Write a reflection journal of 350?400 words that addresses the following questions:

Write a reflection journal of 350?400 words that addresses the following questions: 1. What are at least five key points in the articles and the text readings? 2. Include a discussion about your prior beliefs about the legal history of special education. How have the readings altered or informed your beliefs? 3. Based upon your experience in education, how might you apply this content to a classroom and instruction? The Promise of Adulthood Dianne L. Ferguson Philip M. Ferguson activities as the making of sound effects.Furthermore, the drama teacher at Ian’s high school just happened to be quite active in community theater in our town. Our objective, then, was really to see if we could figure out how Ian might participate in community theater productions as an adult leisure activity, possibly networking with the drama teacher to gain an entree into that group. To our pleasure, Ian benefited in many more unexpected ways from his introduction to the dramatic arts: memorization, articulation, expressiveness, and social interaction. He also learned to “fly.” A major part of the first few weeks of class involved Ian’s participation in “trust” exercises. Some students fell off ladders, trusting their classmates to catch them. Others dived off a runway with the same belief that their friends would break their fall.The exercise that Joe Zeller, the teacher, picked to challenge Ian was called “flying.”Seven or eight of Ian’s classmates were to take him out of his wheelchair and raise him up and down in the air, tossing him just a little above their heads. Now, the first time they tried this, everyone was very tense. Both Mr. Zeller and Leah Howard (Ian’s support teacher) were nervous; it was an adventure for them as well.The students released Ian’s feet from their heel straps, unbuckled his seatbelt, and, leaning In his last year of high school, Ian Ferguson learned to fly. This was quite an accomplishment for someone labeled “severely mentally retarded” and physically disabled. As Ian’s parents,we marveled at his achievement and worried about the law of gravity. Let us explain. As part of Ian’s final year as a student—nearly 20 years ago now—he enrolled in “Beginning Drama.” Following his carefully designed transition plan, Ian spent most of the rest of his day out in the community working at various job sites, shopping at various stores, eating at various restaurants. But he began each day in drama class with a roomful of other would-be thespians.The logic behind Ian’s participation in the class at the time was that it might lead somehow to his adult participation in some aspect or other of community theater.You see, while Ian’s vision is poor, his hearing is great. In fact, he finds odd or unexpected sounds (human or otherwise) to be endlessly amusing. During high school, one of our more insightful friends bought Ian a set of sound effects tapes of the type used by theater groups (e.g., “Sound A-24, woman screaming, 27 seconds” [screaming ensues]; Sound A-25, man sneezing, 15 seconds . . .”) as called for by various productions. Surely, we reasoned, Ian could learn to control his laughter long enough to help in such offstage 612 ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. over en masse, lifted him out of his chair. Joe and Leah positioned themselves at the most crucial locations on either side of Ian and slowly—together with the students—began to raise Ian’s supine body with their hands.Now it was Ian’s turn to be nervous. Ian’s spasticity makes it impossible for him to break a fall by throwing out his arms. Several painful crashes have left him with a strong fear of falling at the first sensation of being off balance or awkwardly positioned. Like many folks who experience his kind of physical disability, Ian has a hard time trusting strangers to move the body that he has so little control over. As the students lifted him, he clutched nervously at the only wrist within reach of the one hand he can use, trying to find something to hold onto.His voice anxiously wavered, “Leah, Leah,” seeking reassurance that this was, in fact, a wise course of action. It was pretty scary for Ian and pretty risky for everyone else. But the exercise went well. Months later, when the drama class repeated some of the same trust exercises, Ian greeted the suggestion that he “fly” with an eager response of “Out of chair! Out of chair!” That is how Ian learned to “fly” in his last year of school.The secret was building on his eagerness to be a true member of the class to learn to control his fear of falling. It is a lesson that has served us all well in the ensuing years. We tell this story about “flying” in drama class because it also captures the simultaneous sensations of excitement and anxiety that we experienced as Ian finished high school and launched into adulthood.We were fairly certain that Ian had some mixed feelings as his old routines and familiar settings vanished and new activities and settings took their place.The people in Ian’s social network of formal and informal supports and friendship also recognized the responsibility that enough hands be there to “catch” Ian if he started to fall. As Ian left the relative stability of public school, grounded as it is in legal mandates and cultural familiarity, we worried about the thin air of adulthood where formal support systems seemed to promise little and accomplish even less. Ian turned 40 in September 2009. He lives in his own home, works at a job that he has enjoyed for nearly 20 years, and actively participates in a full schedule of household tasks, social engagements, parties, chores,weekends away, and an occasional longer vacation. He did participate as a member of the cast in a local production of Oklahoma! that was directed by his high school drama teacher as we had hoped. He is supported in his adult life by a network of paid and unpaid persons, a personal support agent who also provides direct support, and our ongoing involvement to ensure that his life is more okay than not okay from his point of view most of the time. Our journey through these years has been difficult, often confusing and frustrating, but also filled with many exciting achievements.We have all learned a good deal about how one young man can negotiate an adult life and the kinds of supports that this requires. Equally important,we have come to meet many other individuals (and their families) who have had similar experiences. Each journey is unique, but also is filled with a common mix of frustration and achievement. Moreover, all those with whom we have met continue to wrestle—to some degree or another—with a similar set of thorny questions. How can a family make sure that an adult-age child’s life is really his life and not one that merely reflects the regulations, individual support plan procedures, agency practices, and other formal services trappings? How do we assure ourselves that our children are somehow authentically contributing to all of the choices that get made about what constitutes a good adult life for them? Over the past two decades or so—since Ian left school—families have helped create new options for a whole generation of people like Ian as they sought answers to these questions. We have also increased our understanding of what it means for someone who has a variety of severe disabilities to be an adult. Exploring the Promise of Adulthood In this chapter,we explore this status of adulthood and how it applies to people with severe disabilities. Our point is not that persons with severe disabilities who are over the age of 18 or 21 are somehow not adults; of course,they are adults.The problem is that our field has not spent enough time thinking through exactly what that means in our culture and era. Adulthood is more than simply a chronological marker that indicates that someone is over a certain age. As important as having a meaningful job or living as independently as possible is, adulthood seems to involve more than this. As one social commentator has framed this distinction, “In many ways, children may always be children and adults may always be adults, but conceptions of ‘childhood’ and ‘adulthood’ are infinitely variable” (Meyrowitz, The Promise of Adulthood 613 ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 614 Chapter 16 1984, p. 25). If it is our responsibility as the teachers and parents of students with severe disabilities to launch them as successfully as possible into adulthood, then it should be worthwhile to reflect on what promises such a role should hold.What is the promise of adulthood for people with severe disabilities? We are not so bold as to think that we can fully answer that question in this chapter. Our efforts here will be to begin a discussion of the issue that we think needs to continue within the field of severe disabilities in general.We will organize our efforts into three main sections: (a) understanding adulthood, (b) denying adulthood, and (c) achieving adulthood. Finally, throughout our discussion, our perspective will be unavoidably personal as well as professional.We will not pretend to be some anonymous and objective scholars writing dispassionately about the abstraction of adulthood for people with severe disabilities.Our son,Ian, is one of those people and he is far from an abstraction to us.We will mention him throughout this chapter to illustrate some points that we make and to explain our perspective better. As mentioned, though, Ian is far from being alone with his story. So by way of comparison, we will also share stories about another young man named Douglas who we have known for more than 20 years, and whose journey as an adult with significant disabilities is both similar to and different from Ian’s. While Douglas has never officially been placed along the autism spectrum, certainly a number of his responses to people and to his environment have raised that type of label as a possibility. For Douglas’s family, it has been a long time since the specific labels have seemed particularly useful or important. For them, Douglas is Douglas. _____ Douglas _____ greets us each time. He seems to be most excited to see Phil—especially now that they wear similar short beards— but we take his enthusiastic greeting as a welcome to us both. Douglas expresses himself clearly, but rarely with words that anyone but his family understands. He has a variety of health problems that have plagued him and his family over the years and he has an attention to order and detail that can be useful, but also annoying to live with. He is, nevertheless, a presence in his home, in his town, and in our memories of each of our summers in this part of Canada. We first met Douglas and his family a little more than 20 years ago when we started teaching each summer in Atlantic Canada at a local university. During the summer of 2009, he turned 38. For three weeks each July, our lives alternate among teaching classes to teachers, exploring the Maritime Provinces, and spending time with friends. Douglas’s mother was a professor at the university and she invited us not only to teach, but to dinner, and through her we met, over the years, not just Douglas but the whole family. After the first year or two, we have come to appreciate as one of the best parts of our visit how Douglas Finally, we will write not only as Ian’s parents or Douglas’s friend, but we also will draw on our own research and that of other professionals and scholars in disability studies to bolster our discussion as well.Such a mixture of the personal and professional perspectives does not only affect us as the writers, it should also affect you as the reader.You should read and respond to this chapter as a discussion of the concept of adulthood in general, but also as it fits (or does not fit) your own personal experiences with persons with severe disabilities. Understanding Adulthood The concept of adulthood is a fluid one that changes from era to era and from culture to culture (Ingstad & Whyte, 1995). For most European cultures, adulthood has a strong individualistic (or egocentric in anthropological terms) emphasis on personal independence and achievement. For many non-Western cultures,however, adulthood has a stronger emphasis on familial and social (or sociocentric) affiliations and connectedness (Klingner, Blanchett, & Harry, 2007; Rueda, Monzó, Shapiro, Gomez, & Blacher, 2005).Within a single culture, the status of adulthood might vary depending on the context. For example, a religious tradition might consider the beginning of adulthood to be at one age (e.g., age 13 in Judaism), while the legal status for the same person comes several years later (e.g., age 18), and the secular status might not be fully achieved until some time after that (say, age 21 or when undergraduate study has been completed). Even within our own American culture, the interpretation of adulthood has always undergone gradual historical shifts, influenced by all of the factors that go into our social profile; demographic trends,economic developments,educational ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. The Promise of Adulthood 615 patterns, cultural diversity, and even technology (think about how the availability of the automobile—both front and backseat—has changed the experience of adolescence). A quick historical review may help. The Changing Status of Adulthood The status of adulthood in our society is simple and complex, obvious and obscure. At one level, it is a straightforward matter of age.Anyone who is over the age of 18 (or, for some activities, 21) is an adult, pure and simple. The process is automatic: One achieves adulthood through simple endurance. If you live long enough, you cease being a child and become an adult. In legal terms, one could even be judged incompetent to manage one’s affairs but still remain an adult in this chronological sense. At an equally basic level, adulthood can mean simply a state of biological maturity. In such terms, an adult is someone who has passed through the pubertal stage and is physiologically fully developed. As with the chronological meaning, this biological interpretation also is still common and largely accurate as far as it goes: To be an adult, at least in the physical sense, is to be grown up, mature, fully developed. However, it seems clear to us that the matter has always been more complicated than either chronology or biology (Blatterer, 2007; Kett, 1977; Molgat, 2007; Shanahan, 2000). These factors convey a sense of precision and permanence about the concept that simply ignores the process of social construction by which every culture imbues such terms with meaning (Blatterer, 2007; Ingstad & Whyte, 1995; Kalyanpur & Harry, 1999). Moreover, as Rueda and his colleagues (2005) have pointed out, cultures themselves are seldom homogeneous. So, conceptions of adulthood vary not only across cultures, but also within individual cultures. For example, historically, we know that the beginning age for adulthood has been a surprisingly flexible concept even within the confines of Western culture (Modell, Furstenberg, & Hershberg, 1978). Philippe Aries (1962) has even argued that childhood itself, as a social distinction, was not discovered in Europe until the 16th century. Before then, he argues, children were treated as little more than “miniature adults”—much like they were portrayed in medieval art (Aries, 1962). Adolescence, for example, was reported in a 16thcentury French compilation of “informed opinion” as being the third stage of life, lasting until 28 or even 35 years of age (Aries, 1962). On the other hand, in colonial New England, legal responsibility for one’s personal behavior began at “the age of discretion,” which usually meant 14 to 16 years old (Beales, 1985), and many children left home for their vocational apprenticeships as early as age 10 or 12 (Beales, 1985;Kett, 1977). At the end of the 19th century in Europe and America and continuing today, a period of postadolescent youth emerged where the children of the upper and middle classes (mainly males at first, but now also females) could choose to postpone their adulthood by extending their professional training into their late 20s. The key distinction for this delayed adulthood was the extended status of economic dependency for these college students (e.g.,Wohl, 1979).Taylor (1988) is even more specific:“Physically and psychologically adults, these individuals have not yet committed to those institutions which society defines as adult— namely, work, marriage and family” (p. 649). In many areas of the country, both urban and rural, this extended economic dependency continues to shape the cultural expectations of a successful transition to adulthood (Furstenberg, Cook, Eccles, Elder, & Sameroff, 1999;Magnussen,1997). Most social historians seem to agree that after a period of compression and inflexibility in the decades following World War II, the “acceptable” time span for transition from childhood to adulthood has become a mosaic of psychological and sociological variations (Arnett & Tanner, 2006; Blatterer, 2007; Modell et al., 1978). The National Academy of Sciences has postponed the end of adolescence to age 30 in today’s United States (cited in Danesi,2003,pp.103–104).If there ever was one,there is no longer a “standard” adulthood (Blatterer, 2007). What remains is a curious interaction of fixed periods of institutional transitions (e.g., graduation, voting, legal status) with fluid patterns of social and structural change (e.g., economic separation, living apart from parents, sexual activity, postsecondary education) (Blatterer, 2007; Molgat, 2007). As America grows more diverse, it seems likely that the traditional cultural markers of adulthood will only become more problematic and situational (Molgat, 2007). Kalyanpur and Harry (1999), for example, point out that for many non-Anglo families,“it is assumed that the son will continue to live in the parents’ home, regardless of economic or marital status, and that the daughter will leave after marriage only to move in with her husband’s family”(p. 106). Rueda et al. (2005), in a study of Latina mothers of transition-age sons and daughters, found that “the notion of having one’s young adult go ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 616 Chapter 16 off on his or her own was not part of the mindset of these mothers, irrespective of whether a developmental disability was involved” (p. 406). At the same time, many children from poor families feel early pressure to contribute to the economic survival of the family and their own material well-being. In many aspects of social life, teenagers engage in “adult” behavior at earlier and earlier ages (Furstenberg et al., 1999). Given this cultural and historical variability, how might we elaborate on an understanding of adulthood that goes beyond age? How can we describe the social and cultural dimensions of adulthood? Finally, how do these social and cultural dimensions affect the experiences and opportunities of persons with severe disabilities? We will address these questions by examining some of the dimensions of adulthood and their symbolic significance. The Dimensions of Adulthood As Ian’s parents, we naturally thought that it was important that Ian graduate from high school. More to the point, however, we felt that it was extremely important that he participate as fully as possible in his high school’s commencement exercises.The graduation ritual itself seemed crucial to us. It took planning, coordination, cooperation, and compromise by a number of people to make that participation happen, but happen it did, as the picture of Ian in his cap and gown shows (Figure 16–1). Now, while Ian certainly enjoyed his graduation (especially the part where people applauded as he crossed the stage), we don’t know if he fully appreciated all of the cultural symbolism attached to such events by many of the other participants. Missing the graduation ceremony would not have lessened the skills that Ian had learned in high school, threatened the friendships he had forged, or worsened his prospects for a smooth transition from school to work. In other words, the importance of Ian’s participation in commencement was largely symbolic. It symbolized for us many of the same things that a son or daughter’s graduation from high school symbolizes for most parents.We’ll have more to say about Douglas’s graduation later, but like Ian, his family valued the importance of his participation and for many of the same reasons. Few events are as loaded with symbolism as a graduation ceremony. It is perhaps the closest that our particular society comes to a formal rite of passage from childhood to adulthood. Of course, other societies and traditions might have other symbols that are equally powerful that do not include