Preferential Seating and You (Part Two)

Hey, it's a school! A school of sardines. I'm winking at you in an exaggerated fashion right now, via the internet.

Anyone reading this blog feel as though they've got a lot of extra space in their classroom? Anyone? Just, you know, raise your hand... lots of room to move around... empty desks...

(crickets chirping)

Ah.

I got to chat a little with one of our mainstream teachers today, taking a small bite out of his already short prep period. I still marvel at the many teachers I meet who give of this precious time so gracefully. When approached during those measured, quiet minutes of thinking and planning time, my reaction is similar to a cat who is approached by another cat while eating. A growl forms deep in my throat, giving warning to all those nearby that I'm feeling threatened; if the intrusion continues, I bat repeatedly at the interloper's head with both paws (!) until they go away and I can resume my photocopying.

To the point: this teacher is a prince of a human being: a gentleman who always greets me with a smile, even when it's early in the school year and he knows that I'm walking up his ramp to nibble away at his prep time. He knows I'm stopping by to add stress to his life. He would be well within his rights to greet me at the door with a can of pepper spray.

Stepping into his classroom, I look around. Desks. More than thirty desks. They have been pushed into neat rows, tight walkways winding their way up and down. There is, maybe, two feet of space between the frontmost desk and the whiteboard. There is, maybe, two feet of space between the rearmost desk and the back wall. Near the entrance, the teacher has carved out a small man-cave of space, replete with books and teaching implements: yardsticks, hole-punches, small brass devices for calculating the position of the stars while saving the world each day. A large table is covered from end to end with large stacks of photocopied something.  I ask if I can help with anything while we talk, tilting my head towards the stacks of something. He politely declines my offer of help, much as a drowning man might politely decline the offer of a thrown life-preserver from the side of a rescue vessel.

I am struck by how many kids -- how many brains and bottoms -- must occupy those seats during any given lesson.

During my most horrible, run-crying-to-the-union school years, I've never counted more than thirteen heads in my room during morning attendance.

This teacher says: "On your student's first day in my classroom, I don't think I actually made eye contact with him once during the entire time he was here. The other kids with special needs consumed almost all of my time, attention and energy during our lesson."

I forget, sometimes, how much - how much, how many, how? Just - how?

My entries on preferential seating will continue in a future "Part Three" with all those tantalizing details that I teased in my last writings. For tonight: just this simple thank you to all the mainstream teachers who take on so much for so little. I feel honored and humbled to work with you.

Preferential Seating and You (Part One)

Welcome back, everyone!

I hope your summer was both restful and fun. I have a vague, sepia-tone recollection of summer vacation being both of those things. As I age, and as my daughters take a more decisive command of our household during the summer months, I am finding more and more that "rest" and "fun" have become mutually exclusive experiences. I can enjoy either, but only at the expense of the other.

I thought I'd take a few moments to address a common IEP accommodation for deaf and hard of hearing kids: preferential seating. This accommodation is so universal that this blog is (surprise!) actually named after it. More often than not, "preferential seating" is interpreted as meaning a seat in the front, close to the whiteboard and teacher.

Intriguingly, teaching while rooted to the front of the classroom and surrounded by comatose students is no longer considered sound educational practice. Instead, teachers are expected to move nimbly about the room, taming lions and starting fires using only their bare hands and captured methane gas. They might project images onto a screen in the front of the room while speaking in the back of the room using a microphone that projects their voice from the side of the room while directing small, collaborative groups in the middle of the room. 

I have seen teachers teach from atop a lab table while hula-hooping. I remember my high school physics teacher continuing to lecture while in full pursuit of a flaming dry cleaning bag as it floated into a neighbor's tree. I am not making this up.

Where, I ask, would the preferred seating be for this particular circus act?

The default application of this accommodation continues to be, in most cases, a seat at the very front of the room, with a chair facing the student where the interpreter will be deployed. In many situations, this works out pretty well. The interpreter is in a predictable location, which reduces the likelihood of catastrophic (although potentially entertaining) collisions. Many teachers continue to teach dynamically from the front of the room, making a front-row seat an appropriate accomodation. Often, after a brief period of intense attention from the students, stationary educational interpreters find that they can fade into the background as the novelty wanes: a transparent tool giving the deaf child access to the classroom curriculum. 

As is often the case, I'm going to encourage y'all to go a little deeper.

Does the student wear hearing aids, or is he or she totally deaf? Does the student use a classroom FM system? Have you seen the kid's aided audiogram: a easy-to-understand graph that provides vital clues as to how much a student can hear in a variety of situations? Is one ear better than the other? Does the student wear glasses? Does the student have additional learning disabilities? (An estimated 20%-50% do: source) Can the classroom Radium system make it *more*  difficult for the student to understand what you are saying? Does the student have a cochlear implant or does he or she rely totally on conventional hearing aids?

Do you, as a teacher, move around the classroom the whole time, or do you teach primarily from one location in the room? With the advent of Common Core, are you doing a lot more group work? Computer work? Whole class discussion? Have you implemented rules for turn-taking in group discussion that makes it possible for the interpreter to clearly point out who is speaking and what they are saying? Can the student take in the teacher, the interpreter, and any visual aids you are using within a single field of vision, or must they shift their gaze between the three - not to mention notes or work on their desk - in order to follow instruction?

As you can see, there can be a lot more to this seemingly innocuous detail than first meets the eye.

It's my belief that with a small amount of work, a little courage and a few moments of reflection, this tiny IEP detail can become something meaningful: an accommodation that can truly bring a child's mainstreaming experience to life. 

I will be posting a second, more detailed installment on this topic in a few days. In the meantime: I am at your disposal if you are interested in taking a closer look at this accommodation. I think you'll be amazed at the huge difference that very small changes can make. :)