I worked as a school-based Speech-Language Pathologist (SLP) for seven years in Washington state. My population consisted of elementary and middle-school-aged children, and I purposefully volunteered to work with special population students, including autistic children. The caseload was enormous, and it was an eye-opening experience into the disparities in teaching and support for the population of students who need it most.

One of the most alarming things I saw was in an upper-elementary, self-contained classroom. The teacher was male and much taller than me (I’m no shrinking violet at 5’9). He was former military and had “experience with difficult kids.” His classroom was on the small side, no more than 12 kids plus one or two paras depending on who was in attendance that day. In the classroom, there was a padded room with a tiny window that could be locked from the outside.

This was, ostensibly, a calm-down space. I would liken it today to a torture chamber.

I’m sure when this teacher was hired, the thought process went as such: having a large, male presence in a classroom of mostly male students with extensive IEPs and an even longer list of behavior issues will naturally deter behavior, so everybody wins. Unfortunately, this was not the case. What I witnessed was a teacher who tried to buddy his way into behavior modification, and when that didn’t work, used his large physical presence to enforce and intimidate. This often included goading students who were clearly already in a state of distress into meltdowns. These students were then restrained by the teacher and placed in the padded room, lights off, door locked, and repeatedly told through the door, “You can come out once you’re quiet.” Students could be put in this room multiple times throughout a day and for an indeterminate amount of time. The rest of the class would be redirected by the paras to try to complete their work while their classmate screamed and thrashed, often crying to get out. 

It was heartbreaking. I was a new SLP and, while I believed strongly in granting each and every student I worked with their humanity, I didn’t yet have the strength in ethos I do today – nor the tenure to feel I could stand up to a system that felt so inherently wrong. Years later, I would have my own autistic child, a son I’ll call Kman. Kman was and continues to be the sweetest cherub of a child. He loves everyone and lives life as if he is just happy to be asked along for the ride. When he was young, however, he struggled with transitions and sensory overload, often triggering intense meltdowns. At home, we had worked through how to support him, and I was certain that with my background and with the success we’d had, I could work with the charter school that he attended for first grade. He didn’t qualify for an Individualized Education Program (IEP), but he did have a 504, and the teacher and specialists were happy to let me take the lead in how to support him. For the first several months, it looked like everything was going to be smooth.

Then the teacher had to take some personal time and was replaced with a substitute who assured me she had “experience with difficult kids.” Cue weekly calls to pick up Kman as he was experiencing meltdowns in class. Each time, the substitute gave me some reason she chose not to follow the 504 and instead put her hands on my child to physically redirect him (one of his triggers at the time). The last time I picked him up, before I made the decision to pull him and homeschool, he had been restrained by the teacher and put into a small room to “calm himself down.” What I found when I arrived was my 45-pound child, eyes black from crying to get out, clearly having thrown himself around the room in an effort to break free. That was it. I had failed my child. 

I pulled him from school that day, and we never looked back.

Since then, I have made it my mission to talk to families about their rights and help them find better ways to support their child than relying on behaviorist-heavy models of intervention. Kman recovered from his school trauma and has flourished into a middle-schooler with a passion for learning. Every child deserves a learning environment that is safe physically, mentally, and emotionally.  It’s up to us to make it happen.