anything related to ceremonies about finishing schooling. Much of what we are trying to capture in an understanding of adulthood occurs at this symbolic level of meaning. There are three important dimensions to this symbolic understanding as shown in Table 16–1. The Dimension of Autonomy Perhaps the most familiar and common symbols of adulthood in our society are those that convey a sense of personal autonomy.This dimension emphasizes the status of adulthood as an outcome or a completion. It is the achieving of adulthood that is the main focus; what happens throughout the adult years in terms of learning and growth or the physical changes that accompany aging are less the point. More specific features of autonomy can be seen in several aspects of life commonly associated with adulthood. Self-Sufficiency. One of the most often cited features of adulthood is an expectation of self-sufficiency. At the FIGURE 16–1 Ian at His High School Graduation Ceremony ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. The Promise of Adulthood 617 most fundamental level, this usually means economic self-sufficiency. Whether by employment, inherited wealth, or social subsidy, adulthood entails the belief that one has the resources to take care of oneself. This sense of self-sufficiency entails a transition from a primary existence of economic consumption and dependency to one of rough balance between consumption and production.Theoretically, even our welfare system works to preserve and enhance the self-sufficiency of individuals by providing temporary support and training. However, self-sufficiency goes beyond this economic sense to also include elements of emotional adequacy. Adulthood usually brings the sense of having the emotional and economic resources to “make it on one’s own.”People who whine about trivial complaints are often told to “grow up” or “quit acting like a baby.” Moreover, there are important gender differences in how our culture portrays emotional maturity. Still, in some sense or another, emotional competence in the face of life’s adversities is presented as an expectation for adults. Last year, Ian earned about $4,000 in his job at the university.This annual income has varied over time from a high of $4,500 to a low of $3,000 as his responsibilities changed, as supervisors changed, and as other parts of his life took precedence.While this job and these earnings are important to his life as an adult, they do not begin to cover his living expenses, to say nothing of his recreational expenses. Even with the social services support dollars made available to him, the life that he is creating for himself exceeds his available economic resources too much of the time. However, Ian has a job and social services dollars to support his efforts. Many persons with severe disabilities have no such support, or what they do have is woefully inadequate.Poverty and disability have a long history, and self-sufficiency and poverty are incompatible. One of the ongoing frustrations for Douglas and his family is that his employment has been episodic, with sometimes long periods of unemployment. In the last few years, for example, he has worked alongside a local man named John, who involves him in his jobs and activities around town, although without pay. But currently, he is again unemployed because John and a friend started up a new restaurant in a nearby town. Once the restaurant is operating smoothly, Douglas will join the team to assist with kitchen cleanup, stocking, and the other critical chores that are required for a small business.However, even then, the prospects are that this will also be on an unpaid basis for the foreseeable future. Self-Determination. Self-determination and selfsufficiency are often treated as synonymous features of adulthood. However, while recognizing that the TABLE 16–1 The Dimensions of Adulthood Autonomy: Being your own person, expressed through the symbols of Self-sufficiency: Especially economic self-sufficiency, or having the resources to take care of oneself. Includes emotional self-sufficiency, or the ability to “make it” on one’s own. Marks a shift from economic consumption to consumption and production. Self-determination: Assertion of individuality and independence. The ability to assure others that one possesses the rational maturity and personal freedom to make specific choices about how to live one’s life. Completeness: A sense of having “arrived.” A shift from the future to the present tense. No more waiting. Membership: Community connectedness, collaboration, and sacrifice as expressed through the symbols of Citizenship: Activities of collective governance—from voting and participation in town meetings to volunteering for political candidates; expressing your position on issues with money, time, or bumper stickers; or recycling to protect the shared environment. Affiliation: Activities of voluntary association, fellowship, celebration, and support—from greeting the new family in the neighborhood with a plate of cookies to being an active member of the church, a participant in the local service or garden club, or a member of the local art museum. Change: Adulthood as an ongoing capacity for growth rather than the static outcome of childhood. Change occurs for adults as they change jobs, move to new apartments or houses, relocate to new communities, or go back to school to learn new jobs or hobbies. Change also occurs as old friends and family members move away and new friendships are formed. ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 618 Chapter 16 terms are closely related, we want to use the term self-determination to refer to a more active assertion of individuality and independence. An autonomous adult in this sense is someone who has the rational maturity and personal freedom to make specific choices about how to live his or her life.Autonomous adults make decisions and live with the consequences. Certainly, from the perspective of childhood, this dimension of autonomy is probably the most anticipated. Self-determination involves all of the freedoms and control that seem so oppressively and unreasonably denied as we suffer through the indignities of adolescence. We can live where we want, change jobs if we want, make our own judgments about what debts to incur and what risks to take, and make our own decisions when faced with moral dilemmas.We can even stay up late if we want to or go shopping at 10:00 a.m. However, these new privileges are quickly coupled with new responsibilities. For persons with severe disabilities, the concept of self-determination is challenging and promising and has become a relatively new focus of discussion and research (Priestley, 2001; Storey, Bates, & Hunter, 2008;Wehman, 2006). As a concept, self-determination changes not just what happens in the lives of persons with severe disabilities but, more fundamentally, how we think about such things as services, supports, interventions, and outcomes (Ferguson & O’Brien, 2005). One example of the role of self-determination and the challenges faced in understanding and interpreting it for persons with severe disabilities first came to us wrapped in a Christmas Eve invitation. Ian invited us to his house for Christmas Eve for the first time about 10 years ago. Previously, we had always celebrated holidays in our home, even after Ian moved into his own house. Of course, most families eventually face such a time when the location for holidays and other family rituals shifts from the parents’ home to the children’s.What is hard for us to unravel in our relationship with Ian, however, is just how this particular transitional invitation occurred. Did Ian somehow arrive at the determination that it was time to shift our holiday celebrations to his own home? Did his housemates, Robin and Lyn, who had been helping him can fruits and vegetables, make jam and breads, and decorate and arrange baskets for weeks, “support his choice” to invite us over or shape his choice? Did they somehow teach him how and why he might wish to request our presence at this holiday celebration? Since this first invitation, we have had many more—sometimes for holidays, sometimes just for an ordinary Wednesday or Friday, sometimes for lunch, sometimes dinner. Whatever Ian’s exact role in the decision to invite us, it is clear that he enjoys having us in his house in a quite different way than he seems to enjoy visiting ours. For individuals whose communication skills are limited and for whom our understanding of their preferences and point of view can be incomplete, it is sometimes difficult to figure out when they are making choices—determining things for themselves—and when it is the interpretations of others that shape the outcomes. At the same time, it seems better to try to guess at another’s perspective and preferences than to ignore them altogether.At still other times, it may well be that no choice is made despite the opportunity. “Do you want eggs, pancakes, or bagels for breakfast tomorrow?,”we asked Ian recently during an overnight visit.“Bagels,” was his prompt reply.“Do you want bagels, pancakes, or eggs?” Phil tried again, wondering if Ian was really listening and choosing.“Eggs,” Ian just as promptly replied. Over the years, we have tried various little tests like this to check whether Ian’s answers are choices, humor, or just his effort to support the conversational exchange by repeating the last thing that he heard. Of course, questioning his apparent choices could seem to be unsupportive of his efforts to determine things for himself.Perhaps the admission that we question his responses is as important as whether he is really choosing.These are the essential questions and dilemmas of self-determination for Ian and others with similar disabilities. Completeness. Perhaps completeness is the common element in all aspects of adulthood because autonomy is a sense of completeness. What one gains with self-determination and self-sufficiency is clearly more than the imagined pleasures of doing totally as one pleases. Adulthood brings no guarantee of living happily ever after. Instead of the rewards of choosing well and wisely, adulthood seems only to finally offer the opportunity to make those choices, from silly to serious, on one’s own. Instead of working at learning all that one needs to know to be an adult, one now finally is an adult, presumably putting to use all that learning ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. The Promise of Adulthood 619 and preparation. Adulthood has to do with the feeling of knowing how to act and what to do,such as what to order and how much to tip in a restaurant. Most of us have felt the pain of youthful uncertainty in grown-up situations.We struggle to manage our youthful discomfort in the belief that each event will eventually bring the longed-for knowledge and confidence to cover all situations. In reality, of course, the completeness really comes with the ability to be comfortable with one’s uncertainties. Adulthood brings a sense of completeness—of preparation achieved—that is never there during childhood. The fact that many of us continue to feel uncertain in some situations well past middle age merely attests to the power of the notion of completeness to our understanding of adulthood. Even though as adults we continue to learn and grow, that learning is not in preparation for adulthood in the same way that most of our learning was before achieving adult status. Even if we are unsure in some situations, it is not so much because we aren’t prepared to handle it, but instead because our knowledge and experience make the choice of an action more ambiguous. A continuing struggle for us is to make sure that Ian’s adulthood is complete in this way. Even though he has continued to learn many things since high school graduation,we have tried to make sure that his learning of new skills or information is not a requirement placed on Ian by his supporters for the achievement of adulthood. He is an adult even if he never learns another skill. It is a difficult balance to achieve. Ian—and all other adults—need to be afforded opportunities to continue to learn and grow, but without the trappings of preparatory training or schooling. If we think of life as a type of language,then adulthood as autonomy would seem to be a move from the future to the present tense. The Dimension of Membership Sometimes it seems as if we allow the dimension and symbols of autonomy to exhaust our understanding of adulthood. Adulthood, from this viewpoint, is essentially a matter of independence. This can create problems when we ask society to respond to all persons with severe disabilities as “fully adult” because many are limited by their disability from demonstrating such independence in ways that are similar to how others without disabilities demonstrate them. Indeed, for many people, this limited independence is precisely what the label of disability means in the first place. However, we would argue that limiting our understanding of adulthood as “being able to do it by oneself” is problematic for all adults whether or not they have a disability. There is an equally important dimension in understanding adulthood that serves as a crucial counterbalance to the individualistic emphasis on autonomy. This dimension includes all of those facets of adulthood that involve citizenship and affiliation and that must be supported by the collaboration and sacrifice of others.We collectively refer to these facets as the dimension of membership. If adulthood as autonomy is a move to life in the present tense, then adulthood as membership recognizes that life is plural rather than singular, communal as well as individual. If they needed a lesson in this importance of membership to emerging adulthood, Douglas’s parents had one during his first year of high school. At one point, Douglas moved to a new high school that promised more openness in the inclusive program that his parents were determined to provide for him. However, the experience of moving from class to class in the new high school prompted Douglas to simply leave any time that the call of the activity in the gym was more appealing than what was going on in class.Waiting for a bell apparently seemed silly when the decision could be made so much more easily without the assistance of a bell! Expressing his self-determination in this way, however, was frowned upon by the adults in the school and the problem of getting up and leaving class became one to be solved by the professionals.The classroom teachers had few ideas, but the resource teacher decided that finding some ways for Douglas to “buddy up”with classmates might help. Soon a group of friends—one or more of whom were always in his class—simply looked out for Douglas to make sure that he got to the next place at the appropriate time. Invitations to movies, dances, and other social events followed and now, many years later, he still sees and spends time with some of these same friends who are all members of the community.One in particular—Lenny—is shown with Douglas in a favorite graduation picture (see Figure 16–2). Citizenship. Anthropologists have probably contributed most to our understanding of the communal aspects of adulthood in most cultures, including our own.They have described in detail the rituals and responsibilities that societies attach to adult status. In a ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 620 Chapter 16 very real sense, it is only with these rites of passage into adulthood that we become full members of our communities. In part, this involves an element of responsibility for others and the community in general. Voting and other acts of collective governance are the most obvious signs of this theme and perhaps seem the most daunting for some adults with severe disabilities. After the presidential election in 2008, a study conducted for the American Association of People with Disabilities (Schur & Kruse, 2009) showed that people with disabilities (of any kind or degree) voted in record numbers. Despite this improvement, the percentage of voting-age persons with disabilities who actually voted was still some 7% lower than the rate of people without disabilities who voted (compared to a 12% gap for the 2000 election).Obviously, there are additional considerations for some people with the most significant disabilities. We have not pursued voting as a way for Ian to explore this aspect of membership, mostly because we fear that providing the assistance he would need might really just result in one of us having the advantage of two votes. However, there are other ways that Ian can exercise community responsibility. Stuffing envelopes, for example, passing out campaign information, or expressing an opinion through yard signs are ways that Ian can and does contribute to the political life of his community. Actively recycling by using his backpack instead of bags when shopping and expressing his political opinions on issues of accessibility with the “Attitudes Are the Real Disability” bumper sticker affixed to the back of his wheelchair are examples of ways in which Ian participates as a citizen of our community. Affiliation. The communal dimension of adulthood is not only about a grudging performance of civic duties or even a cheerful altruism of civic sacrifice.An important aspect of communal adulthood lies in the various examples of voluntary association, fellowship, celebration, and support that adults typically discover and create. One of the most common signs of adulthood, for example, is the intentional formation of new families and the extension of old ones.Through formal and informal affiliations, adults locate themselves socially as well as geographically (see Figure 16–3).You might live on the east side of town, belong to the square-dance club, attend the Catholic Church, and have a spouse and two children.We might live in a FIGURE 16–2 Douglas and His Friend Lenny at High School Graduation FIGURE 16–3 Ian Often Meets friends at One of the Local Pubs ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. The Promise of Adulthood 621 downtown condo, belong to the library patrons’ society, participate in community theater, and volunteer at the local rape crisis center. The particular array of affiliations can differ dramatically. However, in the aggregate, those affiliations help define a community just as the community, in turn, helps define each of us as adults.Through their affiliations, adults support and define each other. The definitional power of our affiliations seems to us to be very true for Ian and for other adults who require similar supports. Ian’s life tends to reflect the people in his life. Right now, his two primary support people like to camp, give big parties, and garden. So Ian does, too. Moreover, Ian’s community of Eugene, Oregon, is one that prizes such outdoor activities, and so there are many groups and opportunities to encourage these hobbies.When Ian was in his early 20s, dancing and the swimming pool were favorite pursuits of his supporters, and Ian obligingly enjoyed these activities just as much. Lately, one of his support providers has gotten involved in roller derby, and Ian enjoys the controlled chaos of these contests. At the same time, Ian has his own long-standing hobbies. He finds the lights and sounds of casinos especially enjoyable.Here, as well, it is not the singular pursuit of winning or losing that Ian enjoys so much as it is all of the people and the activity that fills the casino with noise and hubbub. All of us in Ian’s life have had to find ways to join in the occasional excursions to nearby casinos, while keeping a close eye on the dollar amounts won and—more likely—lost (see Figure 16–4).Not only must Ian join in the interests and affiliations of friends and family, they must also join Ian in some of his choices as well. (For his 40th birthday, a trip to Las Vegas by Ian and a select group of friends and family was a grand success with concerts, games, and, yes, losing a few dollars at the penny slot machines.) Douglas also illustrates this reciprocal relationship with those who support and befriend him. Lenny first became Douglas’s friend in high school. He is married now and has his own children, but he and Douglas still see each other regularly. Sometimes Douglas helps around Lenny’s house by splitting wood or doing yard work and gardening. Sometimes they go out to the bar or other places. Lenny’s cousin owns a garage and sometimes they both go over to help out—Douglas is in charge of finding the right tools and making sure that everything gets put back in its correct place. Douglas is finicky about things being in their proper places, whether it is in his parents’ kitchen or the garage, and it is one of the personal traits that probably helps him build and grow his affiliations in the community through his