it’s politically correctly called.

3. You can’t just take apart our needs in terms of which needs are due to disability A, which are due to disability B, etc. and then have a complete picture of our needs. For one thing, some disabilities cause a variety of impairments in many different areas and cause different impairments for different people. For another, disabilities influence each other. For example, I am blind, so you’d think I could be using my hearing to compensate. In reality, because of my difficulty filtering out background noise, I can’t. This is somewhat understood by people working with the deafblind, but if you have other disabilities, not so. In general, however, not all our needs may be explainable by a disability we’ve been diagnosed with. I remember at one point when I was at the locked psychiatric ward a man was there who had a vision and hearing loss in addition to his psychiatric illness. A nurse told him that he had to clean up the table after eating, because “he’s doubly-disabled but not triply-disabled”. Now I’m not saying that multiply-disabled people should be exempt from doing chores. I’m just saying that his apparent unwillingness to do the task might as well be inability, regardless of whether this is thought to be “normal” for a person with his particular combination of disabilities. (FYI: I consider mental illness a disability, so in that respect the man was triply-disabled, but in the psychiatric nursing profession, it’s usually not seen this way.)

4. Mild, partial or invisible disabilities contribute to our constellation of needs too. This isn’t applicable to me, because I have a visible disability, but it was applicable to some extent to the man at the locked ward I menitoned abov. He was partially sighted and hard-of-hearing, so because of his remaining sight, he was expected to do tasks I was exempt from. As I said, disabilities influence each other, so it may’ve been that he was in some areas more impaired than I am, but because all of his disabilities were partial, he was often regarded as more or less non-disabled.

5. We have absolutely no obligation to have an explanation for our every experience that is out of the ordinary. You have strengths and weaknesses too, so do we. I’ve often felt like I needed to have a diagnosis to explain my every difference. In reality, I’m an individual with my own sense of self, my own interests, my own stronger and weaker sides. Like I said above, our disabilities influence each other, but so do our personality traits. I am not the sum of my disabilities. I am myself.

Benefits of Mutual Support Between Disabled Adults and Special Needs Parents

On the Preemie Babies 101 blog, Laura Maikata wrote an interesting post on surviving the post-NICU roller coaster for parents of preemies. Indeed, premature birth affects children long beyond the NICU, sometimes lifelong. Getting a new diagnosis, facing a new issue for your child is hard. So is the sometimes long time that passes between you as the parent noticing something and getting the answers to whether it’s an issue to be worried about and if so, what the diagnosis is.

It is important at all stages of life as a preemie parent to get support. When your baby is still in neonatal intensive care, this is seen as obvious, but there is little support out there for parents of older preemies. There is the PREEMIE-CHILD E-mail list and accompanying website, but that’s about it.

I wrote a comment on Laura’s post on the importance of support from people further along on their journey. This includes parents of older children with your child’s diagnosis or parents of older preemies, but I wanted to make clear it includes adults with special needs or former preemie adults too.>/P>

As a former preemie and adult with disabilities, I have found that I have been able to help some parents of special needs or preemie children along their joureny. I am not very knwoledgeable, but i can share my experiences and give parents an idea of what it’s like growing up as a former preemie. I can also share, if I know it, what helped me overcome certain struggles that parents are now facing with their children.

On the other hand, I too have been able to gain support from parents of special needs or preemie children. They have the benefit of their child’s doctors and specialists knowing the latest research on their conditions, and strategies that work for a child with my condition, may also work for me.

I remember in 2003 being part of a group for parents of blind children. The group also consisted of a few blind adults. I was the only blind teen on the list I believe. At the time, I was mostly on the receivign end of support, and the parents and blind adults at the time encouraged me to go to blindness rehab (though if they’d known how low the expectations of rehab were, they’d not have liked it). Now that I’m in my late twenties and have gained a fair amount of knowledge on my disabilities, I am not on that particular list anyore, but am on others. I have, for example, joined a group for parents of blind/autistic children, and though I was more capable growing up than many of these children are, I can still help in some ways.

There is often an attitude in the autism community that adults with autism cannot speak on behalf of children with autism. I understand, if for no other reason then because parents are the legal spokespeople for children autistic or not. But I don’t understand that autistic adults cannot provide any sort of perspective for parents of autistic kids. I think both parents and adults can learn from each other, and it isn’t that one group should speak for the other.

“All Kids Do That.”

Kiddo’s Mom over at Autism with a Side of Fries wrote an interesting post titled “All Kids Do That”. The comment that “all kids” do something, is meant to reassure parents of disabled children, or disabled children themselves, that they aren’t all that different. I remember when I was around eighteen, my parents told me that 99% of my schoolmates had the exact same problems I did. I wasn’t different, except for being above-average intelligent (which, given that I went to grammar school, 99% of my schoolmates were, too). And oh sure, I was blind. Maybe that, or my reaction to it, explained all my oddities. Or maybe not.

