As a new paraprofessional assigned to John Ray,* a kindergartener on the autism spectrum, I was forewarned. “He can be violent,” an administrator told me. “I suggest you watch out for yourself,” a teacher down the hall advised.
When I entered his classroom, John Ray was drawing quietly at a small table. I sat down beside him and said, “Hi.” He began sharing what he’d been learning about the mating rituals of field crickets. Then he took the piece of paper he was drawing on and folded it effortlessly into a paper airplane. “There,” he said pointedly. “See that?”
From the outset of my time at this elementary school in Portland, Oregon, John Ray was my teacher. He taught me how to repair the paper shredder and how to pronounce the ingredients on his milk carton. He read third-grade chapter books in the hallway while his classmates sounded out consonants and vowels.
Unfortunately, John Ray’s social emotional skills lagged considerably behind his precocious cognitive ones. When John Ray got bored one morning, he dumped his applesauce cup on a classmate’s head. When she cried, he erupted into giggles. John Ray’s outbursts were always precipitated by a lack of academic challenge. His classes were too easy for his accelerated mind.
As his paraprofessional, I fully agreed with the Individuals With Disabilities Education Act’s requirement of educating him in the “least restrictive environment,” which states that students should have the opportunity to be educated with peers who don’t have disabilities “to the maximum extent appropriate.” Therefore, I prioritized helping him learn to play with others and tried everything I could to keep him in the classroom with his peers. I set a timer to help him stay in his chair. I gave him therapy putty for sensory stimulation. I ordered a weighted vest and supplied a “sensory sack” for him to wiggle around in to keep calm.
In spite of these tricks, John Ray’s behavior only grew more problematic. When he felt unchallenged by the material three grades too easy for him, he flung objects off of their shelves and yelled out of turn. He pinched—and even bit—classmates unexpectedly.
While I was wary of removing John Ray from class, I was also curious about what would happen to his behavior if he were to be challenged academically. So I decided to experiment.
With the administration’s permission, I established an experiential curriculum appropriate for his abilities. When he was challenged academically, discipline was no longer an issue; in fact, he thrived. As we explored computer science and meteorology, I watched his eyes twinkle and his face begin to glow. His excitement about tornadoes was contagious. Origami architecture and predictive logic—subjects I’d never thought twice about—became fascinating when explored through his wondering eyes.
With engaging material, kids like John Ray can exemplify intellectual growth and a genuine hunger for learning. He had an insatiable curiosity and wanted to dive deeply into exploring the world around him. While that energy at times could be disruptive, it could also be harnessed with a hands-on, experiential curriculum.
I also wanted to emphasize the importance of social interaction, as this aspect of his development was what kept him from moving to a higher grade. Therefore, every class period included time for John Ray to share his learning with his classmates. As he naturally embraced new concepts by teaching them to others, his “sharing time” developed both his academic and social emotional skills.
When John Ray presented our “tornado-in-a-bottle” project, for instance, his classmates grew riveted, wanting to learn more about the science of cyclones. His passion for science was palpable and spread contagiously as he connected with his peers. As John Ray experienced positive interactions with his classmates, his confidence and social skills grew. This, I found, was the true meaning of “least restrictive environment.”
With engaging material, kids like John Ray can exemplify intellectual growth and a genuine hunger for learning. He had an insatiable curiosity and wanted to dive deeply into exploring the world around him. While that energy at times could be disruptive, it could also be harnessed with a hands-on, experiential curriculum.
The success entailed pushing for John Ray to receive an individualized education plan, or IEP, as soon as possible. While some schools urge delaying testing until first grade, advocacy from informed educators can expedite the process. It may be useful to jot down observations, list concerns and gather written work early—it takes time to get a referral for evaluation. There is no benefit to putting off this process.
It was also essential for me to know John Ray as an individual. While I was handed many tips and strategies for Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD), many of them were not suitable for his unique learning challenges and personality. Once I got to know John Ray personally, I was able to tailor his lessons and advocate for him effectively.
Finally, John Ray, like many children with ASD, benefitted enormously from consistency and routine. He’d had no assigned paraprofessional before I started working with him, and different adults were in and out of his workspace all day long. This can be disruptive and potentially emotionally triggering for students with ASD. Once John Ray knew what to expect—from me and from his day—he acclimated more readily to expectations.
When supportive measures are put in place, students like John Ray can become role models for academic engagement. By appealing to their natural curiosity, rather than simply teaching them to mimic their neurotypical peers, educators can implement the true spirit of the least restrictive environment.
*Student’s name has been changed.
Ehrenhalt is the school-based programming and grants manager with Teaching Tolerance.
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