friends and their friends. The Dimension of Change We said earlier that adulthood as autonomy could be described as a move from the future to the present tense. The dimension of adulthood as membership shows that the description requires a plural rather than a singular construction. Let us follow the logic in this final dimension of adulthood and argue that a dynamic approach to life demands that adulthood must finally be understood as a verb, not a noun. In the biological sense, adulthood may indeed represent a developmental maturity; in a social and psychological sense, it can also represent phases of continued growth. Of course,this aspect of adulthood has been the focus of increased attention in developmental psychology FIGURE 16–4 A Favorite Activity Is Playing the Slot Machines at a Nearby Casino ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 622 Chapter 16 since the seminal work of Erik Erikson (1950) on the eight “crises” or stages of the life cycle, four of which occur in adulthood. Subsequent psychologists have variously refined and revised this work (Erikson & Martin, 1984;Levinson,1978;Vaillant,1977).Sociologists and historians have added an important sociocultural perspective to these stages within the life span (Arnett & Tanner, 2006; Blatterer, 2007; Elder, 1998; Hareven, 1978). In general, however, these developmentalist writers help us to understand that adulthood has its own stages of growth, change,and learning.It is a period of both realization and continued transition. Ian is now 40. He seems to have transitioned, along with his housemates, into the very beginnings of the ever-changing span of time we call “middle age.” He is a different person than he was at 21. His tastes in music are still eclectic, but he seems to enjoy visiting his parents and singing along to old Paul Simon, Beatles, or Simon and Garfunkel CDs more than he did seven or eight years ago.He’s gained some weight, and we’ve been told that he has a few early gray hairs (we haven’t spotted them yet). He’s getting a little arthritis in his knees.More than with just changes in his appearance, however, he approaches his 40s with a different demeanor. He can be serious or consoling when the occasion demands, although he might not describe the emotion in those terms.He has experienced the death of grandparents, lost friends and support workers, and learned how to be alone in ways that are different from when he lived with us. His parents have moved to work in a new state. Although Dianne is still working in Eugene part time and is around for part of every month, Phil visits only a few times a year and talks to Ian a couple of times a week via video phone calls. These changes mark a new phase in all of our lives.We all miss living close to each other as Ian expresses clearly each time that he meets one of us at the airport with smiles, enthusiasm, and sometimes flowers.We worry about the distance, but, for now, Ian’s adulthood is secure enough, even with all of the continuing challenges, to make this kind of change possible for all of us. For many people with disabilities, these three dimensions of adulthood occur only partially, often as approximations of the symbols that the rest of us use to identify others and ourselves as adults. Table 16–2 illustrates some examples of these symbols that are present in many adult lives, although not in as many adult lives of people with disabilities. If we only assess the symbols we each can claim, however, we may make the mistake of denying the status of adulthood to people with disabilities. Symbols are important, but they are not the entire story.One way that we evaluate our success in supporting Ian’s adulthood is to examine periodically just how each of these dimensions is visible in his life.How does the daily round of Ian’s life reflect the ways of becoming a unique member of our community? Douglas’s parents ask similar questions. Are Douglas’s activities, affiliations,and ways of participating varied? Do Ian’s and Douglas’s preferences and choices change over time? Are those changes reflected in an evolving understanding among their circle of family, friends,and supporters? We will return to these questions later with examples that might help you see how these dimensions of adulthood can apply in the life of a person with severe disabilities. First, however, let us examine more completely why these notions have been so difficult to apply to this group of people. Denying Adulthood If the meaning of adulthood involves the dimensions of autonomy, membership, and change, then how have those dimensions affected our understanding of adults with severe disabilities? There are undeniable improvements over the past two decades in the movement of TABLE 16–2 Symbols of Adulthood: Some Examples Symbols of Autonomy • Having a source of income, a job, or wealth • Making your own choices, both the big important ones and the little trivial ones • No more waiting for the privilege of doing what you want, how you want, and when and with whom you want to do it Symbols of Membership • A voter registration card • Membership cards for organizations and clubs • An appointment calendar and address book • Season tickets, bumper stickers, charitable contributions of time and money Symbols of Change • Marriage • New hobbies • Children • A new job or a new home • New skills • New friends ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. The Promise of Adulthood 623 people with intellectual disabilities into communitybased jobs and residences (Mank, Cioffi, & Yovanoff, 2003; Prouty, Alba, & Lakin, 2007). However, the evidence of continuing problems in the quality of life for many of these individuals is apparent even to the casual observer. Most states continue to have long waiting lists for residential and employment opportunities. According to one poll, only 35% reported being employed full or part time (cited in Grossi, Gilbride, & Mank, 2008, p. 108). The proportion of individuals in supported employment in all-day and work programs had dropped to 21% by 2006 (Braddock, Hemp, & Rizollo, 2008, p. 40).As of 2007,more than 80,000 individuals were estimated to be waiting for residential services outside of their family homes (Alba, Prouty,& Lakin, 2007, p. 42). Although the number of people with developmental disabilities who reside in large private or public institutions has dramatically declined over the past two decades, spending by federal and state governments still totaled more than $8.3 billion (for fiscal year 2006) to keep people in these large congregate care facilities (Braddock et al., 2008, p. 7). For more than 15 years, evidence has been mounting for the economic and social benefits of supporting employment for adults with developmental disabilities. Yet unemployment and segregated workshops and day programs still dominate the vocational services offered (DeLio, Rogan, & Geary, 2000; Mank, 2007;Wehman, 2006).For individuals with severe disabilities, in particular, this empirical evidence of a poor quality of life must also be understood in a historical context. If you examine the history of adulthood for people with severe disabilities, you find a story not only of symbolic deprivation but also of economic deprivation. Indeed, at the heart of our discussion is the belief that the two are inextricably related. Symbols of adulthood accompany the practice of being an adult. Or, to reverse the logic, the denial of adulthood to people with severe disabilities has been symbolic as well as concrete. Recent movements to recognize the full range of rights and responsibilities of adults with severe disabilities can best be understood in light of this history of denial. Table 16–3 summarizes some of the symbols of the denial of adulthood across the dimensions that will be discussed next. Unending Childhood Wolfensberger (1972) not only helped popularize the principle of normalization as a basic orientation for human services but he also deserves credit for raising our awareness of the symbolic dimensions of discrimination and stigma in the lives of persons with severe disabilities. In particular, he helped highlight how society referred to people with intellectual disabilities in terms and images that suggested a status of “eternal childhood.” Nearly 40 years later, it is still frustratingly common to hear adults with severe disabilities described by the construct of “mental age”: “Johnny Smith is 34 years old but has the mind of a 3-year-old.” In an interview that we did some years ago (P. M. Ferguson, Ferguson, & Jones, 1988), a parent of a 40- year-old son with Down syndrome described him as a sort of disabled Peter Pan—one of the “never-never children.” “This thing about normalizing will not happen . . . they’ll always be childlike” (p. 109). Fortunately, the myth of eternal childhood as the inevitable fate for people with severe disabilities is much less powerful than it was 10 or 20 years ago.We like to think that today’s generation of young parents is less likely than our generation to hear from professionals that their sons and daughters are “never-never children.” Increasingly, it seems that both professionals and the general public are aware of the stigmatizing assumptions built into childish terms of reference. Appearance and activities are more and more likely to avoid the most obviously childish examples (e.g., adults playing with simple puzzles or toys, carrying TABLE 16–3 Some Examples of Symbols of the Denial of Adulthood Unending Childhood • Childish, diminutive names like Bobby and Susie • Enforced dependency that permits others to make all of the important choices • Few life changes Unfinished Transitions • No more school but no job, home, or affiliations in the community • Rituals for ending but not for beginning • Acquisition of visible but empty symbols like beards and pipes, but no jobs, homes, or community affiliations Unhelpful Services • Clienthood: A focus on remediation and readiness that is determined through the mechanisms of professional preciousness (see later) • Anonymity: Service standards and procedures that can obscure or even overwhelm individuality and uniqueness • Chronicity: The professional decision to deny lifelong change because the client is not susceptible to further development ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 624 Chapter 16 school lunch boxes to work).We are gradually moving away from our infantilizing images of the past. Of course, if symbols are the only thing to be changed, then the true movement to adulthood will still be stalled.We remember working at a large state institution for persons with severe disabilities some 30 years ago. This institution closed in 1998, but at the time, a number of persons who worked there had apparently gotten only part of the message about treating people as adults.As a result,over a period of months, all of the adult men on one ward grew beards and smoked pipes. Nothing else changed in their lives to encourage their personal autonomy, much less their membership in the community.The beards and pipes were simply empty symbols of adulthood that had no grounding in the daily lives of indignity and isolation that the men continued to lead. Alternatively, allowing someone the choice of risking his or her well-being by not wearing a seat belt in the car or by eating three large pizzas for dinner in the name of autonomy and adult independence also misses the point, resulting instead in the limitation of adulthood, perhaps quite literally if that person’s health is threatened by such risky choices. Even at 40, Ian might choose to watch cartoons and always choose to drink chocolate milk or any number of other choices that might be more typical of a young child. Once in a while, these choices are fine. But as a steady diet, such choices do not communicate the full range of options that most adults enjoy. Part of truly supporting Ian’s adulthood is making sure that he has enough experience with lots of different options in order to make adult decisions. He still does choose chocolate milk, but probably more often now he chooses Dr. Pepper or a beer. And his taste in beer has grown more sophisticated in the past decade. He even enjoys wine more than he used to. The point is not so much to deny revisiting the preferences of childhood but to offer the many more varied choices found in adulthood just as frequently. Unfinished Transitions An important part of the move away from the view of severe disability as an unending childhood has occurred in the increased programmatic attention paid to the transition period from school to adult life (Bambara, Wilson, & McKenzie, 2007; Storey et al., 2008;Wehman,2006;Wehmeyer,Gragoudas,& Shogren, 2006).This focus on transition has certainly clarified the right of people with severe disabilities not to remain forever imprisoned by images of childhood. It has led to a heightened awareness on the part of the special education community that what happens after a student leaves school is perhaps the most crucial test of how effective that schooling was. In terms of program evaluation, the emphasis on transition planning in the schools has clearly identified adulthood as the ultimate outcome measure for the process of special education. However, as a cultural generalization, an escape from unending childhood has not yet meant an entrance into full-fledged adulthood for many people with severe disabilities. Instead of eternal childhood, we see their current status as one of stalled or unfinished transition: a “neither–nor” ambiguity in which young people with severe disabilities are neither seen as children nor as adults. As with adulthood itself,however, transition, too, can be viewed symbolically. It is in this symbolic sense that people with severe disabilities can become embedded in a permanent process of incomplete transition. Several scholars have suggested the anthropological concept of liminality as being most descriptive of this situation (Murphy, Scheer, Murphy, & Mack, 1988; Mwaria, 1990). Liminality refers to a state of being where a person is suspended between the demands and opportunities of childhood and adulthood. Many societies use various rituals of initiation, purification, or other transitions to both accomplish and commemorate a significant change in status. In many cultures where these rituals retain their original intensity, the actual event can last for days or months. During such rituals, the person undergoing the process is said to occupy a liminal (or “threshold”) state. According to one author, People in a liminal condition are without clear status, for their old position has been expunged and they have not yet been given a new one.They are “betwixt and between,” neither fish nor fowl; they are suspended in social space without firm identity or role definition. . . . In a very real sense, they are nonpersons, making all interactions with them unpredictable and problematic.(Murphy et al., 1988, p.237) For too many adults with severe disabilities, one could say that the transition to adulthood is a ritual that once never began but now begins but seldom ends. Instead, they remain on the threshold of adulthood in a kind of permanent liminality—suspended in social space. ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. The Promise of Adulthood 625 We see this liminality in the kinds of social responses to adults with severe disabilities that perpetuate social isolation in the name of autonomy. Professionals who tell parents that they need to “back off” from involvement in their newly adult son’s or daughter’s life so that he or she can begin to build a separate life apart from the ties of family and home sometimes end up isolating the new adult by removing the most effective advocates for an expanded membership in the community. Parents and professionals who conspire (usually with purely benevolent intentions) to create a facade of independence for adults with severe disabilities by allowing them trivial, secondary, or coerced choices instead of true self-determination (Ferguson & O’Brien, 2005) trap adults in the isolation of liminality in another way. In still other instances, adults are given a plentiful supply of token affiliations and social activities with no attention to the symbols of self-sufficiency that are represented by a real job with a real income, making the illusion incomplete in yet another way. Such an ambiguous social status will continue to frustrate individuals in their efforts to define themselves as adults. Society, in general, will continue to feel uncomfortable in the presence of such people, not knowing how to respond. Ian’s own transition seemed to be at risk of an extended liminal status for the first few months after graduation. He continued to live in our home, and his only “job”was a volunteer job that he had begun when in high school. His personal agent and personal support staff created a schedule of personal and recreational activities to fill his days.While Ian certainly enjoyed this round of activity, it felt to us, and we think to him as well, like a kind of holding pattern. He was waiting for his chance to enter the routines and responsibilities of adulthood. The “meantime schedule” of activity was a substitute and one that, in the end, did not last long.We’ll have more to say about Ian’s adult life later and how his daily and weekly routines simply are his life and substitute or wait for nothing. For Douglas, the extended liminal status seemed to be more of a permanent condition, except for the fact that in a small rural community, with a chronic lack of services for adults with disabilities, community members and families find ways to circumvent the status of unfinished transition by relying on social networks and natural supports. Unhelpful Services Although the special education system must share part of the blame for unfinished transitions,much of the responsibility must fall on an “adult” services system that has been historically plagued with problems of poor policy, inadequate funding, and ineffective programs (P. M. Ferguson & Ferguson, 2001; Ferguson & O’Brien, 2005).There are significant exceptions to this generalization across the domains of residential programs (Felce & Perry, 2007, Stancliffe & Lakin, 2007), employment support (Grossi et al., 2008; Mank, 2007), and leisure and recreation (Miller, Bowens, Strike,Venable, & Schleien, 2009; Rynders, Schleien, & Matson, 2003), but for far too many, the promise of adulthood remains an unfilled promise. Many analysts of the social services system continue to point to fundamental inadequacies in adult services (Bérubé, 2003; Drake, 2001; Ferguson, 2003; Fleischer & Zames, 2001; McKnight, 1995). Although each of these analyses has its own list of problems, they all include some basic complaints.We will briefly mention three of these issues that correspond to the three dimensions of adulthood that we have already set forth. These three issues are (a) clienthood, (b) anonymity, and (c) chronicity. Clienthood The traditional services system promotes “clienthood” rather than adulthood. Dependency unavoidably fosters the role of clienthood either explicitly or implicitly, and dependency is the status of many individuals “served” by the traditional services system. The role has many versions, but perhaps the most familiar is that which imposes a model of medical or behavioral deficit as the dominant rationale for services decisions. In this version, the essential orientation for the delivery of services is that the individual with the disability has something that needs to be cured or remediated. Just as patients are expected to follow the doctor’s orders and take the prescribed medicine, so are people with disabilities expected to follow their “individual habilitation (or support) plans,”work hard to improve themselves (Bickenbach, 2001; Drake, 2001; McKnight, 1995), and abide by the suggestions of their designated professionals (e.g., case managers, job coaches, residential providers). This dependency is perhaps most familiar in those aspects of the welfare system (e.g., Supplemental Security Income, Social Security Disability Income, Medicaid) ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 626 Chapter 16 that can unintentionally create economic disincentives to vocational independence. But it is equally powerful at the more personal level through a tendency that Sarason (1972) has called “professional preciousness.” Professional preciousness refers to the tendency of professionals to define problems in ways that require traditionally trained professionals (like themselves) for the solution.Thus, case managers sometimes define a client’s needs according to what the system happens to provide (Drake, 2001;Taylor, 2001). Opportunities for meaningful employment are overlooked or not sought out unless they have been developed through the proper channels by