PRIDE
On Wednesday, March 27 I sat in the auditorium of my son's junior high school where more than 170 seventh grade
students, one by one, were acknowledged and inducted into the National Junior Honor Society as associate members.
Each student was presented with a certificate for their academic excellence, citizenship, leadership and commitment to
their community.
My son, Ben was one of them.
That day, I discovered the breadth of my vision for kids with disabilities as severe as Ben's had its limitations. The very
people I have asked to embrace Ben as just another student in the neighborhood school, as just another classmate in
the regular classroom, did much more than that - they showed me how.
When I first learned of Ben's inclusion in this honor, I considered not going. I was scared - this was beyond my field of
vision. He would be on stage for public scrutiny, judgments would be made, and he could be humiliated.
My fifteen-year-old daughter has been acknowledged every year for the past ten years for her brilliance and for being
an exemplary human being. But, Ben - he is graded for his achievements listed in his IEP goals, and I didn't know his
contributions to humanity would ever be publicly recognized.
Wednesday morning I asked Ben if I should go and cheer him on in the audience. He doesn't like his mom hanging
around so much anymore, so I think in the back of my mind I had hoped he didn't want me there. But his response was a
smile that lit up the room. I knew what he would have said, if he could.
Later that morning, I pulled my car in the parking lot as it started to fill up with parents of children being honored. As the
procession of parents headed toward the auditorium I felt different - not really there for the same reason, or was I?
Their children would go on to college, and Ben would not - or would he?
I was filled with anxiety, but smiled anyway as parents acknowledged one another. I saw an old friend and a fellow mom
from my kids' elementary school days. For years, we served on various school district committees together - she
represented regular education, and I represented special education. I thought surely she would wonder, "What is she
doing here?" We found seats and chatted about our kids and updated each other on life.
The ceremony started and the kids, one by one, crossed the stage as their name was called - Ben's would be called
soon. I could feel my teeth clenching, my heart pounding and my breath become short. Then I heard, "Ben Boisot!"
Out from behind the stage curtain came Ben in his wheelchair and alongside him was his friend Amanda helping him. As
he approached the principal she touched his hand to let him know she was there, and placed the certificate on his tray
because he can't see well enough to reach for it.
I didn't want to look around at the other students and the parents in the audience - because I worried eyes were rolling,
and parents were turning to each other whispering their bewilderment. I waited with a frightened anticipation for my
friend to say something patronizing to cover up her discomfort.
I held my breath. This could be the worst day of my life - of Ben's.
As Ben and Amanda headed off the stage, I reluctantly looked around at the audience and didn't notice anyone turning
away from Ben's presence on stage. Not one student stared at him as if to ponder, "Why?" Or did the students or
parents seem to notice Ben any more or less than they noticed each other. My friend, said, "Oh, there's Ben! It's so
good to see him."
Then … the next student's name was called, and the next. Slowly I let the air out of my lungs and sat silently crying.
After the ceremony, parents were instructed to wait outside. As I waited for Ben, hundreds of parents excitedly united
with their children. I heard, "I'm proud of you," and "I love you," many times. There were lots of hugs, kisses and pride
was everywhere. When Ben arrived and he realized I was standing there, his smile transformed. It was different than any
smile I'd ever seen.
It wasn't mere joy, or love. This smile was filled with pride. It was a new kind of smile.
The principal walked up to us and commented that she hadn't seen me in the audience and wondered if I had come.
She was glad I did, and so was I.
I told my son how proud I was, gave him a hug, said "goodbye" and as I headed out of the parking lot behind the
procession of cars filled with other parents, I knew I had just experienced the most incredible day in my life as Ben's
mom.
On Wednesday, March 27 I sat in the auditorium of my son's junior high school where more than 170 seventh grade
students, one by one, were acknowledged and inducted into the National Junior Honor Society as associate members.
Each student was presented with a certificate for their academic excellence, citizenship, leadership and commitment to
their community.
My son, Ben was one of them.
That day, I discovered the breadth of my vision for kids with disabilities as severe as Ben's had its limitations. The very
people I have asked to embrace Ben as just another student in the neighborhood school, as just another classmate in
the regular classroom, did much more than that - they showed me how.
When I first learned of Ben's inclusion in this honor, I considered not going. I was scared - this was beyond my field of
vision. He would be on stage for public scrutiny, judgments would be made, and he could be humiliated.
My fifteen-year-old daughter has been acknowledged every year for the past ten years for her brilliance and for being
an exemplary human being. But, Ben - he is graded for his achievements listed in his IEP goals, and I didn't know his
contributions to humanity would ever be publicly recognized.
Wednesday morning I asked Ben if I should go and cheer him on in the audience. He doesn't like his mom hanging
around so much anymore, so I think in the back of my mind I had hoped he didn't want me there. But his response was a
smile that lit up the room. I knew what he would have said, if he could.
Later that morning, I pulled my car in the parking lot as it started to fill up with parents of children being honored. As the
procession of parents headed toward the auditorium I felt different - not really there for the same reason, or was I?
Their children would go on to college, and Ben would not - or would he?
I was filled with anxiety, but smiled anyway as parents acknowledged one another. I saw an old friend and a fellow mom
from my kids' elementary school days. For years, we served on various school district committees together - she
represented regular education, and I represented special education. I thought surely she would wonder, "What is she
doing here?" We found seats and chatted about our kids and updated each other on life.
The ceremony started and the kids, one by one, crossed the stage as their name was called - Ben's would be called
soon. I could feel my teeth clenching, my heart pounding and my breath become short. Then I heard, "Ben Boisot!"
Out from behind the stage curtain came Ben in his wheelchair and alongside him was his friend Amanda helping him. As
he approached the principal she touched his hand to let him know she was there, and placed the certificate on his tray
because he can't see well enough to reach for it.
I didn't want to look around at the other students and the parents in the audience - because I worried eyes were rolling,
and parents were turning to each other whispering their bewilderment. I waited with a frightened anticipation for my
friend to say something patronizing to cover up her discomfort.
I held my breath. This could be the worst day of my life - of Ben's.
As Ben and Amanda headed off the stage, I reluctantly looked around at the audience and didn't notice anyone turning
away from Ben's presence on stage. Not one student stared at him as if to ponder, "Why?" Or did the students or
parents seem to notice Ben any more or less than they noticed each other. My friend, said, "Oh, there's Ben! It's so
good to see him."
Then … the next student's name was called, and the next. Slowly I let the air out of my lungs and sat silently crying.
After the ceremony, parents were instructed to wait outside. As I waited for Ben, hundreds of parents excitedly united
with their children. I heard, "I'm proud of you," and "I love you," many times. There were lots of hugs, kisses and pride
was everywhere. When Ben arrived and he realized I was standing there, his smile transformed. It was different than any
smile I'd ever seen.
It wasn't mere joy, or love. This smile was filled with pride. It was a new kind of smile.
The principal walked up to us and commented that she hadn't seen me in the audience and wondered if I had come.
She was glad I did, and so was I.
I told my son how proud I was, gave him a hug, said "goodbye" and as I headed out of the parking lot behind the
procession of cars filled with other parents, I knew I had just experienced the most incredible day in my life as Ben's
mom.
Permission to reprint granted by TheArcLink, Incorporated at www.TheArcLink.org
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