I remember meeting a person who looked and spoke differently than anyone else I knew. I think I was in fourth grade. He often waited at the back door of my school, St. Christopher, for a bus that was shorter than all the other buses. I remember that he had a big smile. I liked interacting with him, even though I did not understand many of his words. I remember being curious about him. He seemed older, so I think I understood that he was too old for my school. He was likely my first experience with a person who had significant support needs.

The next time I met someone who seemed “different” was in the home of my father’s friend. This friend had a son who was carried everywhere, even though he seemed too big for that, and he did not speak. I remember that he also had a big smile.

Many years later, when I was in college, as luck would have it, I interviewed for a job at a public school to be a teacher’s assistant in a developmental kindergarten classroom. I was thrilled when I got that job. There were five to seven students over the year that I worked there, and I had an unofficial favorite. These kiddos were not alike in many ways, as their needs and diagnoses varied, but they were alike in their need for love, respect, and attention. As so many children do, they all had a deep desire to belong.

One loved the songs and crafts and had a craving for community. Another also loved the songs and was a “look at me” kid in the classroom, on the playground, and in the lunchroom. He needed our approval and guidance. Another gave her best despite her daily seizures. She had her own way of engaging and learning. There were many others.

That year, we accomplished so much: learning the alphabet, counting to one hundred, creating positive eating and hygiene routines, connecting one kiddo’s mom with community support, and even making it to field day, where I lost the cracker-whistling contest to my lead teacher. It was a great year. We had some hardships too. The biggest was the one student who left in the middle of the school year because he could not be in the classroom without getting angry and lashing out at others. It was hard to see him leave.

Forty years later, I still think about those kids and the impact they had on my life. I will always wonder what happened to the little guy, my unofficial favorite, whose hygiene was not so great. Some days he smelled so bad that we would soap him off in the school bathroom. He truly had the biggest smile.

I am sharing this story here because, to me, these children are the perfect example of both how we are alike and how important belonging can be to people who are not in the mainstream. They belonged in our classroom, and they mattered to me. There are many things people can live without, but love, respect, attention, and belonging do not have to be among them. Not when those of us whose needs are met can help support others.

I truly believe that one of the most important human needs, after food, shelter, and healthcare, is belonging. I believe deeply in the need to be intentionally inclusive so that we create opportunities for everyone.

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Peace,

Angi