certified rehabilitation professionals instead of untrained, but willing, coworkers (Ferguson & O’Brien, 2005).Those who find the penalties to be too high for participation in such a system can “drop out,” but only at the risk of losing all benefits (especially health care), as well as official standing as “disabled” (P. M. Ferguson et al., 1990). By limiting the avenues for achieving jobs, homes, and active social lives to the “disability-approved” services offered through the formal services system, clienthood undermines autonomy (P. M. Ferguson & Ferguson, 2001; Williams, 2001). We realize that we have drawn a pretty bleak picture. Our point is not that that all public policy is somehow bad or that it does not sometimes contribute in very real ways to realizing adulthood for many with disabilities. We are saying that people with severe disabilities will more often than not suffer less instead of more at the hands of the formal system.We and many other families have struggled to “tweak” and bend the demands of the formal system to allow it to better meet the needs of our sons and daughters. Our successes, when they occur, best serve to make our point that we need a system that doesn’t require extraordinary effort to resist the clienthood, anonymity, and chronicity that too often describe our current system of services. We have strived to create options for Ian that use the social services system but reject this status of clienthood, at least from Ian’s point of view and, perhaps more important, from the point of view of his direct supporters. Although Ian’s living situation is possible because of the official funding category of “supported living” and his job support dollars are provided through the category of “supported employment,” we have redirected these dollars from the familiar residential or vocational programs to a process that allows Ian, his family, and supporters to directly decide how to use these dollars. Along with a small number of friends and colleagues, we operate a nonprofit organization that does not decide for Ian or the six others whom we are currently also supporting, but instead manages the paperwork, rules, reports, and budgets that permit Ian and those most directly involved in his life to direct how the support dollars are best used to support his adulthood. Our collective efforts to support Ian’s definition of his own life have allowed us to meet the necessary rules and regulations but protect Ian and his supporters from having to attend to them constantly. It has become the responsibility of Ian’s personal support agent to make sure that the penalties of participation in the services system are minimized so that Ian may develop his own adult identity apart from that of social services system client. Anonymity The traditional system not only promotes dependency for many, but also creates a kind of bureaucratic isolation in which procedures replace people and standardization overwhelms context. Certainly, this is partly and simply a function of the size of the programs and the number of people involved. However, it goes beyond this to a style of centralization and control that pursues efficiency above all else.This style often leads to situations of sterility and isolation in programs that are ostensibly intended to increase a person’s social integration. The need for efficient purchasing and supply can lead to so much similarity in the possessions and activities of clients that the individual becomes swallowed up in a collective that diminishes each member’s uniqueness. It seems unlikely that the individuals in a dozen group homes and apartments operated by the same supported living agency all like the same brand of ice cream, prefer the same laundry detergent, and choose the same color of paper napkins, for example. An even more powerful example involves the types of relationships many people with severe disabilities experience. One thing that seems to be important to the social relationships and friendships that most of us enjoy is “knowing each other’s stories.” The very process of developing a friendship usually involves learning about each other through stories about experiences and history that are shared in conversation. When people enter Ian’s life, we support the developing relationship by sharing much of Ian’s story for him. If he lived in a community residential program, ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. The Promise of Adulthood 627 however, the constant turnover of staff and the demands for confidentiality might so limit what others know about his life that he is rendered virtually anonymous except for what can be readily observed and directly experienced. In a similar way, Douglas’s friends, like Lenny, continue to introduce him to others in the community so that he has developed a very large network of people who know his “story” and his role in the community. Chronicity The final barrier that seems to be an unavoidable facet of the traditional support system is something we term chronicity. Chronicity is the officially delivered, systematic denial of lifelong change and growth. Chronicity is created by professional pronouncements that someone or some group is not susceptible to further development. Again, this barrier results from the dominance of what might be called a “therapeutic model”in the overall design of services. For those who “respond to treatment” in this model, there is a future of more treatment, more programs, and more clienthood. However, for those whose disability is judged as being so severe as to be beyond help (e.g.,“incorrigible,”“ incurable,”“hopeless,”“ineducable”), there is a professionally ordained abandonment (Ferguson, 2002). The person becomes “caught in the continuum” (S. J.Taylor, 1988), whereby expansion of adult opportunities is denied as being premature while commitment to functional improvement is abandoned as unrealistic. For example, even service reforms such as supported employment that were initially developed specifically for people with severe disabilities have been denied to people with the most severe disabilities, who are judged to be “incapable of benefiting” from vocationally oriented training (D. L. Ferguson & Ferguson, 1986; Ferguson, 2002). In this orientation, the system presents full adulthood for people with severe disabilities as something that must be “earned,” a reward handed out by professionals to people who are judged to be capable of continuing to progress. Failure to progress in the past justifies compressed opportunities in the future. The Dilemma of Adulthood All of this leaves those of us who wish to see the promise of adulthood fulfilled for people with severe disabilities with a frustrating dilemma: How can we help people with severe disabilities gain access to the cultural benefits of community membership and personal autonomy that are associated with adulthood without neglecting the continued need for adequate support and protection that did not end with childhood? How can we achieve this in the context of the current services system that can be more unhelpful than helpful? Let us offer a fairly minor example of this dilemma. If someone asked Ian if he wanted to watch a Hannah Montana video or 60 Minutes, he would almost certainly choose Miley Cyrus. It’s lively, has music that he likes, and recognizable voices. A Morley Safer interview just does not match up. Concerned as we are with Ian’s adult status, should we honor his choice as an autonomous adult and turn on the video even though we know it is an activity commonly associated with much younger people (mostly pre-teen girls)? Or should we override his choice in the belief that, in this case, the outcome (i.e., watching more adult entertainment) is more important than the process (i.e., allowing him to independently choose what he watches)? Perhaps we should not offer him the choice in the first place, confident that we will select a much more age-appropriate program. In the long run, we might argue, this will enhance Ian’s image and expand his opportunities for affiliation and membership in a community of adults. Or is it okay to watch the Hannah Montana video once for every two or three times he watches Morley Safer? Finally, we might look at this example of his viewing habits as an area of learning for Ian and emphasize the dimensions of change for him. In so doing, we might honor Ian’s choice for now while simultaneously exposing him to more options that might be equally appealing but less childish (perhaps Homer Simpson as a compromise between Morley Safer and Miley Cyrus). Excessive emphasis on the symbols of autonomy might actually diminish a person’s access to membership symbols. Having only a volunteer job is not the same as volunteering your free time after work at a paid job. Making sure that a young adult lives apart from family and previous friends in pursuit of an image of self-sufficiency, for example, may restrict the adult’s involvement in activities and groups that his family and those very friends might help to access. Similarly, excessive emphasis on change might perpetuate the liminal position of being permanently stuck on the threshold of full adulthood, spending one’s days in endless preparation for life instead of actually living it. This is perhaps most common for ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 628 Chapter 16 those young adults who leave the preparatory experience of schools only to find themselves in a day program or residential service that continues a readiness training focus. Many young adults with severe disabilities still leave high school for the continued preparation of work training programs and sheltered workshops where many will labor for 30 to 40 years in a parody of productivity.We wonder how many adults “retire”from such programs when they reach their 60s without ever “graduating” to real jobs. Douglas and his family have struggled with finding him real work since school ended. Services in his rural part of Atlantic Canada are quite limited and Douglas’s support needs are significant despite his skills. One of the first jobs involved a family-operated business growing sprouts that were then sold to local grocery stores. Douglas learned to assist in growing the sprouts, but really liked packing the sprouts for sale, loading the van, delivering them to a round of local shops, and, yes, sometimes taking a break outside the sprout house (see Figure 16–5). Some of the people who he got to know through this job not only still know him, but make his daily presence in the community more secure and socially networked as he still sees and engages with them.The sprout business became a casualty of development.The smaller groceries gave way to one or two larger grocery chains that preferred to import their produce from large distributors in Ontario instead of purchasing from local farmers—and sprout growers. The business eventually became financially untenable and Douglas experienced the first of what would be several periods of unemployment. While sheltered workshops are less likely to include periods of unemployment, indirectly, such onedimensional service offerings can deemphasize the importance of social reform to accommodate a broader range of acceptable adult behavior. Instead,we believe that a full understanding of the multidimensional aspects of adulthood in our tradition and culture allows a more productive and flexible approach to the dilemma of balancing self-sufficiency with support and social accommodation with personal development. For us as parents, it seems that the professionals have done a good job of convincing society to recognize the importance of a transition from childhood but have not fully discovered what that process should be a transition to.We are, as it were, still in mid-journey on the trail toward adulthood for people with severe disabilities. As professionals, it seems to us that our field has not adequately understood the complexity of the journey or the character of its destination. Without such an understanding, the process of achieving adulthood—symbolically or otherwise—for people with severe disabilities will never reach a conclusion. Having said that and having explored the dilemma of adulthood for people with severe disabilities, we must now turn to the good news.Answers are emerging. Perhaps we have moved past the midpoint of our journey, at least for some adults with severe disabilities. Our last section will explore some of these developments after we present a brief summary. Achieving Adulthood To summarize, the promise of adulthood in our society should be more than a job, a place to live, and being on one’s own. A full understanding of the meaning of adulthood must look at the structure of symbols and imagery that surround this culturally defined role. In looking, we found that we could organize that symbolic structure around the three dimensions of autonomy, membership, and change.We further divided the dimension of autonomy into three elements (self-sufficiency, selfdetermination, and completeness) and membership into two elements (citizenship and affiliation).Then we discussed the ways in which our current services options often tend to deny full participation in these dimensions. Even though some of the symbols of autonomy, membership, and change might be attempted, too often the result for persons with severe disabilities is really an experience of unfinished transition or unhelpful services. FIGURE 16–5 Douglas Takes a Break Outside the Sprout House ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. The Promise of Adulthood 629 Despite recent and helpful moves within the field of special education and disability services to focus on the importance of the transition process from school to adult life, we argued that most adults with severe disabilities remain on the threshold of adulthood in the fullest sense of substantive participation in both the symbols and the substance of multidimensional adulthood.An unhelpful services system helps to perpetuate this unfinished transition by encouraging dependency, social isolation, and personal chronicity. This leaves us with the dilemma of how to surround people such as Ian and Douglas with resources that recognize their needs without denying their adulthood. The good news is that it really is possible.The bad news is that it is present for only a few so far. There is still much to do. We believe that the solution to the dilemmas that we have raised about adulthood lies in the merger of a reformed support system with a multidimensional understanding of adulthood. In this section,we first outline some of the key themes of this new paradigm for support services that respond to the barriers to adulthood that the current system continues to create and maintain despite these new efforts. Next,we will look at how these themes are starting to emerge in terms of the three dimensions of full adulthood that we have discussed. We think that, taken together, these expanded versions of support and adulthood provide an inclusive approach to achieving a high quality of adult life for all people, even those with the most severe disabilities or intensive support needs. Finally, we freely admit that probably nowhere in our country could one find all of the elements of this new approach in place and fully functioning. However, we also believe that each of the elements does exist somewhere for some people right now, and for some, we are beginning to achieve several elements. There is increasing reason for optimism that systemic change is starting to occur. The challenge that we face is “simply” to fill in the gaps. The Concept of Support The significant reforms of the past 25 years in developmental disabilities have occurred mainly under the banners of deinstitutionalization and normalization. We need to recall the massive shift of people from large, segregated settings to more community-based arrangements that has occurred in less than three decades (Braddock et al., 2008; Lakin, Prouty, Polister,& Coucouvanis, 2003; Prouty et al., 2007). In the decade between 1995 and 2005, the percentage of individuals with developmental disabilities receiving residential support who lived in homes of their own (either purchases or rentals) went from 13% to almost 25% (Lakin & Stancliffe, 2007, p. 154). In the past few years, even some of the money used to support these people has made a similar shift from institution to community (Braddock et al., 2008). However, while only partially achieved,normalization and deinstitutionalization now need to be joined (or perhaps even replaced) by a new banner if we are to revitalize the move toward continued restructuring of policy and practice (Ferguson, Ferguson, & Blumberg, 1997; McKnight, 1995; Nerney, 2008; O’Brien & Murray, 1997). It is increasingly possible to see the outline of an effort to move beyond the perceived limitations of deinstitutionalization and normalization as policy guidelines to an emphasis on support and self-determination. The central feature of this new, and admittedly sporadic, effort to radically reorient adult services is an expanded understanding of the concept of “support”and its relationship to self-determination. One way of summarizing the conceptual model that seems to govern this effort is “supported adulthood.” The supported adulthood approach is the result of an inductive process. Its unifying vision has emerged out of disparate reform initiatives from across several service domains, including supported employment, supported living, supported education, supported recreation, and supported families. What Is Different about Supported Adulthood? Supported adulthood is more than a simple commitment of the field to redress past institutional wrongs by eliminating segregated options.It is also more than an attempt to make people appear normal.The central theme is in the expanded interpretation of what is and is not supportive of a full adult life in the community.The common purpose is in the effort to recognize a dual sense of independence and belonging as the most basic benefits of social support programs.This enriched notion of support has indicated a way out of the conceptual dilemma whereby people with disabilities had to either earn their presence in the community with total independence and self-sufficiency or be inserted there with the type of bureaucratic arrogance so common to social welfare programs. In either case, the result was all-too-clustered isolation associated with the overlapping problems of perpetual clienthood and excessive individualism already described.The image of the 10-bed group home ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 630 Chapter 16 comes to mind, with residents separated from their neighbors simply by the size and regimentation of their house. It often became a place of work for direct care staff rather than a home where people lived. All too often, adults with severe disabilities were in the neighborhood physically but not socially; they were present but were not truly a part of their community. What is different in the notion of supported adulthood is a guiding commitment to participation and affiliation instead of control and remediation. Support becomes an adjective, modifying and enriching an adult’s capacity for participation in and contribution to his or her community. Support cannot be a predefined service that is available to anyone who meets the eligibility criteria.The real message of initiatives such as supported employment and supported living is—or should be—that all people do not have to be totally independent in terms of skills or fully competitive (or even close) in terms of productivity to be active, growing, valued adult members of their communities. Components of Supported Adulthood There are at least five features of this expanded approach to support for adults with severe disabilities and their families: (a) natural contexts, (b) informal supports, (c) user definitions, (d) local character, and (e) universal eligibility. Natural Contexts The traditional welfare approach to services for people with severe disabilities has been the creation of special settings, with special staff, and separate bureaucracies (e.g., institutions, self-contained schools, and sheltered workshops). Part of the economic irrationality of many of the current approaches is that funding tracks continue to direct financial resources into these settings even as the field increasingly recognizes their inadequacies. Certainly, the situation is improving because the states have finally tipped the balance in financial support toward community programs. The growing use of Medicaid waivers for community support (Braddock et al., 2008) has allowed the federal government to work more closely with the states in removing policy barriers that had previously kept Medicaid dollars from flowing into progressive community