Thanksgiving is my
favorite holiday, hands down. Spending time with families and friends. Eating
entirely too much food. Most importantly, stopping to think about the things in
life we’re most grateful for.
This past Sunday, my
pastor began his sermon by explaining that he was very aware Thanksgiving had
already come and gone, but he’d never had the opportunity to preach a
Thanksgiving message and was not going to miss the chance, even if it did come
a few days late. Toward the end of the sermon, he read a list of things that he
was thankful for: the early morning sound of the alarm clock, sore muscles at
night, mortgage payments and income taxes. Obviously, this is a pretty strange
list, but he went on to give reasons why he was thankful for these things. The
early morning sound of the alarm clock is a reminder that he has life another
day. Sore muscles at night mean he was able to be productive. The mortgage
payment is a reminder that he’s blessed with a warm home. Income taxes are paid
because he has a job and the ability to work.
I think it is very common for teachers to believe that it
would be impossible for them to teach any grade other than the grade they
teach. When I meet elementary school teachers, they tell me that they could
never teach teenagers, I tell them I could never teach little kids, and then we
both laugh and agree we could NEVER do middle school.
I’ve spent five years building my solid identity as a high
school teacher, and four of those were as the teacher of primarily juniors and
seniors. During my first year, I developed a firm belief that anyone under the
age of 14 was perpetually sticky.
How do you advocate effectively for your students without
making enemies?
I knew going into this school year that I was in for a
challenge. My school has never had a full time K-12 Gifted and Talented
Coordinator. As a result, the needs of gifted students have never really been
the top priority. Now that I’m here, there is someone who listens to every word
in every meeting with the thought, “How will that affect a student who is
gifted?” The answers aren’t always easy to hear, especially with a state audit
coming down on a whole bunch of metro-area districts in the fall… including
ours!
Typing this post is testimony that I survived the first week of school. I’ll give a brief Sports Center rundown of the highlights:
Thrilled that my returning students quickly settled back into the classroom routine.
Met seven amazing, full-of-personality sixth graders.
Was informed that I will likely receive another student in the upcoming weeks along with an individual assistant for that student.
Discovered I have an IEP to write for a student I’ve known for approximately four days.
Had one of my students accidently activate the fire alarm in the cafeteria during lunchtime.
Needless to say, I did not set my alarm clock on Saturday! Oh, and on a personal note, I got engaged this weekend! I’ve definitely been blessed with an exciting week!
This past month has been a March Madness of IEPs at my school. We all try to hold IEP meetings during this month to review student progress and make schedule arrangements for next year. I found myself called to LEA several IEP meetings with students of various disabilities that were having or have had a history of behavior problems. Being the EBD teacher and Positive Behavior Support Coordinator, I have been given the role of behavior specialist. As I sat in on meetings I noticed a common theme; many teachers struggle with behaviors that appear complicated, but have a fairly simple resolution.
In my past two posts, I’ve written about the importance of teamwork and a common IEP team scenario wherein the parents and school district fail to reach agreement on how to address the needs of a child. In the grand spirit of Star Wars, I am going for a trilogy of teamwork-related posts.
This post focuses on when the general education teacher and specialist (you) fail to agree on accommodations and modifications. Unless you’re Darth Vader with the full backing of the Dark Side, you’re going to have to learn how to reach an accord with colleagues.
In 1795, John Newbery published a children’s book called Goody Two-Shoes that tells the story of a poor, but virtuous orphan girl named Margery Meanwell, who went through life with only one shoe. One day, she met a rich man who gave her a pair of shoes — two shoes. The fable teaches us that being virtuous pays off.
The modern-day term “goody two-shoes” was popularized by this story. Growing up, I was pretty much a goody two-shoes. I did everything I could to avoid troublemakers at all costs. While I knew that there were kids in my school who got suspended, even expelled, I was never friends with them. And with that, I’ve never had to deal with the idea of suspensions until now.
In my previous post, I stressed the importance of teamwork and emphasized how an individual’s needs cannot truly be met without a successful team. A commenter posted the following question: what happens when the team doesn’t agree? I don’t know about you, but if I had a single, definitive answer to this question, my life would be a whole lot easier. In this post and my next one, I will address what I consider the two most common obstacles to achieving team consensus and action:
The parents do not agree with the recommended services.
The general educator does not agree with the specialist’s recommendations regarding accommodations and modifications.
Deck the desks with tears and weeping, Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la. 'Tis the season to be testing, Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.
Don we now our blank stare faces, Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la. Troll this song my mind it chases, Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.
