My friend invited me to come join them in the special ed room during lunch where they play games with students with disabilities. At first, I felt a knot of anxiety in my stomach – interacting with kids who have severe disabilities was totally an unfamiliar territory. What if I said or did the wrong thing? But I knew isolating myself from this experience was rooted in ignorance, so I got the courage to accept. “Yes, I’ll come.”
The second I stepped into Room 64, the special education room at my high school, it was like stepping into a completely new reality. There were about 12 students, each facing challenges I had never truly understood or appreciated before. Simple tasks non-disabled people take for granted were an immense struggle for all 12 of them.
The classroom went silent as Mario attempted to stand up from his wheelchair. His frail body trembled with the effort, every muscle tightening and straining against his neurological condition. Rows of sweat formed on his eyebrows as he gripped the armrests and his knuckles turning white. For a couple of minutes, Mario violently rocked back and forth, pressuring his arm muscles against his wrists as he white-knuckled the armrests. Finally, with one last torturous cry, he swung himself up to a standing position. But the battle wasn’t over – his legs trembled uncontrollably, his bare bone struggling lacking the strength to support his body’s frame. He swayed there, chest heaving, fighting against the relentless pull of gravity to remain upright as he caught his ragged breath.
Across the room, Jada’s fight to independently feed herself was equally as gut-wrenching. The neurological condition causing her hands to tremor and shake uncontrollably made a simple self-care task excruciatingly difficult. Her delicate hand shook intensely as she reached down with a stressed face to grip her plastic spoon. The violent tremors shook her limbs causing half the applesauce to immediately slop over the sides and puddle on the tray before she could even lift the utensil. But the girl didn’t give up. Her tiny tongue peeked out from the corner of her mouth in a painfully adorable expression of intense concentration and determination. With great effort, she adjusted her grip, bringing her shaky fingers around the spoon’s handle once more before raising it a few inches towards her lips.
I watched with my heart utterly shattering in my chest as the spoon clanked against her teeth, splattering more mushy applesauce across her sweet face. Her face even more stressed, face straining as she forced her uncooperative hand to remain steady, just for a moment. Another violent shake pulsed through her arm, causing the spoon to fly off wildly as small pieces of food tumbled between her lips and dribbled down her chin. But Jada’s spirit could not be broken. She clenched her jaw tighter, stabbing the spoon back into the pasty snack as her arm jerked, undetermined in her mission to eat a significant bite that my body simply eats without a thought.
After that first lunch, I knew I could not just leave it at that one visit – I had to do more. Seeing the amazing determination of students like Mario and Jada as they worked so hard for basic tasks really opened my eyes. I felt so humbled and now had a strong purpose – I may not be able to cure their disabilities, but I could dedicate myself to making their lives a little bit easier by being kind, helping out, and speaking up for them. I got some other students together to start a club at my high school where we could build understanding, respect, and real friendships between the students in room 64 and the rest of the students. It has been difficult work, but I feel good knowing we are standing alongside these brave students to create a school that welcomes everyone.