settings. All of these trends show a growing appreciation for the value of the natural context as the location of choice for people with disabilities regardless of the domain of life being discussed. Supported adulthood requires a reliance on natural contexts in the design and location of its supports. Support must become an adjective or adverb that modifies an existing,natural setting instead of creating a separate one. This shift directly challenges the traditional belief that the more intensive the support needs, the more segregated the setting has to be (S. J.Taylor, 1988,2001).Instead,the focus on natural settings allows the intensity of the support to be truly individualized from context to context instead of programmatically standardized along an arbitrary services continuum (American Association on Mental Retardation, 2002). The supported adulthood approach brings progressively intensive support to those individuals who need it without abandoning the community setting.The assumption driving the design of services within this approach is that vocational programs for people with severe disabilities should occur in those settings within the community where the work naturally occurs, not in specially created sites or segregated settings (Mank, 2007). Homes should be in neighborhoods where other people live (Lakin & Stancliffe, 2007; Stancliffe & Lakin, 2007). A preference exists for the generic service instead of the specialized one whenever possible. The appeal of natural contexts, then, is twofold: (a) it returns to a reliance on the community setting, thereby combating the isolating tendencies of specialized programs; and (b) it encourages independence by placing people outside the protected environment of segregated programs. A shift to natural contexts first began for Ian during his last years of high school. One of the community jobs that he explored—doing laundry at the local YMCA for the next day’s fitness enthusiasts— continued as a volunteer job that earned Ian a free membership for a couple of years after he finished school. Now, all of his life and supports occur in natural contexts. He lives in his own home in a typical neighborhood much like that of his parents’ (see Figure 16–6). His job for the past 20 years has been with the university food services part of the student union and involves him in traveling all over campus (see Figure 16–7). But even beyond these major components of his life, being part of the natural context over the years—for living, working, and recreation— has resulted in the emergence of natural supports, such as patrons who are familar with Ian and his paid support person, who come to the pub on High Street and who lend a hand with this chair when he ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. FIGURE 16–6 Ian’s House and Front Yard FIGURE 16–7 Ian at Work with Cart 631 ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 632 Chapter 16 occasionally needs to use the bathroom that is up a couple of steps, or the concertgoers who are familiar with Ian’s attendance at such events and let him break into the intermission refreshment line to join them and say hello. For his part, Douglas also reflects this approach to adulthood, but with different specifics from Ian. Douglas continues to live with his parents in the family home, but enjoys the relative independence and freedom that a familiar and comfortable setting provides in his small town. He does not work for wages, but has a number of volunteer activities in the community where his presence and participation are valued and encouraged. He has, in short, a life full of family, friends, and community membership with the type of embedded support envisioned by the paradigm of supported adulthood. And it continues to expand as it did when he first met his new nephew (see Figure 16–8). Informal and Formal Support Resources A second, related element is the recognition that support should be informal as well as formal. This element directly challenges the problems identified with the traditional client-based role for individuals with severe disabilities and their families. In practical terms, informal—or natural—support is what people who are not paid for their services provide (e.g., emotional support, practical assistance, moral guidance), such as the community members in the previous example.As we mentioned earlier, as long as a professional client model governs the provision of adult developmental disability services, then support, by definition, will be organized and controlled by the formal services system. Efforts that most closely adhere to a supported adulthood approach are always bureaucratically flat, with little hierarchy, and are not necessarily oriented toward the direct provision of services. Such efforts recognize that the best support is that which is most natural and most embedded within the social relationships of the individual with disabilities. As with the element of natural contexts, this has the added benefit of economic prudence. Before he moved to the Annapolis Valley where we met him, Douglas lived and went to school in the city. He and his family were offered the “funny bus” (in the United States, we often call it the “short bus”) as part of the special education services. His mom, however, saw it as an opportunity to use the natural option—the city bus—and politely declined. Being an educator, she accompanied him on the bus through the transfer station to bus #9 and off at the school. After several days, she didn’t stay on the second bus, but instead got in the car and drove to the school to make sure that he made it off the bus at the correct stop and went into the school instead of the much more interesting fire station next door. More days, more practice, even after the bus driver tried to assure Douglas’s mom that all was well; he could do it! One day a woman who rode the same bus and made the same transfer offered to make sure Douglas made the transfer and got off at the school. Mom could release her support to this stranger who became Douglas’s natural support. All went well until the day that there was an extra first bus on the line with a different driver. This driver did not stop at the transfer station because no one rang the bell and he didn’t know that Douglas needed bus #9. Because the bus didn’t stop, Douglas simply stayed on the first bus and rode through the entire route.Of course, the school called his mom.Vowing not to panic, she called the bus system and found out about the extra bus and the new driver.When contacted, the driver reported that Douglas was still on the bus and he made it to the transfer station the second time around the route. Douglas got to school, albeit late. But, more importantly, his family learned that he had a good sense of where he was and where he was supposed to be. It has paid off throughout his adult life and it means that he can safely be home alone—an option that offers not only more freedom for the family, but more autonomy for Douglas. FIGURE 16–8 Douglas Meets His New Nephew Patrick ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. The Promise of Adulthood 633 Of course,natural support can take time to develop. Many members of the community have grown up not knowing much about disability and, because of the tradition of segregated services, they sometimes have not encountered people with disabilities. Even when they try to interact or be supportive, sometimes their efforts can fall short or simply be inappropriate because they have so little experience with people with disabilities. Some individuals with disabilities can be difficult to get to know or talk to, increasing the challenge for those who might provide natural supports. While natural supports can take time to develop and nurture, the presence of people with disabilities in natural settings as described is an important precursor to the development of these supports. Over time, with more community participation and visibility of people with all manner of disabilities, more and more community members will feel comfortable and will be able to lend a hand when it is needed (see Figure 16–9). The critical outcome measure is no longer whether someone receives services, but instead whether someone’s quality of life improves. The focus is on whether the individual finds the support needed regardless of where that support originates.The neighbor who decides at the last minute to invite Ian to accompany him to a ball game or over for dinner is just as supportive— if not more so—of leisure activity as the official recreational therapist with a scheduled swim time each week,and should be recognized as such. The point—at least from our perspective—is not that all formal support services should be withdrawn or avoided, but that they should be seen as only one source of the support that all of us need at one time or another. User-Defined Supports An emphasis on informal supports and natural contexts leads logically to a third feature of the supported adulthood approach.The individual receiving the support is the only one who can define what is or is not supportive. Again, this directly challenges the control of the bureaucratic structures to establish what services shall be available to an adult with a severe disability. Instead, the approach endorsed by all of the examples of supported adulthood is to empower the individual to make such determinations.For example,a young man with aggressive behavior might use his behavioral repertoire to indicate a clear preference for spending his residential support dollars to maintain him in a duplex with one other roommate instead of in the eight-person group home that was originally offered to him. In some situations, the “user” might be an entire family instead of any one individual. So, for example, parents might need to help define what type of services would be most supportive for a son or daughter or what balance of informal and formal supports would best match their own contributions to his or her lifestyle. Local Character A fourth common feature in examples of supported adulthood is recognition that support should be community referenced.The emphasis here is not only that individuals should define what is and is not supportive, but also that, once defined, that support should then take on the shape and texture of the local culture’s traditions, values, and opportunities. The most obvious level of community referencing is the basic effort to “fit in.” For example, using a group home model as the exclusive type of residential services arrangement may restrict the opportunities found in many urban community apartments. Recreational opportunities should support and (if needed) provide training in locally valued activities (e.g., making a good ski run in Colorado, making a good pastrami on rye in New York City) instead of rigidly adhering to some standardized agenda where all people with severe disabilities learn to bowl. Community referencing should draw on the traditions and values within a local culture. A tradition of resistance can also be supportive when identified as a valuable and important part of a local culture.What we are advocating by “local character” is not just nostalgia for FIGURE 16–9 Ian and Lyn Enjoy Camping Trips at a Nearby Lake ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 634 Chapter 16 some imagined era of the small-town simple life; tradition can include recognition of differences, even tension, which support for people with severe disabilities should not ignore in the pursuit of peaceful conformity. Ian lives in Oregon in a city with an active tradition of strong minority voices and social activism. Environmental issues alone offer any number of opportunities for citizenship and affiliation, depending on the side you choose to support. Ian already contributes his voice to at least some environmental debates by his use of canvas bags or his backpack when shopping. During a public employees’ strike a few years ago at the University of Oregon, Ian joined in support of his coworkers on picket lines. Ian may not have understood all of the issues involved in the strike, but he was aware that the routines were different and that the people he worked alongside were not at their posts. Joining the community expression of resistance, regardless of what he understood about the issues, not only allowed Ian to support his coworkers, but also increased their willingness to contribute to his support in other ways. There is also a strong disability rights organization in his community. Although individuals with intellectual disabilities have not always been well represented in the disability rights movement, and while Ian is not yet a member of the local group, he is assisted in contributing his support for disability issues. In the course of his job, Ian serves the university as a semiofficial “accessibility tester.” During one period, he began to consistently run into trouble with one of the automatic doors at the same campus building. The building was the first on his morning route to deliver food supplies to cafés around campus. When he pressed the access panel to operate the door, nothing happened. Repeated calls by Ian’s coworker to the physical plant resulted in frustration on all sides for a while. Whenever the repair team tested the panel, it worked, but the very next morning it would not work for Ian. Eventually, careful sleuthing by his coworker and others resulted in the discovery that during routine maintenance at night, the emergency switch was being turned off. After this incident, Ian was occasionally asked to try out a new door, entry, or ramp to test its effectiveness for someone with Ian’s type of wheelchair and skills. Our point is that supported adulthood requires attention not just to local traditions of peace, harmony, and patriotism but also to the minority voices and social activism that might afford rich and preferred opportunities for community participation and contribution. Universal Eligibility Finally, a fifth feature of most of the emerging examples of supported adulthood—and perhaps the most controversial—is the principle of universal eligibility. Everyone who requires support to experience the full promise of adulthood should receive it. Unfortunately, since there are simply not enough formal resources for all who genuinely require them, only those who meet a more stringent test of poverty or extreme need, whether temporary or chronic, receive services. In Moroney’s now classic analysis (1986), approaches that focus on a subgroup who are somehow “in most need” are described as reactive or residual.That is, such limited approaches perpetuate the problems of the welfare state programs that we summarized earlier. They tend to be stigmatizing,lack cost-effectiveness (because they are not preventative), and are destructive of personal independence and community membership (because they promote competition for services). The customary rationale for this limited eligibility is inevitably tied to the professional–client orientation to support services. If we break away from that constraint, however, then the universalizing of disability policy seems much more feasible (Bickenbach, 2001; McKnight, 1995; O’Brien & Murray, 1997). For example, if formal support services are the only officially recognized, legitimate responses to an identified social need, then competition for scarce resources seems inevitable. If informal supports are included and existing natural contexts are preferred, then the available resources for support are dramatically multiplied.The addition of informal support to the equation automatically increases the total recognized resources. Equally important, formal support dollars become more cost effective when used to encourage this informal sector instead of paying the salaries of bureaucrats. There is danger here as well, of course.The emphasis on informal supports can provide a “cover” for those politicians and administrators who simply want to avoid the expense and challenge of meeting their responsibilities. The legal protections embedded in such landmark legislation as the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act and the Americans with Disabilities Act remain necessary to prevent neglect of responsibility. Recognizing the value of informal supports should never become an excuse for not providing a formal social safety net for those who need it most. ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. The Promise of Adulthood 635 Living the Promise How might the elements of supported adulthood reveal themselves across the three dimensions of autonomy, membership, and change? We again use Ian’s and Douglas’s experiences to personalize our discussion. The years since graduation have been exciting and productive for Ian. He now enjoys many symbols of autonomy. Still, Ian will never be completely selfsufficient in many of the most important aspects of life. He will probably never be able to make independent and reliable decisions about some of the more fundamental areas of life: religious beliefs and abstract principles of moral behavior, long-term financial planning, or even when it is safe to cross a busy street corner. However, with appropriate support, he can attend church if he wants to (assuming that it is accessible), reciprocate the kindness of friends and strangers, help manage a small bank account,and even negotiate some intersections. Self-sufficiency certainly entails a number of discrete skills and resources that Ian will never be able to develop or discover on his own. However, self-sufficiency also conveys a pattern of life that goes beyond individual tasks or skills. In this expanded sense, Ian’s autonomy is enhanced by appropriate types and levels of ongoing support. Work life is perhaps the single area that is most commonly associated with personal autonomy. For Ian, the promises of supported employment have been exciting and rewarding.He has a great job—one that is uniquely suited to his skills and personality. Ian is a very outgoing guy who likes to be out and about, driving his wheelchair and meeting people. The food services located in the university’s student union were decentralized by putting small cafes in a number of the classroom buildings around campus. However, space is at a premium, and the cafes can store only a few supplies. Ian’s wheelchair offered a legal vehicle that could convey supplies throughout the center of campus.With the assistance of vocational rehabilitation, a carrier was designed that fits on the back of his wheelchair for carrying these supplies, and he enjoys a regular route that takes him all over campus, meeting and greeting lots of different people. His job has changed over the years: adding tasks like collecting the receipts or breaking down cartons that once held supplies, adding new stops on the route, and increasing his responsibilities for stocking supplies at the student union. In March 1997, Ian moved into his own home. Several years later, he moved into a somewhat larger house in a different part of town, enjoying the new space, the larger yard, and the excitement of moving that this event offered. His housemates have changed as well in this time, but the couple who live with him now are about to celebrate their 13th year with him. With this stability has also come a regular routine. Weekdays always involve a morning at work (unless the university is on break), with the remainder of the day punctuated by haircuts, a massage every few weeks, swimming to maintain his range of motion and to combat the gradual weight gain that seems endemic to middle age, and Wednesday nights with an old friend from high school.Weekends are the time for dinner parties with us (we get invited over often!) or other friends, short weekend camping trips to the coast or the hot springs, working on a large variety of arts and craft projects—some of which become wonderful gifts for friends and family—as well as movies, a beer or coffee somewhere in town, or just a visit to the park to feed the ducks. The year is punctuated with a round of parties and special events.The Easter egg hunt and Halloween haunted house draw larger and larger crowds from the neighborhood.The food is always good, the music and games are fun, and the atmosphere is celebratory. September brings some kind of theme party in honor of Ian’s, his father’s, and several other friends’ birthdays—a Hawaiian luau has been one popular theme. Late summer usually involves a holiday— sometimes we all save up for something special like a trip to Reno or Las Vegas—but other times camping on the coast or the San Juan Islands of Seattle offers the needed respite from daily routine. Ian and his supporters are systematically exploring the accessibility of campgrounds in Oregon and Washington (see Figure 16–9). But then there’s always gardening to be done, canning and freezing