Why Kids in Special Education Should Get a Say in Their Class Choices: A Teacher’s Real Experience
The plastic conference table was sticky with spilled coffee when Leo slid his notebook across it during his IEP meeting last April. He’s a 10th grader with Down syndrome, and most of the meeting had been spent talking about his goals for grocery budgeting and reading street signs—until he finally piped up that he wanted to take the new animation elective all the general ed kids were posting about on Instagram. His case manager shook her head. “It’s a fast-paced, high-credit class,” she said. “It won’t fit his needs.” Leo’s cheeks pinked, and he flipped his notebook closed so I couldn’t see the pages of Minecraft stick-figure animations I’d watched him draw in study hall every day that semester.
I’ve been a special ed teacher at this rural high school for eight years, and this isn’t the first time I’ve seen this play out. For decades, we’ve boxed special ed kids into pre-set schedules: resource blocks for reading and math, life skills electives, limited exposure to general ed classes that other kids get to pick based on what they enjoy. We talk a lot about independence, but we rarely give them the one small, meaningful independence that matters most: choosing how they spend their school day. I pushed the team to compromise on a two-week trial for Leo, no pressure, if it didn’t work we’d switch him back to the pre-planned art class. No one loved the idea, but they agreed.
I walked Leo to animation on the first day, and the general ed teacher had set up a tablet for him same as every other student. The first two days, he got frustrated—he couldn’t figure out how to layer frames to make his drawings move, and he came to my room after day two saying he wanted to quit. I didn’t tell him to power through; I just asked the animation teacher if he could move seats next to a quiet freshman who’d already been helping other kids with the software. The freshman, Javi, stayed 10 minutes after class each day to show Leo the basics, and by day four, Leo pulled me aside after school to show me a 10-second clip of a cat knocking over a glass of milk. He was grinning so wide his dimples showed.
Leo stayed the whole semester. We put one simple accommodation in his IEP for the class: instead of a 3-minute final animation, he only had to complete a 1-minute one, and he could turn it in a week late if he needed extra time. His final clip was about his golden retriever, Max, stealing a peanut butter sandwich off the kitchen counter. He showed it at the end-of-semester student showcase, and his whole family cheered so loud the people in the hallway poked their heads in. He still sits with Javi at lunch now, something that never would have happened if he’d stayed in the separate life skills class he was supposed to take.
This experience isn’t some feel-good story about a kid beating the odds. It’s a reminder that we get this wrong so often. We assume that because a kid has a disability or an IEP, they can’t possibly know what they want or what they can handle. We prioritize remediation and check-the-box IEP goals over letting kids explore things that bring them joy, even if those things aren’t “on their level.” I’ve seen a nonverbal student with autism denied access to the school’s gardening club because the team said he “wouldn’t be able to follow directions,” even though he spent every recess digging in the flower beds by the playground. I’ve seen a student with dyslexia turned away from drama class because the team worried he’d struggle to read his lines, even though he spent every free period memorizing movie monologues for fun.
For parents who are navigating this right now, there are small, concrete things you can do to push for your kid. First, before you go to your IEP or schedule meeting, sit down with your kid and ask them directly what they want. Even if your kid doesn’t communicate verbally, pay attention to what they spend their free time doing, and bring that up first. Write down their top two choices, and put that list on the table before you talk about goals or accommodations. If the team says the class is too hard or won’t fit their needs, ask for a two-week trial with clear, small accommodations instead of a flat no. Accommodations don’t have to be expensive or complicated: a peer buddy, extended deadlines, shorter assignments, or check-ins once a week with a staff member are all things most schools can put in place without extra work.
For teachers, it’s just as simple: every spring, when you’re prepping next year’s schedules, spend two minutes checking in with each of your special ed students. Ask them what one class they really want to take, and what one they don’t. It takes almost no extra time, and it will change how you build schedules.
This year, I’m working with Mia, a 9th grader with severe ADHD who wants to take AP Studio Art. The team is worried she’ll fall behind on portfolio requirements, that the workload will stress her out too much. We’re negotiating the same two-week trial, with small accommodations: she checks in with an aide once a week to organize her assignments, and she only has to submit 8 pieces instead of 12 for the final portfolio. It’s not settled yet, and it might not work out. But even if it doesn’t, letting her try matters more than protecting her from disappointment. Leo didn’t go on to become a professional animator, and he still struggles with the technical parts of the software. But he walks down the hall now talking about animations with his friend, and that’s more than he ever got out of the life skills drawing class he was supposed to take. I don’t have all the answers, but I know this: every kid, regardless of their IEP, deserves to get a vote on how they spend their day.
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