The thing is, it doesn’t help a parent to hear that they shouldn’t worry about something they know is not typical. It doesn’t help a disabled teen, either. Of course, everyone has some quirks, but most likely you do not know that the disabled child whom or whose parents you try to reassure has many more problems than the behavior you’re currently seeing.

Also, you do not realize how much effort it takes for a disabled child to appear more or less typical. As Kiddo’s Mom says, it took lots of therapy for her son to be able to eat properly, swim or sing. Hopefully, Kiddo’s Mom delights in these results, but it isn’t your job as a stranger to callously assume Kiddo isn’t “really” autistic (or not “that severely autistic”) because he acts so appropriately. Kiddo’s Mom likely doesn’t even realize how much effort Kiddo pours into it, as my parents or staff don’t realize this in my case. Certainly you, being the family friend or relative, or even a complete stranger, do not know.

It is easy to assume that a disabled person isn’t “really” disabled, or isn’t as disabled as they or their parents claim to be, by observing a single behavior. I’ve been told countless times that I should stop posting about my self-care difficulties and meltdowns because I’m not like the commenter’s child, simply because I can write. Sure, there are difficulties that aren’t due to my disabilities at all. My inability to come up with some words in English is more attributable to my being a non-native than to any of my disabilities, and even native speakers of English sometimes have trouble coming up with words.

A disabled person is a person, too. Like Kiddo’s Mom says, sometimes parents of typical kids are slightly shocked when she says Kiddo does something their kids do, too. The underlying assumption is tht a disabled child’s every behavior should be related to their disability. In reality, it isn’t. I am disabled, but I am more than my disabilities. Just because “all kids do that”, doesn’t make me non-disabled, and just because I do something your typical relative does too, doesn’t mean they’re acting like a disabled person.

Parents’ Dreams and Expectations for Their Disabled Children

Today, Ellen from Love That Max wrote about wondering what her disabled son would do when he grows up. I wrote about this last week. As I said then, I knew early on that I’d become a normal or even above-average college student and later employee when I grew up. Up till age eighteen at least I didn’t show any inkling of thinking I’d not meet this expectation. I know that I had worries at night about burning out at my first job (as a teacher) and returning to the workforce several years later at an entry-level administrative position. I didn’t share these thoughts. I shared my dreams of going to the United States on a college exchange student visa and never returning. Cause, you know, with affirmative action and all my minority statuses, I’d surely get a green card. Sure!

Ellen shares her son’s similarly big dreams. Max will become a fireman when he grows up, and not only that, but he’ll live at the fire station. Ellen knows this is an unrealistic dream, but then again, maybe not. She refers to a news story about a man with an intellectual disability practically living at a firehouse. In similar ways, my parents probably knew the moving to the U.S. dream was unrealistic, but they tried to keep a positive attitude. I appreciate that

What I also want to say I appreciate, is that Ellen doesn’t turn Max’s big dreams into expectatiosn for him. I don’t know whether my parents truly believed I could go to the U.S., but they made it seem lke they did and they were half-expecting me to actually pursue this path.

With disabled children, more so than with non-disabled children, you need to walk the fine line between not encouraging them enough to dreaam and follow their dreams, and turning their biggest dreams into your lowest expectations. I like it that my parents looked up the subsequent cities I was obsessed with living in once in the United States and encouraged me to learn about these places. That is encouraging a child to dream. However, I’d have liked it if my parents helped me do some realistic planning. This doesn’t mean saying: “Girl, you’ll go live in an institution and do day activities there.” I’m pretty sure that, with the right transition planning from me, my parents and the staff at the training home I lived in for eighteen months, I could’ve come far closer to my dreams than I’m now. Then again, I’m relatively happy now – happier than I was when dreaming of the United States.

One last thought, which I’m struggling with. Your idea of success as a parent is not the only conceivable norm. I know that as parents, you have limits too, and, particularly if your child is above eighteen (or 21), you have a right to these limits. You don’t have an obligation to care for your child past this age. In this sense, I can only hope that parents of disabled children have an appropriate transition plan in place before their child turns eighteen. I can only hope they accept their children no matter their path to success, but I still understand that this is not something a child, disabled or not, can enforce.

Worrying About Your Disabled Child’s Future

Today, I came across a post by the mother of an adult with Down Syndrome on the topic of birthdays and more specifically, crying on your child’s birthday because you’re worried about their future. I left a lengthy comment, on which I want to expand here.

My parents probably cried on my birthdays too. At least they were usually emotional. I don’t know whether they worried about my future, but they sure thought about it a lot. I survived the neonatal intensive care unit with several disabilities, some of which wouldn’t be diagnosed until many years, decades even, later. I had had a brain bleed, retinopathy of prematurity, and a few other complications. My parents knew soon that I would be severely visually impaired, possibly blind. I don’t know whether they knew or cared about my other disabilities.