of vegetables, painting the living room, fixing up the craft room, cleaning the wheelchair, making bread, picking up Dianne or Phil at the airport when they come back from trips— all the comfortable routine chores and tasks that have become a regular part of Ian’s daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly life. Ian is benefiting from the increasing availability of supported living options within the services system. Simply put, supported living means that, despite Ian’s limitations, he should be able to live where he wants ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 636 Chapter 16 (in his own home),with whom he wants, for as long as he wants, with the ongoing support needed to make that happen (O’Brien & Sullivan, 2005; Stancliffe & Lakin, 2007). For Ian, this support comes from Robin, his personal support agent, and Lyn, both of whom are his live-in companions; Jessica, Shane, and Andy, who support him during some parts of his week; and Susan, the manager of the supported living program that manages his income from the services system, along with other critical bureaucratic tasks. Ian receives several sources of income: the support dollars that come through mental health services that pay his supporters; his earnings from his job, along with Supplemental Security Income and Social Security Disability Insurance that pay for many of his personal needs and weekly expenses (food, some rent, spending money, haircuts, personal stuff, massages, swimming, gas for his van); and contributions from his parents that help cover his mortgage and utilities, as well as contributing to his vacations. We know Douglas less well, of course, but his life, too, has been a full one since graduation. As noted earlier, his experiences at work have been less stable than Ian’s.Around the time that the sprout business was ending, and during one of his evenings with Lenny at a local pub, Douglas met John.As John got to know Douglas and his family, he offered to have Douglas work with him in a series of jobs that he had as a general handyman in the community.He would arrive early at Douglas’s house and together they would work through the morning routine of showers, dressing, and breakfast, and then head out for the day to work.Work varied from helping contractors lay flooring or carpeting to other renovations, including replacing roofs; eventually John and his network of subcontractors made a steady income “flipping” houses—buying houses that needed fixing up and then reselling them.These experiences greatly expanded Douglas’s network of affiliations and contributed to his fitness as well. We also think of ourselves as part of Douglas’s affiliations—one that is just for fun. Douglas can be quirky at times, as we’ve said. One aspect of this is his commitment to things being in their proper place, orderly, and organized. He, like some others, always eats the food on his plate in order at mealtimes and without mixing—first, all the meat, then the vegetables, then the rice.We are not sure if he uses the same order each time, but he does finish one food before moving on to the next. Of course, in Lenny’s cousin’s garage, this orderliness is a real asset and Douglas always leaves the garage perfectly organized. And it added to his usefulness and contribution working with John and his friends. And there is never a crooked picture on the wall in Douglas’s house. All decorations on tables and shelves are precisely arranged and aligned—usually right to the edge, even if it is a family heirloom. This commitment to order can also lead to less happy results.We often bring small gifts to the family when we come each summer and some years ago we brought one of those decorative corks for wine bottles. It was made of a turned wood that is popular in Oregon. For Douglas, however, corks, once they are out of the bottle, are finished and meant to be thrown away—which was exactly what happened to our decorative cork. Ever since that incident, we have enjoyed puzzling Douglas with gifts that challenge expectations and conventions. Mostly, we have done this with vases. The family has a large cutting garden, so bringing vases seemed appropriate. One year, we brought a vase that was plastic and collapsed flat. Douglas was puzzled, then intrigued. How could a plastic bag be anything but just that? Then another year we brought a ceramic vase that looked exactly like a small brown paper bag.Again, Douglas was incredulous and thwarted because he couldn’t put it away with the paper bags, not to mention fold it flat. Then the round block of polished wood (with a small hole for a stem), and so on— each time bringing Douglas into the joke and the ritual of gift giving and receiving while poking gentle fun at his compulsive commitment to order. Douglas’s curiosity was most recently piqued by a vase/planter that was shaped like a garden glove that has a hand in it, but doesn’t. He opened it and laughed.We think that he’s in on the joke now. For us, as Ian’s parents, it seems that the community is the safest place for him, for Douglas, and for others like them to be. The more hands that are there to catch him when he falls, the better. We firmly believe that the more deeply embedded Ian or Douglas is in the life of their neighborhoods, work places, and communities, the more people there will be who will notice if they are not there and will work to keep them there as a member of the community. For both Ian and Douglas, life continues to grow and change. Supported change should not involve a ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. The Promise of Adulthood 637 lifetime of programs, interventions, training, and habilitation plans. However, it should encourage lifelong growth and development that will allow Ian and Douglas to change their preferences as they learn and experience new things. It should allow their relationships with people to evolve and develop without the frenzied impermanence of various paid staff who are here one month and gone the next.They should both be supported in activities that will create new levels of independence, but even more so in activities that will create new breadth of experience. Finally, Ian and Douglas should be helped to learn how to make their choices known in effective yet appropriate ways. Many of these natural changes are occurring for Ian. His volunteer jobs have changed, as have his duties at his paid job. His first housemate, Faith, moved on to another phase of her own life, making it possible for Robin, who had worked for Ian some years previously, to come back into his life.New support people— Lyn, Alina, Kareem, Jennifer, Shane, and Jessica—each of whom has spent several years in Ian’s life, have introduced him to new experiences and opportunities. Ian continues to learn. He is certainly talking more and about more things. His singing is better with the help of the Karaoke machine he got for Christmas a couple of years ago. He’s added swimming twice each week to stay fit and continues to take an active part in the planning and preparation for the many parties that happen at his house for every possible occasion. He has finally made it onto the Oregon beaches with the help of a beach wheelchair rented from the Department of Parks and Recreation. He marked his 40th birthday with a trip to Las Vegas.While his life offers change and new opportunities, he also enjoys a comfortable and stable routine. It seems to be a good balance for everyone. Through all of these changes,we learn more about how to engage Ian as the author of his emerging adult life.As we have watched Ian gradually separate his life from ours, our goal has not so much been one of selfdetermination in the particularly individual sense in which it is often applied to people with severe disabilities (Agran & Martin, 2008; P. M. Ferguson & Ferguson, 2001); instead,we have sought, with Ian, a good life.We can support Ian’s autonomy, membership, and change. We can also support a growing self-sufficiency and completeness, but supporting self-determination has forced us to shift our thinking from Ian’s individual agency to our collective negotiations.We believe that Douglas’s parents are doing the same. Philosophers have long talked about the importance of agency in our understanding of what it means to be an individual.What they mean by that term is our personal ability to act on the world around us,to be our own agents of change.The challenge for Ian and others with even more significant cognitive (and physical, and sensory, and medical) disabilities is how close they seem to come to the absence of agency in key parts of their lives.We do not really know what Ian realizes about himself, though we would dearly love to know. Perhaps we should not assume that Ian finds meaning similar to our own experiences of the characteristics of self-regulation, empowerment, and autonomy so often cited as being central to self-determination. Certainly, we are all interdependent, but the truth of the matter is that the balance of interdependence in Ian’s relationships is disproportionate in most matters in comparison with our own. He is more dependent. He requires more care. He determines fewer things in the course of a day, week, or year than each of us do. Yet he does contribute in some very important ways to what occurs in his life. Does he choose? Sometimes, and increasingly more so. But more often, he more indirectly influences people and events so that they end up being more okay than not okay from his point of view, even when we do not know, and perhaps cannot imagine, what his point of view is at the time.We want Ian to have a life that is more okay than not okay from his point of view most of the time. One thing that we have found to be helpful in thinking of these issues is to borrow a couple of literary metaphors. Literary critics try to discover what a particular text means.Part of discovering the meaning of a text, or the “social text” of any person’s life, is finding out what the authors of that text intended it to mean—to gather and take into account all possible meanings. That is never enough, however. The meaning of any text, including the social text of a life, belongs as well to the text itself and gets determined by each of us who “read”or participate in it.What even casual observers think about Ian’s life contributes to his story and influences the next chapters. Like many conventional texts, social texts often have multiple authors. Ian and others with limited communication skills can contribute as coauthors to the text. Even if they do not noticeably interpret any particular experience for themselves,in any strong sense of human agency,by shaping the collective story in whatever way ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 638 Chapter 16 others can comprehend, the social text is enriched by their contribution for others to interpret and elaborate on (P. M. Ferguson & Ferguson, 2001). One Christmas, a few years ago, Ian made us bulletin boards—decorated around the edges with buttons and charms and pieces of old clocks. He gets help picking the colors and textures, and he helps with most of the gluing. In past years, he also made raspberry jam, marinated mushrooms, canned pears, and applesauce.He has also made refrigerator magnets, tree ornaments, and hand-painted mugs and plates. Over the years, he has gone shopping for socks, tea, coffee, really good chocolates, jewelry, winter scarves, and decorative candles. The results of his holiday efforts are certainly shaped by those that support his participation in the season.This is a part of the complexity of Ian’s adulthood that we have come to understand. His taste and choices always reflect the people in his life. Our Christmas gifts come as much from them as from Ian. For our part, we have come to love the variety and choices that go into the content of Ian’s gifts.Of course, we also cherish the self-satisfied smile that he always has when he hands us the present, which is something that is uniquely his. Multidimensional Adulthood For us, the final key to understanding the full meaning of supported adulthood—indeed, of adulthood itself— is to recognize that it has no one single meaning. Autonomy is a very important dimension of adulthood, but there are others. Unfortunately, most attempts to describe the promise of adulthood for people with severe disabilities have tried to accomplish it by making careful discriminations in the meaning of autonomy and independence in order to account for the genuine limits in self-sufficiency that a severe disability might actually impose (this seems to be especially true of severe cognitive disability). We believe that a multidimensional approach to adulthood allows a clearer way of interpreting the situation. Instead of trying to subsume everything that we want to include under the single rubric of independence, a multidimensional approach allows us to enhance our description of adulthood with the additional—but coequal—strands of membership and change that lead to the more accurate notion of adult “interdependence.” As we have described earlier, Ian’s cognitive limitations and multiple disabilities are significant enough that the strand of autonomy in his version of adulthood may not be as strongly visible as his strand of membership. The situation is similar for Douglas even though he has a much different set of disabilities.The strand of personal change and growth may allow the balance between the other two strands to change over Ian’s and Douglas’s lifetimes. It seems to us that a full understanding of adulthood in our society would allow us to avoid the dilemmas of linear, one-dimensional thinking, where degrees of “adultness” occur on a single line of autonomy and independence. Adding other dimensions is not an excuse for limiting Ian’s or Douglas’s independence; it is an interpretation that expands their adulthood. Ian’s adulthood is an expression of the relationships that he has with his parents, his paid supporters, his friends, and his neighbors who contribute toward determining what happens to him from day to day. Douglas’s adulthood is an expression of a similar set of relationships with his large family, increasing numbers of nieces and nephews, his paid supporters, his friends, and his neighbors throughout his small community.To truly support Ian’s, and Douglas’s, adulthood, we are striving for relationships that nourish rather than smother, relationships that flourish rather than atrophy, and relationships that author rich stories of lives lived instead of reports of outcomes achieved. A Cautionary Conclusion about Unkept Promises Supported adulthood seems to provide an important clue as to how social services might accomplish a practical merger of personal independence and community support. However, claims of relevance and value for such ideas should always be chastened by the history of social reform efforts in our country. Too often, our optimism over reform has been followed by decades of unintended consequences that seem all too predictable in retrospect. There is a definite danger that arguments in favor of the supported adulthood approach could overemphasize the cost-effectiveness of such elements as the use of natural contexts and the encouragement of informal supports.Some economic savings may, indeed, be available through natural contexts and natural supports. However, as the experiences of the deinstitutionalization movement have shown, effective community support can suffer if justified primarily on the basis of financial savings. The arguments for adopting supported adulthood must be careful not to imply any ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. The Promise of Adulthood 639 enthusiasm for underfunded social programs.The economic justification for the approach is that it rationalizes spending by tying it directly to valued outcomes, not that it saves money. A second danger with supported adulthood is unintentionally justifying an even greater reliance on a charity model of social support. One of the risks in calling for procedures such as increased reliance on communitybased responses that encourage informal supports is the creation of a one-sided, libertarian abandonment of the legitimate government responsibility to ensure the health and welfare of its citizens with disabilities. Of course, this move to the privatization of welfare gained popularity during the Reagan administration and seems to be enjoying continued appeal.The problem is that the charity model almost unavoidably accepts the systemic inequities that occasion the need for charity in the first place. An effective disability policy must challenge inequity and discrimination in our society with distributive and protective systems within the formal structure of social agencies. Supported adulthood should illuminate a comprehensive, egalitarian approach to a national disability policy, not just look for volunteers to step up in an age of social divisiveness that results from our class structure and continuing racial, gender, cultural, and religious discrimination. A final danger in the approach is closely related to the potential overemphasis on charity. Just as the rediscovery of informal supports and natural contexts can be exaggerated into a privatized social policy of volunteers and cheerful givers,so can the concomitant deemphasis on traditional versions of formal supports lead to an overblown antiprofessionalism. Certainly, those within the field of disability services must recognize the value of properly focused expertise and technology in improving the quality of some person’s lives.The contention that excessive professionalism has often encouraged a dependency role for disabled people should not entail the abandonment of all of the wonderful advances made in the behavioral and life sciences. Despite these very real dangers of misapplication or distortion, the value of moving rapidly toward a vision of supported adulthood is worth the risk. To us it seems to represent the only hope that Ian’s “flight” into full adulthood will be a smooth one. There are thousands of Ians and Douglases who are “taking off” every year in our society.There are thousands more making their way as adulthood moves from young adulthood to middle age and beyond.We have made implicit promises to all of them for as full and rewarding a lifetime as they can achieve.The true risk is the human cost of not doing everything we can to fulfill those promises. Suggested Activities Think about and discuss with your colleagues the ways in which you do and do not operate as an “adult” in terms of (a) self-sufficiency and (b) autonomy. 1. Think about and discuss with your colleagues all of the things, events, and supports you obtain from your own parents or other family members. 2. Inventory the services available for an individual with severe disabilities in your community.Try to obtain the following information about each agency or group that provides services: a. The mission and philosophy of those who provide the service; b. The role of the family in program design, monitoring, and improvement; and c. The role of the adult in program design, monitoring, and improvement. 3. Visit a residential or vocational program in your community that provides services for individuals with severe intellectual disabilities.Try to notice things that reveal the ways in which the people served and supported by the program or service think of themselves as adults and are thought of by others as adults. 4. Talk with someone who works directly with individuals with severe disabilities (e.g., in a vocational support agency or a residential program). Find out how he or she views adulthood for the people that they are trying to support. 5. Talk with a parent or a sibling of an adult with severe disabilities about his or her perspectives on how best to support the family member with the disability. References Agran, M., & Martin, J. (2008). Self-determination: Enhancing competence and independence. In K. Storey,P. Bates,& D. 