We Left Him Out

Name redacted and changed for privacy.

When I was a fresh preservice teacher, I had the opportunity to co-teach a lesson in a resource classroom. I honestly don't remember what the lesson was even about. I just remember that it felt awkward. The pacing was off, the transitions didn't flow, and I walked away feeling like I hadn't done a very good job.

During our debrief, my teaching partner and I started doing what new teachers often do -- picking apart all the little mistakes. We talked about wording, pacing, management, and delivery.

But our mentors were intentional about redirecting us to the biggest mistake we made.

We left him out.

For the sake of privacy, I'll call him "Eli."

Eli used eye-gaze AAC, one of the most incredible forms of communication technology I had ever seen. But at the time, I didn't understand it. I didn't know how to use it. I didn't know how to prompt him. I didn't know how long to wait for a response.

So without even realizing it, we included every other student in the lesson except him.

We asked the others questions.

We gave the others time to respond.

We acknowledged the others' ideas.

But when it came to Eli, we simply moved on because we didn't know what to do.

That moment has stayed with me for years.

I remember immediately feeling guilty. Not defensive. Not embarrassed. Just deeply aware that a child had been excluded in front of me because I lacked the knowledge and confidence to include him properly.

And the truth is, I think that happens more often than people want to admit.

Inclusion is not always instinctive. Sometimes it has to be learned intentionally.

After that lesson, I made myself pay attention. I walked behind the AAC device so I could better understand how it worked. I watched how his teacher interacted with him. I listened to the kinds of questions she asked. I noticed the wait time she gave him before expecting a response.

She expected him to participate.

Not eventually.

Not when it was convenient.

Not only when there was extra time.

Every time.

Because he deserved every opportunity to share his thoughts with the world just as much as anyone else.

That experience changed the way I think about inclusion.

Teachers have the dignified duty to choose inclusion. To model it for the world. To make sure students are not left out simply because communication looks different. Sometimes inclusion means slowing down. Sometimes it means learning unfamiliar technology. Sometimes it means sitting in the discomfort of realizing we've unintentionally excluded someone.

But we do it anyway, because people matter.

I think many educators have moments like this if they're honest enough to admit it. Moments where they realized they overlooked someone. Moments that reshaped the way they teach, communicate, and advocate.

As much as I've thought about that day over the year, time somehow slipped away from me. In my mind, Eli stayed the same little boy sitting behind that device in the classroom.

But he isn't little anymore.

He's a high school graduate.

He walked across the stage because people over the years chose to include him, support him, listen to him, and believe his voice mattered.

And I am so proud.

I'm grateful that one uncomfortable lesson early in my career taught me something I could never afford to forget again:

Communication is not limited to speech.

Participation is not optional.

And inclusion is always a choice.

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This story became the foundation for my latest podcast conversation about AAC, inclusion, and the responsibility we have to presume competence and make space for every voice.

You can listen to the full episode here:

Episode 5: Inclusion Is A Choice