Rob J. Quinn’s Blog

I sat in the dean’s office. I can hear the two kids who had been pulled out of their classes just outside the door talking to each other before the dean gets back from whatever he was doing. They’re asking each other, “Do you know why we’re here?” “I have no idea, do you?” Life was pretty good as a senior, with an exception or two. This group shot of seniors is from the yearbook. My speech disability was always an easy target for other kids. Senior year, these two kids mumbled every time I opened my mouth in English class. I knew these guys. Hell, I was friendly with one of them, and knew the other one well enough to say “What’s up?” to. I was visibly upset one day after class and the resource room staff found out what was going on. I was absolutely ready to fight these kids. I end up in the dean’s office. My English teacher happened to be in the outer office and joined the meeting after the dean returned. She admits she had no idea what was going on. We sat in the front row of

(READ PART I ) The jump from eighth grade to high school was more difficult than going from “special” school to eighth grade. Some teachers were intent on letting students know that we were “in high school now” and wouldn’t be coddled, which I’m sure is fairly standard. But at times that message seemed to spillover to include an open dislike for having to teach disabled students. An inaccessible building frequently required classes to be moved so that students with disabilities could actually get to class, which didn’t thrill some teachers. It meant they had to move to a different room for a period or two during the day. Mostly, though, that was just an excuse for their attitude. My senior picture from the yearbook. It didn’t help matters that the attitude of the “resource room” staff wasn’t any better. In my first two years of high school, there was a confrontational atmosphere created by the staff in the room. They picked up on the theme of telling us that we were “in high school