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M., 151, 202, 519, 537, 541 Ayvazo, S., 141 Azrin, N. H., 386t, 387t, 388, 404, 407, 410 Bachor, D. G., 433–434 Baer, D., 3, 193, 275 Baglin, C. A., 86, 102 Bailey, J. S., 105, 107, 425 Bailey, R., 414, 470 Bain, A., 557 Bainbridge, N., 387t, 406 Bak, S., 60 Baker, B. L., 54, 399, 403 Baker, D. J., 197 Baker, J. N., 164f, 167 Baldwin, K. M., 316 Baldwin, V. L., 399 Balla, D. A., 80–81 Bambara, L. M., 7, 63, 103, 105, 191, 259, 390, 437, 494, 495, 502, 520, 521, 530, 535, 537–539, 556, 561, 624 Banda, D. R., 164f, 167 Baneerdt, B., 387t Bannerman, D. J., 191 Barbetta, P. M., 443 Bardon, J. N., 3 Baron-Cohen, S., 78 Barr, D. M., 56 Barrington, A., 323 Barthold, S., 542 Bartholomew, C. C., 5 Barton, E. E., 208 Barton, L. E., 275 Bashinski, S. M., 197, 481, 486 Basili, G., 15 Bassett, D. S., 110, 529 Batchelder, A., 513 Bateman, B. D., 112, 113, 115 Bates, A., 51 Bates, P., 618 Batshaw, M. L., 305, 341 Battle, C., 146 Batu, S., 386t, 387t, 388, 424, 549, 562 Bauman, K. E., 263, 425 Baumgart, D., 11, 111, 359, 385, 591, 592 Bax, M., 395 Baxter, D., 51 Bayley, N., 77, 82 Beales, R. W. , Jr., 615 Becht, L., 513 Beck, A., 51 Beck, J., 77 Beckstead, S., 440 Bedrosian, J., 512 Beebe-Frankenberger, M., 211 Belanger, D., 7 Belfiore, P. J., 561 Bellamy, G., 208, 492, 495, 497, 520, 574 Bellamy, T., 517 Bellini, S., 441 Belz, B., 105 Belz, P., 535 Ben, K. R., 262 Benazzi, L., 282 Bender, M., 86, 102 Bennett, C. M., 407 Bensted, E. A., 433–434 Benz, M. R., 50, 492, 582 Berg, W. K., 281, 435 Berger, P. L., 519 Berndt, T. J., 435 Beroth, T., 518 Berotti, D., 291 Berryman, J., 438 Bertalanffy, L. von, 46 Bérubé, M., 625 Best, S., 342, 366 Bettison, S, 386t Beukelman, D. R., 147, 463, 467, 473 Bickenbach, J. E., 625, 634 Biederman, G. B., 386t, 421 Bierle, T., 311 Bigge, J. L., 342 Bijou, S. W., 275, 279 Biklen, S. K., 3 Billingsley, B. S., 7 Billingsley, F. F., 70, 88, 89, 89n, 93, 109, 187, 197, 211, 284, 482, 492, 497 Binnendyk, L., 189, 417 Bishop, D. M., 506 Blacher, J., 385, 531, 573n Black, J., 383n, 517n, 520n Blackford, J. U., 197 Blackmountain, L., 50 Blackorby, J., 572 Blackstone, S. W., 471 Blakeley-Smith, A., 59, 486 _ Name Index _ Blalock, G., 582 Blanchett, W. J., 614 Blatt, J., 551 Blatterer, H., 615, 622 Bledsoe, R., 423 Blischak, D. M, 508 Bloom, A., 495, 519 Bloom, D. A., 395 Bloomberg, K., 486 Blosser, C. G., 323 Blount, J. P., 334 Blue-Banning, M., 60, 439, 440 Blumberg, E. R., 282, 629 Bly, L., 348 Boettcher, M. A., 145 Bogdan, R., 3 Boland, B., 137 Boland, J., 139, 257 Bolton, J. L., 561 Bondy, A., 465, 482 Boon, R. T., 519 Borgioli, J. A., 313 Borgmeier, C., 275 Borrell, L., 437 Bos, C. S., 583 Bosman, A. M. T., 503 Bosman, I., 407 Boss, B., 318 Bouck, E. C., 529 Boulet, S. L., 305, 318 Bourbeau, P. E., 519, 562 Bourret, J. C., 387t Bousvaros, A., 316, 317 Bowens, F., 625 Bowman, L. G., 106 Boyle, C. A., 305 Boyne, L., 317 Braddock, D., 58–59, 574, 608, 623, 629, 630 Bradford, E., 435 Bradford, S., 507 Bradshaw, C., 139, 140t, 257, 298 Brady, M. P., 83, 387t Brady, N. C., 197, 479, 481, 486 Braithwaite, M., 46 Brakeman, R., 132 Branham, R., 499, 519 Brannigan, K. L., 387t, 402, 407 Branson, T. A., 141, 545 Brantlinger, E., 7, 437 Brazeau, K. C., 283 Brazelton, T. B., 77 Breath, D., 365 Breau, L. M., 336 Breen, C., 187, 188, 435, 436, 448, 449, 487, 561 Brehm, S. S., 146 Brekke, K. M., 474 Brewer, D. M., 62 Brianner, L., 441 ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. Name Index 643 Bricker, D., 84, 387t Brickham, D., 435 Brickhan, D., 135 Brigance, A., 85–86 Briggs, A., 550 Brightman, A. J., 399, 403 Brobst, J. B., 46, 53 Broer, S. M, 11, 13, 437, 453 Brooke, V. A., 5, 601, 605, 606, 606n, 607, 607n Brotherson, M. J., 48n, 62 Browder, D. M., 5, 16, 82, 86, 88, 105, 106, 108, 125, 160, 164f, 167, 172, 209, 219, 279, 418, 419, 492, 494–497, 499, 500, 502, 506, 508, 509, 511, 513–514, 517, 518, 521, 535, 540, 541, 544n, 548, 549, 560 Brown, B. B., 436 Brown, C., 557 Brown, D., 269n, 272n, 279 Brown, F., 5, 6, 17, 19, 70, 85, 90–93, 94n, 95, 96n, 97n, 103–105, 108, 109, 112, 114n, 125, 136t, 137, 140t, 172, 187, 188, 191, 205, 208, 209, 419, 518n, 535, 548 Brown, L., 7, 15, 135, 431, 435, 437, 529, 544n, 608 Brown, R. D., 437 Brown, W. H., 441 Brownell, C. A., 433 Bruhl, S., 433 Bruininks, R. H., 85 Brunet, J., 438 Bruni, J. P., 84 Bryan, L. C., 537 Bryant, R. A., 316 Bryen, D. N., 469 Buckley, S., 506 Buggey, T., 422 Bugle, C., 386t Buhs, E. S., 437 Bukowski, W. M., 433 Bullock, J., 516 Bumgart, D., 225 Burcroff, T. L., 529 Burdge, M., 231, 496 Burkhart, K., 518 Burkholder, E. O., 220 Bush, C. M., 311 Butler, C., 315, 316 Butler, F. M., 514 Buttars, K. L., 517 Cadwallader, T. W., 439 Caldwell, J., 59 Caldwell, N. K., 138 Caldwell, T. H., 311 Cale, S. I., 59, 486 Callahan, M., 574 Calloway, C., 60 Camarata, S. M., 478 Cameron, M. J., 400 Cameron, P, 11 Cameto, R., 439, 575, 576, 582, 589, 608 Camfield, C. S., 336 Campbell, C., 13 Campbell, P. H., 342, 343, 354, 356, 359 Campbell, S. K., 13, 346, 357, 359 Campo, J. V., 335 Canipe, V. S., 273 Cannella, H. L., 105 Cannella-Malone, H., 151, 423 Caperton, C., 381 Carbone, P. S., 450 Carey, A. C., 469 Carlson, J. I., 105, 140t, 535 Carlsson, M., 318 Carmeli, E., 317 Carnevale, F. A, 50 Carothers, D. E., 534 Carpenter, M. H., 177, 178 Carr, D., 194, 559, 560n Carr, E. C., 468 Carr, E. G., 5, 20, 59, 103, 104, 106, 140t, 188, 259, 263, 279, 281–283, 291, 294, 385, 414, 486 Carr, J. E., 220, 407 Carr, N. J., 512 Carr, R. G., 140t Carron, J. D., 330 Carta, J. J., 141 Carter, A., 56 Carter, C. M., 145 Carter, D. R., 275 Carter, E. A., 60 Carter, E. W., 4n, 5, 9, 11, 59, 109, 132, 135, 137, 141, 142, 229, 234, 431, 433, 435, 438, 440, 442–446, 449, 451, 453, 454n, 468, 469, 474, 486, 487, 498 Carter, M., 59, 435, 438, 448, 462, 475, 477, 481 Carver, T., 574 Castelle, M., 511 Caulfield, M., 293 Causton-Theoharis, J., 351, 446, 447, 468 Cavin, M., 143, 191 Cerasuolo, K., 333 Certo, N. J., 7, 561, 593, 595, 608 Chadsey, J. G., 440, 442, 468 Chadsey-Rusch, J., 543, 559 Chan, A. K., 316 Chan, T., 316 Chandler-Olcott, K., 500 Chard, D., 139, 257, 511 Charlop-Christy, M. H., 150, 151, 177, 178, 390, 422 Charman, T., 177 Chazdon, L., 194 Cheifetz, I. M., 332 Chen, L. Y, 178, 441, 477, 479 Chinn, P. C., 49 Cho, S., 316 Cho, Y. S., 316 Choinski, C., 437 Christensen, A. M., 553 Christiansen, C. H., 418 Chung, K., 407, 410 Church, R. P., 305 Cicchetti, D. W., 80–81 Cicero, F. R., 386t, 387t, 406, 407, 409, 410 Cichella, E., 478 Cihak, D., 151, 499, 516, 519, 537, 540–542, 559 Cimera, R. E., 601 Cioffi, A., 623 Cipani, E., 562 Clair, E., 305 Clancy, P., 499, 541 Clark, D., 187 Clark, G., 578 Clark, N., 109, 141, 234, 444 Clarke, S., 103, 191, 259, 281 Clayton, J., 231, 496, 497 Cleanhous, C. C., 166f Cleave, P. L., 511 Cloninger, C. J., 10n, 14, 19, 102, 228, 381, 494, 497 Clopton, J. R., 46, 53 Close, D. W., 519, 562 Cohen, E. T., 506, 511 Cohen, S., 110, 219 Cohle, S. D., 311 Cole, C. L., 390, 441, 530 Cole, C. M., 535 Cole, D. A., 436 Collet-Klingenberg, L., 151, 422, 543 Collicott, J., 13 Collins, A., 448 Collins, B. C., 134–135, 136t, 141, 164f, 166f, 167, 178, 383, 387t, 433, 499, 502, 518, 519, 544, 545, 553 Colvin, G., 140t, 260, 268n, 282, 283, 294 Colyer, S. P., 518, 519 Comer, D. M., 335 Comrie, J., 414 Cone, J. D., 386t Connor, R. T., 46, 54 Connors, F. A., 495, 506, 507 Conroy, M., 187 Conway, S., 55 Cook, C. C., 62 Cook, L., 124 Cook, S., 46 Cook, T. D., 615 Coon, M. E., 563 Cooney, B., 574 Cooper, J. O., 91, 189, 205, 210, 212, 502 Cooper, K. J., 535, 560 Cooper, L. J., 281 Copeland, S. R., 122, 123, 140, 143, 145, 229, 433, 435, 440, 441, 445, 455, 487, 509, 510, 512 Corsi, L., 105, 535 Cosbey, J. E., 122, 123, 194, 441 Cosier, M., 468 Cote, C. A., 140t Coucouvanis, K., 629 Council for Exceptional Children (CEC), 73 Courey, S., 7, 608 Courtade, G. R., 517, 521 Courtade-Little, G., 495, 521 Cowie, H., 446 Cox, A. L., 202 Cox, A. W., 151, 422 Crane, K., 451 Crawford, M. R., 167 Creech-Galloway, C., 502 Cress, C. J., 438, 462, 463, 469, 470, 473, 477, 479, 480, 486 Crimmins, D. B., 108, 293 Crone, D. A., 103, 261, 263, 265, 269, 269n, 272n, 282–286 Cronin, B. A., 105, 140t, 191, 519, 535, 541 Crosett, S.E., 407 Cross, A. F., 486 Cummins, R. A., 554 Cupples, L., 506 Curfs, L. G., 407 Curry, L., 45 Curtis, C., 440 Cushing, L. S., 5, 109, 141, 234, 434, 442–446, 454n, 487 Cuskelly, M., 55, 387t, 402, 407 Cutts, S., 438 Cuvo, A. J., 499, 516, 517, 548, 550 Cuvo, N. J., 518 Daly, T., 178 Danesi, M., 615 Daniels, K. J., 471 Daoust, P. M., 137 D’Arcy, F., 55 Dardig, J. D., 114n Darrow, D. H., 330 D’Ateno, P., 151, 422 Datillo, J., 561 Davenport, T., 105, 535 Davern, L., 7, 231, 383n, 517n, 520n Davey, V. A., 421 Davies, D. K, 519, 520, 562 Davis, J., 446 Davis, P. K., 516 Davison, A., 451 Day, H. M., 271, 285, 290 Day, J., 290 Dean, N. P., 311 Deater-Deckard, K., 433 de Graff, S., 503 de la Cruz, B., 151 Delano, M., 150, 151, 197, 422 DeLio, D., 623 Delquadri, J., 141, 443, 509 DeMauro, G., 365 Dembo, T., 3 Demchak, M. A., 91, 167 Dempsey, P., 383n, 517n, 520n Dennis, R. E., 19, 481, 494 Denny, M., 166f, 386t, 387t DePalma, V., 542 DePeau, K., 51 DeProspero, A., 219 Derby, K. M., 513 Derkay, C. S., 330 Deshler, D., 7, 509 Detweiler, D. D., 407 de Valenzuela, J. S., 499, 513 Devine, M. A., 561 DiBiase, C., 602 DiBiase, W., 521 DiCarlo, C. E., 191 Didden, R., 264, 407, 503 Diekema, D. S., 325 Diemer, S. M, 283 Dietz, E., 436 DiGeronimo, T. F., 403 DiLavore, P. C., 78 Dion, E., 438 Diorio, M. A., 426 Dipipi-Hoy, C. M., 517, 559 Ditchman, N., 451 Dix, J., 562 Doe, T., 554, 555 Doering, K., 232, 487 Dogoe, M., 164f, 167 Doney, J. K., 415 Donnellan, A., 15 Donnellan, A. M., 273 Donovan, M., 574 Doran, D., 386t Dore, R., 438, 448 Doren, B., 529, 582 Dorflinger, J. M., 51 Dormans, J. P., 342 ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 644 Name Index Dorsey, M. F., 263, 400 Doss, S., 275 Doughty, D., 316 Downing, J. E., 4, 16, 19, 91, 147, 356, 446, 453, 463, 466, 467, 470, 471, 473, 483, 487 Downs, C., 486 Doyle, D., 519 Doyle, M. B., 4n, 5, 132, 226, 382, 437 Doyle, P. M., 134, 137, 157, 163n, 167, 386t, 393, 549 Drager, K., 463, 465, 469 Drain, S., 562 Drake, R. F., 625, 626 Drasgow, E., 479, 543 Duffett, A., 43 Dugan, E. P., 137, 138, 141, 446, 448 Duker, P. C., 264, 407 Dunlap, G., 103, 126, 140t, 257–259, 262, 265, 281, 290, 390, 402, 535 Dunst, C. J., 358 Durand, V. M., 5, 103, 104, 108, 269, 271, 279, 281, 291, 293, 468 Dyches, T. T., 478 Dyer, K., 106 Dykens, E. M., 55 Dymond, S. K., 5, 131, 132, 443, 498, 521 Eccles, J. S., 449, 615 Eddy, S., 62 Edelman, S. W., 19, 132, 234, 382, 442, 494 Edgar, E., 572 Edmond, R. M., 502 Edrisinha, C., 151 Edward, M. R., 273 Edwards, G. L., 106 Ehren, B. J., 509 Eisenberg, S., 317 Ekvall, S., 335 Elawad, M. A., 317 Elder, G. H., Jr., 615, 622 Elinson, L., 602 Elkins, J., 511 Elliot, C. B., 386t Ellison, D., 55 Engel, T., 593 English, C. L., 263, 278, 279 Epps, S., 386t, 388, 425, 426, 555 Erbas, D., 562 Ergenekon, Y., 562 Erickson, A. M, 390, 537 Erickson, K. A., 16, 462 Erikson, V. L., 622 Ersoy, G., 555 Ervin, R. A., 264 Erwin, E. J., 7, 45, 62 Esperanza, J., 139 Etzel, B. C., 146, 225, 426 Evans, A., 502 Evans, I. H., 109 Evans, I. M., 82, 85, 94n, 125, 188, 190, 191, 438, 446 Everett, J., 108 Everson, J., 575 Ewers, L., 574 Fabian, E. S., 574 Factor, A., 58 Fahrenkrog, C., 151 Fairhall, J. L., 421 Falvey, M. A., 592 Farkas, S., 43 Farlow, L. J., 22, 125, 187, 188, 194, 209, 210, 212, 216, 219, 255n Farmer, J. A., 135, 137, 549, 552 Farmer-Dougan, V., 105, 172 Farrell, D. A., 386t Farrell, M., 511 Farrington, K., 7, 437 Farron-Davis, F., 440, 443, 478 Fassbender, L. L., 273 Felce, D., 275, 625 Feldman, R., 5 Ferguson, B., 499, 543, 558 Ferguson, D. L., 11, 385, 623, 625–627, 629, 637, 638 Ferguson, H., 537 Ferguson, P. M., 618, 623, 625–627, 629, 637, 638 Ferrara, D. L., 531, 581 Ferrell, C., 606 Ferro, J., 290 Fesko, S., 602 Fetko, K. S., 178 Fialka, J., 5, 11 Field, S. I., 39, 529, 578, 582, 602 Filbeck, R. W., 386t Filter, K. J., 275 Fines, R. J., 311 Fink, B., 513 Finlay, W. M. L., 481 Finley, G. A., 336 Finney, J. W., 386t Finnie, N., 364, 366 Fischer, G. M., 447 Fisher, D., 4, 62, 431, 433, 440, 442, 593 Fisher, M., 385 Fisher, S., 141 Fisher, W. W., 106 Fishman, L. N., 316, 317 Fisman, S., 55 Fister, S., 232, 434 Fitzgerald, B., 54 Flannery, K. B., 81, 261 Fleischer, D. Z., 625 Fleming, E., 400 Fletcher, H., 506 Flexer, R., 107, 514 Florsheim, P., 437 Flowers, C., 494, 496 Floyd, J., 559, 560n Flynn, J., 55 Foley, B. E., 510, 512, 513 Ford, A., 86, 102, 231, 232, 234, 382, 383n, 492, 497, 514, 517n, 520, 520n, 536 Ford-Adams, M., 316 Forest, M., 110, 352, 531, 532, 582 Forsberg, J., 495 Foster-Johnson, L., 290 Foust, J. L., 516 Fowler, C. H., 62 Fox, L., 474, 506, 513 Foxx, R. M., 388, 404, 407, 410 Frankenburg, W. K., 77 Frankland, H. C., 50 Franzone, E., 151, 422 Frea, W. D., 81, 144, 282, 441 Freagon, S., 418 Frederick-Dugan, A., 516, 519, 559 Fredericks, H. D. B., 399, 403, 520 Fredrick, L. D., 140t, 499, 506 Freeman, K., 150, 422 Freeman, R., 5 Freeman, S. F. N., 60, 440 Freeman, T., 55 Frey, N., 62 Frey, W. D., 602 Fridley, D., 386t Friend, M., 124 Friman, P. C., 402 Frost, L., 465, 482 Fryxell, D., 438, 440 Fuchs, D., 194 Fuchs, L. S., 194 Fudor-Davis, J., 145 Fung, E. B., 323, 326 Furstenberg, F. F., Jr., 615, 616 Fussell, J. J., 397 Gaffaney, T., 279 Gagnon, M., 335 Gaillard, W. D., 318 Gallucci, C., 62, 70, 88, 187 Galvin, J. C., 599 Gama, R. I., 541 Gamache, P., 586 Ganz, J. B., 150 Garand, J. D., 150 Garcia, J., 447, 486 Gardill, M. C., 540 Gardner, S. M., 273 Gardner, W., 335 Garff, J. T., 390 Garfinkle, A. N., 204 Garrett, B., 469 Garrison-Harrell, L., 448, 449 Gartner, A., 493 Garwood, M., 554 Garza, N., 439, 582 Gassaway, L. J., 387t Gast, D. L., 105, 135, 136t, 137, 140t, 157, 161, 166f, 191, 202, 219, 386t, 387t, 502, 509, 535, 537, 542, 549, 552, 553, 558, 561 Gaylord-Ross, R. J., 82, 85, 436, 448, 544n Geary, T., 599, 602, 623 Gee, K., 228 Gentry, J., 415 Gert, B., 170 Ghere, G., 446 Ghezzi, P. M., 415 Giangreco, M. F., 4n, 6, 7, 9, 10n, 11, 13, 13n, 14, 15, 19–21, 25, 102, 132, 228, 232, 234, 351, 356, 382, 437, 442, 494, 497, 498 Gibson, K., 601 Gifford-Smith, M. E., 433 Gilberts, G. H., 141, 145, 447 Giles, D. K., 399 Gillberg, C., 78 Gilles, D., 187 Gilliam, J.E., 78 Gilligan, K., 414 Gilson, C. L., 5 Gischlar, K. L., 205 Glascoe, F. P., 85–86 Glucksman, J., 329 Godsey, J. R., 164f Goetz, L., 4, 132, 137, 232, 433, 440, 443, 478, 486, 498 Gold, M. W., 159 Golden, C., 443 Goldstein, H., 150 Goldstein, S., 45 Gollnick, D. M., 49 Gomez, J., 531 Gomez, O. N., 538, 581 Gonnerman, J., 7 Good, R. H., 140t, 282 Goodman, J. E., 335 Goodstadt-Killoran, I., 500 Gorall, D. M., 56, 57 Gordon, L., 572 Gothelf, C. R., 90, 104, 105, 188, 191 Gow, T., 513 Graff, J. C., 335 Gragoudas, S., 624 Graham, S., 513 Grant, K. B., 52 Grasso, E., 517, 559 Gray, C. A., 150 Gray, K., 542 Green, C. W., 106, 107, 140t, 273, 293 Green, E., 56 Greenspan, S., 85 Greenwood, C. R., 137, 141 Grenot-Scheyer, M., 60, 439 Gresham, F., 261, 264, 291 Griffen, A. K., 386t, 544 Griffin, C., 599, 602 Griffith, J., 563 Griffiths, P., 316 Grigal, M., 5, 546 Grim, J. C., 481 Grindheim, E., 474 Grisham-Brown, J., 4, 469 Groen, M A., 506, 508 Gross, E. J., 386t Grossi, T. A., 596, 625 Grossman, D., 51 Grossman, H. J., 75 Grove, D. N., 399 Guess, D., 83, 90, 104, 105, 191, 208, 263 Guess, P., 136t Gunn, P., 55 Gunning, T. G., 501 Gunther, D. E., 325 Guralnick, M. J., 46, 54 Gustafson, M. R., 553 Gustavsson, A., 437 Guth, C., 229, 435 Habib, D., 4 Hacker, B., 84 Hadadian, A., 500 Haddad, J., 574 Hagan-Burke, S., 263 Hagberg, G., 318 Hagiwara, T., 423, 537 Hagner, D., 574 Hagopian, L. P., 106, 386t Hahn, J. E., 58 Halcombe, A., 166f, 387t Hall, L. J., 132 Hall, M., 141, 545 Hall, R. V., 141, 509 Hallam, R., 63 Halle, J., 479 Hallet, J., 543 Halpern, A., 571, 572, 582 Hamilton, B., 481 Hammis, D., 599, 602 Hammond, M. A., 46, 54 Hamre-Nietupski, S., 15, 499, 541, 550 Han, K. G., 440, 442, 468 Hancock, T. B., 178 Hanley, G. P., 279 Hanley-Maxwell, C., 492 Hanline, M. F., 190 ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. Name Index 645 Hannah, M. E., 55 Hansen, D. L., 519, 541, 558 Hanson, C, R., 386t Hanson, M. J., 50 Hanson, R., 407 Harbin, G., 63 Harchik, A. E., 191 Harding, J. W., 281 Hardman, M., 2, 496 Hareven, T., 622 Haring, K. A., 539, 551 Haring, N. G., 219, 220, 474 Haring, T. G., 103, 187, 188, 435, 436, 448, 449, 518, 561 Harjusola-Webb, S., 186 Harley, D. A., 178 Harper, C. B., 441 Harris, A. A., 395, 449, 514 Harris, K. R., 513 Harrower, J., 145, 495 Harry, B., 7, 45, 50, 60, 81, 439, 605, 614, 615 Hart, D., 5 Hart, H., 395 Hart, J., 50 Harvey, M. T., 197 Hasazi, S., 5, 572 Hasselman, F., 503 Hastings, R. P., 51 Hay, I., 63 Haynie, M., 311 Heber, R., 75 Heckman, K. A., 167 Hedrick, W. B., 512 Hefin, L. J., 445 Heitlinger, L., 317 Helfin, L. J., 140t Heller, K. W., 140t, 342, 506, 511 Heller, T., 58 Helm, J., 414 Helmkay, A., 511 Helmsetter, E., 591 Hemmeter, M. L., 4, 137, 164f, 383 Hemmingsson, H., 437 Hemp, R., 58 Henderson, R., 323 Hendrick, S. S., 46, 53 Heron, T. E., 91, 189, 502, 508 Herr, C. M, 112 Hershberg, T., 615 Heslop, P., 603 Heward, L., 114n Heward, W. L., 91, 167, 189, 502 Hill, B. K., 85 Hill, C., 51 Hilt, A., 140t Hine, J., 151, 422 Hines, C., 549 Hingsburger, D., 437, 554, 554n Hinson, K. B., 574 Hippenstiel, M., 602 Hipsher, L. W., 403 Hirose-Hatae, A., 478 Hittie, M. M., 13 Hobbs, T., 386t, 404 Hobson, D., 365 Hoch, H., 417 Hockersmith, L., 542 Hodapp, R. M., 53, 54 Hodgdon, L. A., 466 Hoff, D., 607 Hoffman, A. D., 465, 578 Hoffnung, A. S., 102 Hojnoski, R. L., 205, 208, 211, 215 Holburn, S., 110, 191, 258, 262, 263 Hollowood, T. M., 438 Holvoet, J., 82, 85, 136t, 137, 194, 208, 209 Holzwarth, W. N., 179 Holzwarth V. N., 232 Hoogeveen, F., 503 Hooper, M., 562 Hooper, S., 167 Hoover, K., 178, 441, 477 Hopf, A., 441 Hoppey, D., 225, 440 Horne, R. L., 602 Horner, F. H., 109 Horner, R., 208, 257, 298 Horner, R. D., 387t Horner, R. H., 5, 81, 103, 106, 109, 139, 140t, 197, 257–258, 260–263, 265, 268n, 269, 269n, 270n, 271, 272n, 275, 276n, 279, 282–285, 285n, 286, 287n, 288, 289, 289n, 290, 292–294, 298, 388, 425, 495, 499, 518, 519, 543, 553, 555, 562, 573n, 574 Horner, R.J, 187 Horton, C. B., 465 Horton, S., 516 Horvat, M., 561 Houghton, A., 418 Houghton, S., 557 Howard, B. J., 407 Howard, V. F., 387t Howell, A., 518 Howlin, P., 177 Hoy, A. W., 108 Hoy, W. K., 108 Hsieh, K., 58 Hudson, C., 563 Hueckel, R., 330 Huerta, N. E., 3, 33 Hughes, C., 59, 104–105, 141, 143, 145, 229, 431, 433, 435, 438, 441, 446–449, 469, 474, 481, 486, 487, 538, 551 Hughes, M., 91, 499, 557, 592 Hughes, T., 435 Hugo, K., 551 Hunt, L, 232 Hunt, P., 4, 40, 70, 132, 137, 138, 232, 433, 440, 443, 478, 486, 487, 493, 498 Hunt Berg, M., 463, 471 Hunter, D., 595, 618 Hunter, K., 179, 232 Hurley, C., 144 Hurley, S. M., 6 Hutter-Pishgaki, L., 486 Hwang, B., 140 Hwang, C., 83 Iacono, T., 462, 475, 481, 486, 506 Inge, K. J., 5 Ingersoll, B., 151 Ingram, K., 264 Ingstad, B., 614, 615 Inman, D., 208, 574 Irvin, L. K., 257, 282 Irvine, A. B., 390 Irvine, B. A., 537 Itkonen, T., 445 Ivancic, M. R., 106, 273 Ivancic, M. T., 105, 107 Iverson, V. S., 10n, 14, 102, 228, 497 Iwata, B. A., 106, 263, 273, 276, 279, 386t, 517, 562, 563 Jablonski, A. L., 383, 384n, 398n Jacobi, E., 550 Jacobs, E. H., 308 Jacobs, R. A., 334 Jacobson, J. W., 263 Jaeger, D. L., 363, 364 Jaeger, P. T., 452 Jagirdar, S., 318 Jameson, J. M., 443, 503 Jameson, M., 179, 503 Janney, R., 4, 5, 7, 10, 19, 70, 103, 109, 124, 128, 132, 141, 142, 187, 188, 192, 225, 226, 227n, 228, 230n, 234, 236n–238n, 240n, 241n, 243n, 248n, 379, 385, 444n, 498 Janney, R. E., 228, 234, 400, 436, 447 Janney, R. J., 10, 137, 138, 210 Jansen-McWilliams, L., 335 Jenkins, S., 395 Jerman, P. L., 583 Jeter, K. F., 315 Jimenez, B., 500, 517 Jitendra, A. K., 513, 517, 559 Jobes, N., 386t Jobling, A., 499 Johns, J. L., 502 Johnson, A., 316 Johnson, D. R., 601 Johnson, D. W., 138 Johnson, F. W., 138 Johnson, G., 390 Johnson, H., 311 Johnson, J., 43, 126, 591 Johnson, J. W., 14, 141, 179, 232, 498, 503, 521 Johnson-Martin, N. M., 84 Johnston, S., 194, 441 Jones, B., 529, 582 Jones, D., 623 Jones, D. N., 562 Jones, G. Y., 553 Jones, J. S., 311 Jones, V., 433 Jorgensen, C. M., 5, 228 Joseph, L. M., 495, 511 Jung, L. A., 63 Kahn-Freedman, E., 512 Kairalla, J., 323 Kaiser, A. P., 178, 414, 417, 481 Kalyanpur, M., 615 Kamps, D. M., 137, 138, 141, 160, 433, 443, 445, 447–448, 455, 474, 486, 509 Kaplan, J., 514 Karasoff, P., 228 Karl, J., 502 Kasari, C., 60 Katims, D. S., 495, 500, 510, 512 Katsiyannis, A., 335 Katz, J., 334, 438 Katzenmeyer, J., 482 Katzer, T., 105, 535 Kauffman, J. M., 2 Kay-Raining Bird, E., 511 Kayser, A. T., 282 Kazdin, A. E., 189 Kearns, J. F., 5, 469 Keefe, E. B., 132, 508, 511 Keen, D., 46, 386t–387t, 402, 407, 409, 410 Keenan, M., 151, 422 Keilitz, I., 387t Kelleher, K. J., 335 Kellerman, T., 601 Kelly, S. M., 452 Kelly-Keough, S., 146, 149, 150, 390 Kemp, C., 438, 448 Kemp, D. C., 140t Kennedy, C. H., 4, 5, 103, 109, 141, 142, 186, 212, 234, 313, 433, 434, 437–438, 440, 442–446, 454n, 487, 498, 518 Kent-Walsh, J., 441, 487 Keonig, K., 59 Kercher, K., 179 Kern, L., 7, 103, 105, 140t, 191, 259, 292 Kern-Dunlap, L., 103, 281 Kerr, M. M., 211 Kerr, N. J., 407 Kessler, K. B., 499, 537, 540 Kett, J. E., 615 Keul, P. K., 574, 588 Khandewal, N., 318 Killian, D. J., 447 Kilwein, M. L., 387t Kincaid, D., 110, 191, 258, 262, 265 King, G., 51 King-Sears, M. E., 143 Kinsbourne, M., 146 Kippenhaver, D. A., 462 Kircaali-Iftar, G., 555 Kirk, R., 40, 62 Kirk, S., 50 Kirkland, L., 500 Kisacky, K. L., 151 Kishi, G. S., 436, 445 Klatt, K. P., 499 Klein, M., 365 Kleinert, H. L., 5, 164f, 231, 449, 