High school. I can’t believe it either. (That means I’ve had this blog for about 7 years so far, but who’s counting.) I started high school about 2 weeks ago. My high school is huge, with about 1,300 kids. The halls are extremely crowded, which can sometimes cause a problem because I am not very fast or stable on my feet. My high school is split into two buildings—the STEM academy and the main building. Although we have five minutes to switch classes, a lot of the time I show up late because the walk is a lot further than you’d think. I have accommodations where I can leave class 3-5 minutes early so I can get a head start, but it’s hard for me to speak up and ask my teachers if it’s okay for me to leave.
I did not expect to learn very much in the first two weeks—but as it turned out, I did. I’ve learned how to say the days of the week in Spanish and what a corresponding angle is, but I’ve also learned a lot about myself.
As I mentioned, walking through the hallways is difficult. There are SO many people—most of them trying to get to class, others standing around and talking until the last 30 seconds—and a lot of them are upperclassmen who think it is their right to cut in front of freshmen. I happen to be a freshman that is very easy to knock down. I can lose my balance just from someone lightly bumping me. Sometimes I envy the people who stand around and chat until the last 30 seconds—either they’re just not worried about getting to class on time, or they can walk fast enough to get to class on time. Neither option applies to me. Unfortunately, I worry about getting to class on time and I’m mostly always late. Lately, though, I’ve realized that I need to do what works for me. If leaving class early helps me get to my next class on time, then I need to do that. Easier said than done, of course. Mostly because I haven’t established my credibility with my teachers. They don’t know that I’m not just leaving early to get out of class. (They do now because they have a copy of my IEP.) I have a hard time speaking up. I think it’s just easier to write everything down. I know that is not practical, but with writing I can think about what I want to say and take my time. Speaking isn’t always reliable. My mouth gets stuck on a word sometimes, but I digress. I have been trying to let my teachers know that I need to leave early, and for the most part they are understanding. As embarrassing as it can be to call attention to myself by being the first one to leave class, it is well worth it. I can take my time getting where I need to be.
Accommodations have been somewhat of an issue this year. I don’t need very many—I need an adaptive PE coach, an in-school physical therapist on a consult basis, a pass to use the elevator, and extra time to transition to my classes. Mostly it’s the physical aspects of school that I struggle with, and some people don’t understand that, considering that some people who have cerebral palsy are non-ambulatory and about 50% of people with CP have an intellectual disability. I don’t happen to fall into either of those categories. My point about learning things about myself is that I have learned I will speak up if my dignity is at stake or if something I pride myself on is taken away.
Health Science is one of my favorite classes this year. So far we’re learning about medical contributions in history, and next semester we’ll learn about medical terminology and human anatomy. I know a lot about the medical field—I have been to more than five types of therapy for over 13 years, and I have had many procedures besides. That being said, I am pretty knowledgeable about medical things. That was why I was taken aback when I wasn’t given the opportunity to take the full Health Science pretest.
If other kids had been in my situation, they probably would have welcomed the easier test. It doesn’t have as many questions. The test isn’t even going in the gradebook. I didn’t care. I wouldn’t be able to make as high of a score on the pretest because I was only given a test with twenty questions—and the test the other kids got was forty questions! My teacher wouldn’t allow me to take the test on my Chromebook like everyone else. She gave me a physical copy. I was fine until I realized that my test only had half the number of questions—and then I got mad!
My academics are important to me. Usually, I make straight A’s, and I achieve that because I work hard. I don’t have any modifications on my schoolwork because I don’t need any. I can keep up with my classmates intellectually—so much so that I am currently taking tenth-grade classes and will graduate high school with an associate’s degree! That being said, I was seeing red as I stared at the test on my desk.
“Excuse me?” I asked, raising my hand. “Why is my test different?” I still didn’t know my Health Science teacher very well and was timid.
“You need modifications, right?” she asked. I nodded, because I did need extra time with transitioning to classes and occasionally it took me more time to type an assignment. “Yes, ma’am, but—”
“Then that’s why your test is different,” she said.
I raised my hand again, and she came over to my desk. “I don’t need help on tests,” I stammered. “I do really well academically, and I can keep up with everyone else. I need accommodations for walking, but— it’s on my IEP….”
“If you have accommodations, then for right now it’s illegal for me not to give you the modified test,” she said, like she was wondering why I cared about a pretest, of all things, and why I wouldn’t just take the easy way out.
I guess a fault of mine is that when my pride is about to take a blow, I can’t keep my mouth shut. “Can I take the regular computer test after I finish?” I asked, desperation and the start of tears beginning to creep into my voice. I didn’t want to cry. I really, really didn’t want to cry. But this wouldn’t have happened to my twin sister, who didn’t have a disability. This wouldn’t have happened to other kids who looked just like me. No, because I had some trouble with my legs, I had to take a modified test.
“You can take the computer test if you want,” my teacher said with a shrug. “I just won’t be able to count it.”
With that, my eyes started to well up with tears. “Even if I do better on the computer test?” I asked.
“It’s a pretest, so it doesn’t go in the grade-book,” she reiterated. “Legally, I wouldn’t be able to count it.”
I’m sure I came off as being annoying, but academics matter to me, even if it was just a pretest. I wanted to prove all I knew about health sciences. I guess I wanted to prove, at my very core, that my legs might not work at full capacity, but that I shouldn’t be underestimated. My mind works so much faster than my legs, and that’s very frustrating for me.
I stared down at the test with hatred as I wondered what other questions would be on the computerized version. A tear dripped and splattered the paper. The girl who’d bullied me relentlessly for most of sixth grade—calling me “worthless” and “too slow”, claiming that I held up the class—snickered from across the table. Lucky me, she was in my Health Science class (a 1 in 8 chance) and she sat across the table from me.
Well, that girl seeing me having to take an easier test was what made me snap. I took the modified test, and my teacher offered to grade it right then. I got a 32/40. I didn’t think that was bad for a pretest, but I wanted a 100% —even if it was just so I could prove my teacher wrong.
So what do you think I did? I took the computerized test, of course. This time I got a 33/40. I felt a tiny bit better because I got a higher score, just like I thought.
“I did better on the computer test,” I told my teacher, my voice wavering.
She peered at the screen. “There’s only a one-point difference,” she told me.
“Are you sure you can’t count it?” I begged.
She shook her head.
Lo and behold, my 33/40 was the highest grade in the class. I talked to the assistant principal, who luckily had been my English teacher in sixth grade and knew what accommodations I needed.
Later that day, I got an email. It was one of the best emails I’ve ever gotten. The email said that my 33/40 was going to be counted.
I was satisfied. I had proved that although my legs might require me to need extra help, my mind was just fine. I had advocated for myself and things had worked out in the end. (And yes, I was just a little bit happy that I proved my teacher wrong.)