What is that you ask? Those are the lyrics floating through my head all the days long as my students and I endure second trimester benchmark testing. And it really must be testing season if more than one of us are blogging about it.
Communication is the foundation for many things. I have learned in my first six months of teaching that it often takes precedence over most other “must haves.” Communication is pivotal in reaching students, maximizing the impact of a strategy, and getting along with coworkers. Communication also happens to be one of the largest areas of frustration for a new teacher like me.
I came into a system with established systems and unspoken rules that I wasn’t told about in my orientation to the school. The only way to really figure it out has been trial and error. The error part got to be tough for a while, but after the break I seem to be doing much better about asking the right people the right questions and abiding by the many non-spoken rules.
A special educator (read: paperwork specialist) enters the field with the foreknowledge that they will have a significantly higher amount of paperwork than the typical teacher.
I knew going into my position that I would have to complete IEPs, FBAs, BIPs, and goal progress reports every grading period. I spent my summer organizing my lessons and days to accommodate my duties because I knew I would not have a planning period, being in a self-contained setting. I started the year off with a wonderfully ignorant belief in my ability to complete paperwork within the school day without any complications, all while providing exemplary instruction. Boy, was I wrong!
Three weeks into the school year, our district decided to require that each case manager keep a four-inch binder of progress monitoring data for each student. We would be responsible for keeping student work samples and all the relevant paperwork up to date, such as IEPs and BIPS, both in the notebook and in the student’s file. We were charged with “regularly monitoring and assessing student progress” toward IEP goals and recording that information every few weeks on a form—forms we needed to create on our own, given only the vaguest examples possible.
I hope I’m not late . . . I hope I am dressed okay . . . I hope I don’t say anything stupid . . .
This was me. Going to my first IEP. I was curious, hopeful, nervous.
First, introductions were made. Then, presentation of reports. I was very impressed with how in-depth the speech and language specialist’s and school psychologist’s reports were. I was probably thinking something like. Wow, they did a lot of tests . . . hey, that test has the word Hawaii in it . . . too bad we couldn’t have done the test in Hawaii. . . .
Sounds like I knew what I was doing, huh? In reality, I didn’t even know what “IEP” meant. I didn’t know about procedural safeguards or timelines, either. I only knew that everybody at the table was there to talk about my son.
When I was going to school for my master’s degree, I took one class in which we spent a lot of time conducting mock individual education program (IEP) meetings. What I remember most was how much anxiety they caused me. Thoughts would race through my head: How am I supposed to be in this meeting when I know nothing about the student? Won’t I know a lot more about the student when I am a teacher? Why are is everyone acting so crazy? They don’t act like that in real meetings, do they?
Fast-forward to my very first IEP meeting as a special education teacher. It was two years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I was very new and thought that all IEP meetings were like the ones practiced in my classes or imagined in my head. Boy, was I wrong!
This was an initial evaluation for the student, and his mother was hesitant about the whole idea of special education. When it was time for introductions around the table, I said, “Hi, I’m Theresa, the special education teacher.” The parent became so irate at the idea of her child needing special education that she rose out of her chair and stood over me in such a way that I almost felt threatened.
I…E...P…dundundun! These are three often intimidating letters for students, parents, and (new) teachers. IEPs are supposed to help our students make individual gains. However, I am starting to find that many schools’ faculty are creating and implementing these individualized tools for an assortment of inappropriate reasons.
Through my coursework (which included a class called IFSP/IEP Development for Young Children) I have learned that IEPs are to follow some general rules:
Goals should be developed for Tier III needs (those that require specific systematic intervention).
Skills that are newly introduced in the general curriculum or skills that same-age peers may struggle with due to age appropriate difficulties should not be targeted unless specific adaptations and modifications will be used in intervention.
Goals should follow a logical sequence according to the hierarchical manner in which they are to be learned.
Goals should aim to assist students in their academic, social, and functional skills as appropriately needed.
Parents should be involved with development and decision making and must be able to understand what is on the IEP.
Every career has its own form of “rush week,” the period of time where everyone is scrambling around, feeling overwhelmed, and wondering if they have any stress leave left. For us, I think IEPs could easily be just that... the period when there isn't enough time to even glance at the clock to realize how little time you have left to get everything done. I try to take a hint from the seasoned veterans who make the whole IEP process look like just another daily routine. I try to remain professional, calm, and collected, but honestly I've been a complete and utter wreck these past two weeks.
It's not that the IEP process is necessarily that hard. It's really as hard as you decide it's going to be. Before now I had them strewn throughout the year whenever they were due for each child, but at my new school they designate two weeks at the beginning of the year for you get your annual IEPs finished.
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