My parents started thinking about my future early on. They started communicating to me about my future early on. At age nine, I knew that I was college-bound and had to move out of the house by age eighteen. I don’t know whether it’s normal to plan so far ahead for a non-disabled child. My parents didn’t do this with my younger sister as far as I know.

It is understandable. With non-disabled children, independent living and college or employment are the default. Positive parents, we’re told by the disability community, keep the bar of expectations high, so they expect the same from their disabled children that they do from their non-disabled children. To be honest, I hate this attitude, which sends the message that to be successful is to meet up to non-disabled standards. We aren’t non-disabled, for goodness’ sake.

Let disabled children be children please. I understand it if parents worry about their child’s future, especially in societies that don’t have socialized health care and if the child is severely disabled. I understand that these worries get somehow communicated to the child. There’s no way of preventing this. What you can do, is minimize the worrying as much as posoible and turn it into positive but also unconditionally accepting encouragement.

Deriving Quality of Life from Success

Everyone defines success differently, as a post on Single Mother Ahoy! illustrates. The author starts out by measuring her success through her child’s achievements. As a childless woman, I will not measure my success by parenthood – even though I do esteem successful mothers higher than myself. That may be because they dominate the blogosphere, and my blog is one of a few things I use to measure my success by.

Success is not necessarily the same as quality of life, though it is related. For non-disabled people, it often is the same. At least, all the research I read defining quality of life for disabled people – and I assume the research is written from a non-disabled perspective -, determines quality of life through success. More so, it defines quality of life by success in areas important to non-disabled people. Common examples of measures of quality of life are employment, independent living and a long-term relationship. By these standards, my quality of life is fair, having achieved one of these three.

I understand people derive their quality of life from societal success. After all, we compare ourselves to others, and others are mostly non-disabled, middle- to upper-class people.

Then again, quality of life does not need to be derived from success in the workforce or on the relationship market. That doesn’t mean that quality of life and success are not related, as I said. I derive quality of life from writing for my blog, and I’m pretty sure I’d feel a lot worse about myself if I got no views or comments and a lot better if I got more than I get now. I actually believe that even the most severely disabled people derive quality of life from success. Only they and I measure success differently than non-disabled people do.

That being said, even non-disabled people probably derive part of their quality of life from relatively small successes. I refuse to believe I’m the only blogger who feels their writing contributes to their quality of life even though they don’t earn anything through it and even though they’re not receiving tons of views. I refuse to believe I’m the only crafter who crafts only for the joy of it and the community that interacting with fellow crafters brings. Honestly, these small joys are much more important to me than my high-level high school diploma ever was or a job ever will be.

Education of Disabled Students: Inclusion vs. Mainstreaming

In his book, I’m Not Here to Inspire You, Rob J. Quinn published an essay on mainsreaming vs. inclusion and why inclusion has failed. He writes that, when he was mainstreamed in the 1980s, he had to somehow prove he was capable of going to regular school, whereas currently disabled students are included in regular education at all costs.

I was mainstreamed from 1999 to 2005. I, like Quinn, had to prove I was capable of being mainstreamed. Unlike Quinn, I was the only student with my disability in my school, which I until I read Quinn’s essay considered a definition of mainstreaming: the school really caters to non-disabled people but allows disabled people in who prove they’re capable.

Quinn considiers inclusion to do a disservice to disabled students because they’re given too much assistance. As an example, he writes about a girl with a similar level of cerebral palsy to himself who was given special assistance in all of her classes, while Quinn had to get by without extra assistance. Similarly, except in a few math classes, I did not get extra assistance. In these math classes, they were older students giving me assistance, not aides.

I understand Quinn’s point about overassistance. However, I see him writing from the point of view of someone who doesn’t have a cognitive disability. He points out that he heard of a girl with Down Syndrome being placed in advanced classes because “the kids are nicer there”. I can understand this erodes the meaning of advanced placements. Besides, I agree with Quinn that kids with disabilities need to be prepared for the real world and therefore as I said should not be overprotected or overassisted. However, this does not mean that students with cognitive disabilities need to be shoved away into special ed classes until they somehow prove they can get by in regular education.

Another objection Quinn has to inclusion is the lack of exporsure to other students with similar disabilities. When he was mainstreamed all kids with cerebral palsy went to the same schoool in the district. This is not what mainstreaming is like here: I was the only blind student in my school. In this sense, I’d love to have been given an education like Quinn’s, having exposure to people without disabilities as well as those with disabilities. In the Netherlands, unfortunately, at least in the 1990s, you either were the only kid with a sensory or physical disability, or you went to special education and were surrounded by students with your disability.

Quinn concludes that students with disabilities, according to him, need to somehow prove they are capable of mainstreaming if they want to be in regular education. I disagree. After all, people with significant disabilities shouldn’t have to prove they have a right to live in our society, right? I know some pro-institution people disagree, but other than in his essay on mainstreaming, Quinn doesn’t advocate exclusion. Maybe he would for those with intellectual disabilities. I for one won’t.