451, 496, 497, 499, 519, 544, 553 Klingner, J., 50, 614 Kluth, P., 500 Knab, J., 586 Knapp, V. M., 383, 384n, 398n Knight, S., 311 Knight, T., 7, 437 Knoster, T. P., 103, 128, 191 Knowlton, E., 88, 110 Kochhar-Bryant, C. A., 529 Koegel, L.K., 144, 145, 402, 478 Koegel, R. L., 135, 136t, 144, 145, 170, 402, 478 Koger, F., 105, 191, 530, 535, 539, 556 Kohl, F. L., 494 Kohler, P. D., 602 Koller, E. Z., 516 Konarski, E. A., 426 Konrad, M., 511, 512, 582 Koppenhaver, D. A., 16, 511, 512 Korinck, L., 192 Kortering, L., 572 Korzilius, H., 264 Koth, C., 139, 140t, 257 Kozleski, E. B., 7, 44 Kraemer, B. R., 385 Kramer, T., 516, 516n Krantz, P. J., 132, 178 Kranz, R. J., 537 Kravitz, T., 448 Kreiner, J., 107 Kroeger, K. A., 59 ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 646 Name Index Krouse, J., 2 Krug, D. A., 516, 516n Kruse, D., 620 Kuby, P., 500 Kunc, N., 3, 71, 345, 436 Kune, N., 20 Kuoch, H., 150 Kurkowski, C., 5, 132, 234, 440, 442 LaCampagne, J., 562 Ladd, M. V., 103 Lakin, K. C., 623, 625, 629, 630, 636 Lalli, J. S., 275, 279, 561 Lambert, B., 316 Lambert, N., 80, 84, 92 Lamberto, J., 51 Lamme, L. A., 54 Lamme, L. L., 54 Lancioni, G. E., 15, 105, 151, 503 Landrum, T. J., 186 Lane, K. L., 211 Lang, R., 279 Lange, S. N., 275 Langone, J., 502, 519, 541, 558 La Paro, K. M., 63 Larin, H., 346 Lasater, M. W., 387t Lasker, J., 512 Lattin, D. L., 545 Latz-Leuer, M., 317 Laurent, A. C., 84 Laursen, B., 433 Laushey, K. M, 445 Laws, G., 506 Le, L., 150, 422 Leaf, P., 139, 140t, 257 Leatherby, J., 166f, 387t LeBlanc, J. M., 146, 225, 426 LeBlanc, L. A., 407 Leconte, P. J., 578 LeCouteur, A., 78 Lee, A., 500 Lee, K., 514 Lee, M., 436, 448 Lee, M. S. H., 106 Lee, S., 60, 447 Lee, Y., 140t Lehman, J., 110 Lehman, L. R., 108 Lehr, D. H., 19, 90, 92, 93, 95, 104, 105, 112, 114n, 191 Leland, H., 80 Lennox, D. B., 102 Lensbower, S., 542 Lenz, B. K., 509 Leonard, B. R., 137, 138, 443 Lerman, D. C., 276 Leung, S. S., 316 Levin, L., 140t, 414 Levine, M. R., 386t, 443 Levine, P., 572, 582, 589 Levinson, D., 622 Levinson, T. R., 535 Leviton, G. L., 3 Lewis, A. P., 418 Lewis, R. B., 90 Lewis, S., 81 Lewis, T. J., 264 Lewis-Palmer, T., 5, 109, 139, 140t, 257, 260, 263, 264, 269n, 272n, 288, 289n Leyser, Y, 40, 62 Li, T., 602 Liberty, K. A., 125, 197, 219 Light, J., 463, 465, 467, 469 Lightsey, O. R., Jr., 46, 56 Lilly, M. S., 562 Lim, L., 560 Linden, M. A., 112, 113, 115 Lindstrom, L., 492 Linehan, S. A., 83 Linford, M. D., 403 Lingo, A. S., 164f Lipsky, D. K., 493 Liston, A., 4 Lloyd, B. H., 209, 210 Locke, P., 141, 509 Logan, K. R., 17, 132 Lohrmann-O’Rourke, S., 105, 106, 108, 172, 419, 548, 581 Long, E. S., 106, 555 Long, S., 516, 519 Lonigan, C. J., 500 Looney, L., 431 Lopez, A. G., 443 Lord, C., 78 Lorden, S. W., 104 Lorimer, P. A., 150 Love, L., 590, 591 Love, S. R., 386t Lovett, D. L., 539, 551 Lovinger, L., 448 Lowe, M. L., 517 Lowman, D. K., 365 Luckasson, R. A., 2, 75, 76, 84, 85, 85n Lucyshyn, J. M., 51, 81, 189, 261, 262, 279, 282, 289, 298, 417 Luecking, R. G., 7, 574, 590, 605, 607, 608 Luiselli, J. K., 105, 386t, 407, 414, 415, 535 Luiselli, T. E., 132, 234, 382, 442 Lumley, V. A., 555 Lund, S. K., 469 Lundeby, H., 46, 63 Luscre, D., 202 Lusthaus, E., 110 Lutz, J. B., 315 Lychner, J. A., 63 Lynch, E. W., 50 Maag, J. W., 204, 212 MacDonald, C., 109 MacDonald, R. F., 275 MacDuff, G. S., 537 Mace, F. C., 275, 279 MacFarland, S., 132, 234, 442 MacGregor, T., 146, 149, 150, 390 Macias, M. M., 397 Mack, R., 624 Mackey, W. L., 329 Macy, M., 56 Madison, D., 557 Magiati, M., 177 Magito-McLaughlin, D. M., 20, 104 Mahoney, J. L., 449 Mahoney, K., 406, 407 Maier, J., 132, 232, 486, 487 Mainzer, R., 7 Maksym, D., 554n Malhi, P., 318 Malley, S., 561 Malmgren, K. W., 446, 447 Malone, D. M., 17 Mancil, G. R., 481 Mancil, R., 282 Mandleco, B., 478 Mangiapanello, K., 151, 422 Mank, D. M., 63, 293, 573n, 574, 604, 623, 625 Manley, K., 553 Marcenko, M. O., 59 March, R., 269, 269n, 272n, 275 Marchand-Martella, N. E., 552, 553 Marchetti, A. G., 562 Marcus, B. A., 105, 172, 293 Marder, C., 589 Marholin, D., 519 Markowski, A., 105, 535 Marks, S. U., 443 Marquis, J. G., 264 Marsh, R., 330 Marshall, G. R., 386t Marshall, L. H., 530, 583 Martella, R. C., 166f, 553 Martin, G. L., 106 Martin, J. E., 530, 582, 583, 622, 637 Martin, T. L., 106 Marvin, C. A., 462, 477, 500 Mason, C., 529, 582 Mason, D., 178 Mason, S. A., 105, 172 Mast, M., 574 Mathes, P. G., 506 Matheson, C., 439, 453 Mathot-Buckner, C., 141, 232, 434 Mathur, S. R., 264 Matson, J. L., 59, 386t, 387t, 516, 519, 562 Matson, M. L., 59 Matson, S. L., 625 Matuska, K. M., 418 Mautz, D., 593, 608 Mavrogenes, N. A., 502 Maxson, L. M., 583 Mayer, G. R., 294 Mayhall, C. D., 602 Mayhew, L., 381 Mazzoti, V. L., 579 McAdam, D., 537 McCabe, M. P., 554 McCandless, M. A., 435 McCarthy, D., 82 McCarthy, L. J., 549 McCarthy, Y., 55 McCartney, J. R., 562 McClannahan, L.E., 132, 178, 537 McClellan, L., 516 McClung, H. J., 317 McComish, L., 563 McConnachie, G., 140t McConnell, S. R., 438, 441 McCord, B. E., 279 McCormick, B. M., 329, 333 McCormick, K., 63 McCoy, J. E., 387t McDonnell, A., 2, 80 McDonnell, J., 2, 14, 17, 40, 70–71, 132, 141, 178–179, 187, 232, 234, 434, 443, 493, 495, 496, 498, 499, 502, 503, 509, 518, 519, 521, 543, 550, 558 McDonough, J. T., 605, 606, 606n, 607, 607n McFarland, S. Z. C., 382, 550 McGee, G. G., 105, 172, 178 McGlashing-Johnson, J., 191 McGoldrick, M., 60 McGrath, P. J., 335, 336 McGregor, G., 493, 494, 496, 497 McGrew, K. S., 85 McGuire, E. J., 395 McIntosh, K., 139, 257, 276 McIntosh, L., 499 McIntyre, L. L., 385 McKee, M., 217n–219n McKeever, P., 50 McKelvey, J. L., 561 McKenzie, B., 11, 17n McKenzie, M., 63, 494, 624 McKerchar, P. M., 140t McKnight, J. L., 625, 629, 634 McLaughlin, D. M., 140t McLaughlin, M., 45, 494 McLaughlin, T. F., 409, 513 McLaughlin, V. I., 192 McLean, J., 475 McLeskey, J., 7, 225, 440 McLoughlin, J. A., 90 McMahon, C. M., 435 McNaughton, D., 47, 441, 482, 486, 487 McQuivey, C., 132, 141, 498 McSheehan, M., 5 McWilliam, R. A., 381 McWilliams, R., 550 Meadan, H., 481 Mechling, L. C., 105, 140t, 143, 191, 197, 502, 505, 509, 519, 535, 537, 538, 541, 542, 548, 549, 553, 558, 559 Melda, K., 58 Melein, L., 407 Melekoglu, M., 5, 132, 234, 442 Melloy, K. J., 186–188, 192, 212 Mercer, R., 406 Merchand-Martella, N, 166f Merger, E., 5, 103, 468 Mesaros, R. A., 273 Mesibov, G. B., 147 Meyer, A., 232 Meyer, D., 55 Meyer, H., 60 Meyer, K. A., 446 Meyer, L. H., 109, 187–188, 192, 210, 383n, 385, 433, 436, 439, 445, 446, 517n, 520n, 544n Meyerson, L., 406, 407 Mezzullo, K., 595 Michaels, C. A., 5, 6, 70, 531, 581 Midlarsky, E., 55 Milbourne, S., 342 Millar, D., 465 Miller, A., 502, 503, 508 Miller, E. E., 503 Miller, K. D., 625 Miller, R., 582 Miller, S. P., 514, 517 Miller, U. C., 550 Miltenberger, R. G., 102, 210, 212, 279, 555 Mims, P. J., 164f, 167, 500 Minarovic, T. J., 502, 537 Minor, J. W., 387t Mintz, E., 487 Miracle, S., 449 Mirenda, P., 146, 147, 149–150, 273, 334, 390, 391, 423, 438, 463, 467, 473, 475, 477, 500, 506, 507, 536 Missall, K. N., 205 Mistrett, S., 342 Mithaug, D. E., 62 Miya, T., 512 Modell, J., 615 Moes, D. R., 81, 140t, 282 Mohler, A., 433 ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. Name Index 647 Molgat, M., 615 Monahan, L., 365 Moni, K. B., 499, 507n Monzó, L., 531 Moon, M. S., 545, 546 Mooney, M., 451 Moore, J. W., 279 Moore, S. C., 143, 145, 596 Moore, W. G., 399 Morgan, M., 499, 507, 507n, 510 Morgan, R. L., 519, 541, 558 Morin, V. A., 517 Morningstar, M. E., 545 Moroney, R. M., 634 Morrier, M. J., 178 Morris, S., 365 Morrison, A. P., 499 Morrison, L., 447, 486 Morse, T. E., 164f, 165f, 167, 518 Mosley, C. R., 3 Moss, C. K., 449 Mount, B., 110, 258, 531 Muccino, A., 518, 561 Muler, E., 232 Mulhern, T. J., 516 Muller, E., 132, 486 Mulligan, M., 136t, 208 Munk, D. D., 290 Munson, R., 211 Murdock, E. E., 407 Murphy, L., 335 Murphy, N. A., 450 Murphy, R. F., 624 Murphy, S., 7, 365 Murphy. Y., 624 Murray, R., 629, 634 Murray-Seegert, C., 434 Murzynski, N., 387t Mwaria, C. B., 624 Myles, B. S., 150, 387t, 406, 423, 537 Na, S., 316 Nageswaran, S., 305 Nagle, K., 494 Najdowski, A. C., 415 Nakasato, J., 139 Nance, J., 16 Nation, K., 506 Neef, N. A., 517, 542, 562, 563 Neel, R. S., 492, 497 Neely-Barnes, S. L., 59 Nehring, A. D., 84 Nehring, E. F., 84 Nelles, D. F., 517 Nelson, C., 80, 85, 211 Nelson, G. L., 386t Nelson, J. R., 264 Nerney, T., 629 Neubert, D. A., 545, 546, 578 Neuman, S. B., 500 Neville, B., 46, 54 Nevin, A., 4, 19, 60 Newborg, J., 77 Newcomer, L. L., 264 Newman, L., 582, 589, 608 Newsom, C., 59 Newton, J. S., 109, 262, 270n, 276n, 285n, 287n Newton, S. M., 435 Nguyen, D., 106 Nientemp, E. G., 441 Nietfield, J. P., 178 Nietupski, J., 15, 499, 541, 550 Nihira, K., 80 Nikopoulous, C., 151, 422 Nirje, B., 258 Nisbet, J., 11 Nixon, C. D., 279 Nonnemacher, S., 556 Noonan, M. J., 83 Norins, J., 433 Norman, A., 519 Norman, J. M., 387t Northup, J., 279 Nosonchuk, J. E., 330 Nugent, J. K., 77 O’Brien, C. J., 258 O’Brien, C. L., 110, 581 O’Brien, F., 386t, 520 O’Brien, J., 110, 258, 531, 532, 581, 582 O’Brien, M., 289 O’Brien, P., 618, 625, 626, 629, 634, 636 O’Connor, C., 55 Odom, S. L., 186, 187, 438, 441 Odom, S. M., 573n Oelwein, P. L., 513 Ogawa, I., 438 Okyere, B. A., 508 Oliva, C. M., 187 Oliva, D., 15 Olsen, J., 513 Olsen, R. J., 439 Olsen, S. E., 478 Olson, D. H., 56, 57 Olson, R. K., 495 Olsson, I., 318 O’Mara, S., 606 O’Neil, C., 194 O’Neill, R. E., 103, 187, 261, 263, 265, 269, 270n, 271, 275, 276, 276n, 281, 282, 284, 285, 285n, 286, 287n, 289 Openden, D., 145 O’Reilly, M. F., 15, 105, 151, 263 Orelove, F. P., 90, 351, 412 Orth, T., 549 Ostrosky, M. M., 178, 481 O’Toole, K. M., 519 Ouvry, C., 486 Owen, V., 94n, 125 Owen-DeSchryver, J. S., 59, 486 Owens, L., 451, 468 Ownbey, J., 178, 253, 388 Pace, G. M., 106, 273 Paczkowski, E., 54 Paddock, C., 514 Page, T. A., 563 Page, T. H., 562 Page, T. J., 106, 273 Palan, M. A., 602 Palfrey, J. S., 311 Palisano, R., 342 Palmer, S. B., 63, 469, 582 Palombaro, M. M., 438 Paredes, S., 151 Parette, H., 470 Paris, S. G., 500 Parish, S. L., 50, 57, 59 Park, C. I., 316 Park, E. S., 316, 317, 479 Park, H., 60, 439 Parker, D., 447, 486 Parker, M. A., 164f Parker, R. C., 3 Parrot, K. A., 387t Parsons, M. H., 178, 253, 388 Parush, S., 513 Passante, S. C., 140t Passy, V., 330 Paul-Brown, D., 381 Payne, E., 578 Pearpoint, J., 110, 532, 582 Peck, C. A., 62, 70, 88, 187, 386t, 404, 544n Pelland, M., 592 Pellegrino, L., 342 Pereira, L., 60, 439, 440 Perner, D., 13 Perry, A. G., 323 Perry, J., 625 Person, J., 574 Pesko, M. J., 449 Peters, J. K., 441 Peterson, J. M, 13 Peterson, R. E., 275 Pfadt, A., 386t, 387t, 406, 407, 409, 410 Phelps, L. A., 492 Pianta, R. C., 63 Piazza, C. C., 106 Pierce, K. L., 151, 550 Pierce, S., 516 Pierce, T., 514 Piercy, M., 446 Pierset, W. C., 386t Pike, H., 511 Pirtle, T., 437 Pitkin, S. E., 104 Pittel, D., 314 Pitts-Conway, V., 436, 448, 518 Pizarro, M., 63 Planty, M., 51 Podell, D. M., 108 Polister, B., 629 Politsch, A., 512 Polychronis, S., 14, 179, 443, 503 Pomeranz-Essley, A., 59 Porter, J., 486 Porter, S., 311, 328–331, 334 Post, M., 537, 596 Potter, P. A., 323 Potts, B. B., 469 Potucek, J., 448 Powers, L., 540, 542 Prater, M. A., 433 Presley, J. A., 145 Pretti-Frontczak, K. L., 4, 56 Pridgen, L. S., 519, 541 Priestly, M., 618 Prinsen, H., 503 Prizant, B., 84 Prouty, R. W., 623, 629 Pumpian, I, 4, 593 Quenemoen, R., 494 Rabideau, L., 394n–396n Radogna, D. M., 529 Rae, R., 551 Rai, K., 423 Rainforth, B., 109, 111, 356, 359, 363n, 364, 365 Randolph, P. L., 84 Rankin, S. W., 141 Rapp, J. T., 555 Ratcliff, A. E., 438 Rathcey, M. L., 395 Raven, K. A., 421 Ray, J. A., 52 Rebhorn, T., 8 Reese, G., 166f, 386t, 387t, 418, 426 Reeve, C. E., 468 Rehm, R. S., 50 Reichle, J., 275 Reichler, R., 78, 146 Reichow, B., 208 Reid, D. H., 107, 140t, 178, 253, 273, 388 Reilly, J. C., 166f Reilly, J. F., 166f Reimers, T., 279 Reinhartsen, D. B., 204 Reinoehl, B., 543 Reisen, T., 443 Reiss, M. L., 425 Rentz, T., 225, 440 Renzaglia, A., 5 Repp, A. C., 275, 290, 292 Resnick, L. B., 514 Revell, W. G., 5, 601 Rheinberger, A., 138 Ricciardi, J., 414 Richardson, P. K., 477 Richman, G. S., 263, 386t, 425 Richmond, G., 177, 386t, 407 Richter, S., 595 Riesen, T., 179, 503 Riggs, C. G., 382 Rinaldi, L. M., 409 Rincover, A., 135, 136t Ringdahl, J. E., 105, 140t, 172, 293 Riordan, M. M., 386t Risdal, D., 53 Risen, T., 14 Risi, S., 78 Risley, T. G., 275 Risley, T. R., 105, 172, 189, 193, 263 River, T. T., 59 Rizzolo, M. C., 58 Roane, H. S., 105, 107, 172, 293 Robbins, F. R., 103, 281 Roberts, J. A., 555 Roberts, K. M., 397 Roberts, M. L., 264 Robinson, D., 563 Rochen-Renner, B., 78 Rodger, S., 46 Rodi, M. S., 145, 481 Roe, C., 572 Roeber, E., 88 Rogan, P., 623 Roger, B., 5, 448 Rogozinski, B. M., 324 Rohena, E. I., 513 Rolider, A., 269 Roll, D., 551 Rollyson, J. H., 140t Rortvedt, A. K., 279 Rose, D. H., 232 Rosenbaum, P., 51 Rosenblum, S., 513 Rosenquist, C. J., 495 Rosenthal-Malek, A., 495, 519 Ross, B., 469 Ross, C., 7, 437 Ross, S. W., 298 Rossen, P., 5 Rotatori, A. F., 418 Rotholz, D. A., 135 Rous, B., 63 Rowe, D. A., 602 Rowland, C., 359 Rubin, E., 84 Rubin, K. H., 433, 439 Rueda, R., 531 ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. 648 Name Index Ruef, M., 283 Rung, L. L., 141 Rusch, F. R., 562, 563, 574, 608 Rush, K. S., 106 Russell, D. L., 132 Russo, R., 81 Rutherford, R. B., Jr., 264 Rutter, M., 78 Ryan, M. P., 311 Rydell, P. J., 84 Ryndak, D. L., 187, 232, 431, 442, 499, 506 Ryndak, R. L., 496 Rynders, J., 436, 451, 625 Sacks, S. Z., 96n, 97n Sailor, W., 5, 228, 257–258 Salisbury, C. L., 358, 438 Salvia, J., 75, 78, 82 Samaniego, I. A., 315 Sameroff, A., 615 Sandler, L., 282 Sands, D. J., 90, 110 Sarason, S. B., 626 Sarber, R. R., 548 Sasso, G. M., 275, 279 Sasso, G. P., 435 Saunders, S., 7, 506, 511 Sax, C., 4 Saylor, C. E., 397 Scahill, L., 59 Schaefer, C. E., 403 Schalock, R. L., 2, 75, 76, 79, 262, 469, 582 Schattman, R., 494 Scheer, J., 624 Schepis, M. M., 178, 179, 253 Scherer, M. J., 599 Schieve, L. A., 305 Schleien, S. J., 518, 561, 625 Schloss, P. J., 204, 211, 499, 548 Schlosser, R., 465, 508 Schnorr, R., 20, 231, 383n, 435, 436, 455, 517n, 520n Schofield, P., 208 Schogren, K. A., 2 Scholl, K. G., 451 Schopler, E., 78, 146, 147 Schrader, C., 443 Schreck, K., 414 Schreibman, L., 151, 155, 550 Schulte, C. F., 103 Schultz, J. R., 59 Schur, L., 620 Schuster, J. W., 137, 164f, 165f, 167, 178, 383, 387t, 499, 518, 519, 544, 562 Schwab, C., 400 Schwartz, A. A., 263 Schwartz, I. S., 60, 62, 70, 88, 187 Schwartz, M., 191, 258, 582 Schwier, K. A., 554, 554n Scorgie, K., 51 Scott, L. A., 5 Scott, S. M., 381 Scott, T. M., 264, 282 Scotti, J. R., 555 Seeley, W. W., 395 Seery, M. E., 495 Seligman, M., 345 Sells-Love, D., 409 Seltzer, A., 91, 557, 592 Serna, L. A., 433 Sersen, E., 263 Sevin, J. A., 386t Sewell, T. J., 164f, 383, 387t, 388, 418, 423 Shanahan, M., 615 Shankar, J., 469 Shapiro, J., 531 Shattuck, P. T., 50, 57 Shavelson, R. J., 258 Shaw, C., 365 Shea, V., 147 Sheehy, K., 503 Sheldon, D. L., 602 Sheldon, J. B., 191, 537 Sheldon, K., 561 Shelton, G., 486 Shepherd, K., 5 Shepis, M., 388 Sheppard-Jones, K., 449 Sherer, M., 151, 422 Sheridan, S. M., 437 Sherlock, P. V., 582 Sherman, J. A., 191, 537 Shoen, S. E., 421 Shogren, K. A., 62, 63, 447, 624 Shukla, S., 293, 438, 440, 443, 446 Shulda, S., 141 Shumpert, N., 574 Siegel, E., 471 Siegel-Causey, E., 84, 85, 88 Sien, A., 316 Sigafoos, J., 151, 438, 468, 477, 503 Sikkema, S., 407 Silberman, R. K., 90, 91, 96n, 97n, 351, 412 Silikovitz, R. G., 403 Silver, E. J., 305 Silverstein, M., 51, 52 Simbert, V. F., 387t Simpson, R. L., 150, 423, 447 Sinclair, T., 143 Singer, G. H. S., 53, 170, 390, 537 Singh, N. N., 15, 292 Singhi, P., 318 Singleton, K. C., 137, 562 Siperstein, G. N., 3, 433, 441 Sipko, R., 550 Sisco, L. G., 5, 132, 135, 234, 435, 442 Sisson, L. A., 387t, 561 Sitlington, P., 191, 578 Sivil, E. O., 421 Sizemore, A., 386t Sjothun, B., 474 Skär, L., 437 Skinner, B. E., 279 Skinner, C. H., 561 Skotko, B. G., 462 Slagor, M. T., 5 Slavin, R. E., 138 Slifer, K. J., 263 Sligh, A. C., 495 Slyman, A., 105, 535 Smeets, P., 503 Smith, A., 8, 414, 443 Smith, A. L., Jr., 386t Smith, B. W., 293 Smith, C., 140t, 151 Smith, E., 58 Smith, J. G., 451 Smith, M. A., 204, 211 Smith, M. D., 209 Smith, P. S., 406 Smith, R. L., 544 Smith, T. J., 452 Smolkowski, K., 139 Snell, M. E., 2, 4, 5, 7, 10, 17, 19, 22, 70, 78, 103, 124, 125, 128, 132, 137, 138, 141, 142, 150, 166f, 178, 187–188, 194, 197, 209, 210, 212, 216, 219, 225, 226, 227n, 228, 230n, 234, 236n–238n, 240n, 241n, 243n, 248n, 255n, 379, 385, 386t–387t, 400, 418, 426, 436, 441, 442, 444n, 447, 462, 469, 471, 477, 479, 481, 495, 498, 499, 517, 518n, 541, 550, 573n Snow, K., 191, 593 Snyder, E. D., 482 Snyder, P., 365 Snyder-McLean, L., 475 Sobsey, D., 51, 90, 351, 412, 554, 555 Solow, J., 574 Sommerness, J., 446 Sommerstein, L., 499 Sonnenmeier, R., 5 Soodak, L. C., 7, 45, 62, 108 Soto, G., 132, 232, 486 Sowers, J., 519, 540, 542, 562, 563 Sparrow, S. S., 80, 85 Spears, D. L., 562 Speidel, K., 512 Spencer, K. C., 110 Spillane, A., 186 Spooner, F., 5, 16, 160, 164f, 167, 192, 208, 209, 443, 495, 499, 500, 514, 521, 552n, 553 Sprague, J. R., 257, 260, 270n, 276n, 279, 284, 285n, 287n, 499, 518, 543 Spriggs, A. D., 537 Sraft-Sayre, M., 63 Stackhaus, J., 138 Stafford, A. M., 140t Stahlberg, D., 390, 537 Staiano, A., 317 Stallard, P., 336 Stamer, M., 346, 348, 364 Stancliffe, R. J., 62, 625, 629, 630, 636 Stanford, L. D., 51 Staples, A. H., 510, 512, 513 Staub, D., 62, 70, 88, 137, 187, 439, 498 Steege, M., 279 Stein, R. K., 305 Stem, B., 552n Stenhoff, D. M., 553 Stephens, E., 197, 538, 549 Stern, D., 586 Stern, R. J., 388, 425, 555 Steveley, J. D., 543 Stevenson, R., 323 Stillman, R., 146 Stinson, D. M., 135, 137 Stock, S. E., 519, 520, 562 Stokes, J. V., 400 Stone, J., 13 Stoneman, Z., 55 Stoner, J., 470 Storey, K., 187, 270n, 276n, 285n, 287n, 390, 436, 537, 538, 596, 618, 624 Stowe, M. J., 3, 33 Strain, P. S., 194 Stremel, K., 359 Stremel-Campbell, K., 359 Strickland, B., 45 Strike, A. M, 625 Stromer, R., 508 Strope, G. L., 330 Stuart, C. H., 187 Sturgill, T. R., 151, 422 Sturm, J., 511, 512 Suarez, S. C., 471 Sugai, G., 5, 109, 139, 140t, 257–258, 260, 261, 263, 264, 268n, 282, 283, 288, 289n, 293 Sullivan, M., 602, 636 Sullivan, P. B., 316, 317 Sulzby, E., 499 Sulzer-Azaroff, B., 294, 465 Summers, J. A., 48n Sun, Y., 468 Suter, J. C., 4n, 6, 11, 382 Swaner, J., 191, 593 Swasbrook, K., 563 Swedeen, B., 440, 449, 451, 468 Sweeney, J., 46, 56 Symon, J. B. G., 441 Taber, T. A., 91, 499, 540, 557, 592 Taber-Doughty, T., 535 Tamm, M., 437 Tankersley, M., 186, 187 Tanner, L., 615, 622 Taras, M. E., 386t Tarbox, R. S. F., 402, 404 Tarnai, B., 554, 555 Tasker, E., 54 Tawney, J., 219 Taylor, B., 151, 417, 422 Taylor, J., 293, 561 Taylor, R. L., 534 Taylor, S. J., 3, 5, 9, 365, 626, 627, 630 Taylor-Greene, S., 139, 257 Tekin-Iftar, E., 545, 555 Test, D. W., 62, 192, 208, 209, 512, 516, 518, 550, 552n, 559, 574–576, 579, 581–583, 585, 586, 590, 593–599, 601–604 Therrien, W. J., 511 Theuer-Kaufman, K., 108 Thiemann, K. S., 150 Thoma, C. A., 5 Thomeer, M. L., 383, 384n, 398n Thompson, J. R., 77, 84–86 Thompson, K., 80 Thompson, M., 330 Thompson, R. H., 140t Thompson, T., 407 Thornton, L., 139, 140t, 257 Thorson, N., 132, 141, 232, 434 Thorsteinsson, J. R., 106 Thousand, J. S., 4, 5, 19, 60, 62, 228 Threats, T. T., 469 Thurlow, M., 86, 496, 497 Tierney, E., 55 Tiesel, J. W., 56, 57 Tilly, J., 59 Tilson, G., 574 Tobin, T., 257 Todd, A. W., 5, 109, 139, 140t, 257, 260, 268n, 269n, 272n, 282, 283, 288, 289n, 293 Tom, L., 330 Tomlinson, C. A., 137 Torgeson, J. K., 506 Tossebro, J., 46 Touchette, P. E., 275, 519 Tough, S., 437, 554 Towne, L., 258 Townsend, M., 446 Tracey, M., 499, 513 Trach, J. S., 602 ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright © 2011 by Pearson Education, Inc. Name Index 649 Trainor, A. A., 451, 468 Traub, E. K., 486 Trefler, E., 365 Trela, K., 500, 512 Troutman, A. C., 17, 97, 186, 193, 202, 204, 209, 212, 215, 282 Tschannen-Moran, M., 108 Tse, P. W., 316, 317 Tssekdyke, J. E., 75 Tundidor, H., 441 Turnbull, A. P., 37n, 45, 48n, 50, 54, 57, 60, 62–63, 90, 110, 283, 439, 440, 451, 582 Turnbull, H. R., 3, 33, 37n, 45, 50, 90 Turnbull, R., 582 Tyler, B. J., 511 Tyler, N., 7 Udvari-Solner, A., 5, 228, 351 Umbreit, J., 279 Unger, D., 601 Urbano, R. C., 53, 54 Utley, B. L., 194 Utley, C. A., 521 Vadasy, P., 55 Vagianos, L., 191 Vaillant, G. E., 622 Valdez-Menchaca, M., 478 Valenti-Hein, D., 437 Valletutti, P. J., 86, 102 Van Camp, C. M., 281 Van De Mark, C. A., 232, 496 Vandercook, T., 110, 352, 436, 561 Van der Klift, E., 3, 436 van Dijik, J., 80 Van Hasselt, V. B., 387t Van Houten, R., 269 van Kraayenoord, C. E., 500, 511 VanReusen, A. K., 583 Van Wagenen, R. K., 406, 407 Van Walleghem, J., 591, 592 Varn, L., 516, 559 Varney, E., 602 Vaughn, B. J., 140t, 290 Vaughn, S., 511 Vedora, J., 508 Veerhusen, K., 499, 541 Venable, J. E., 625 Vera, E. M., 63 Verhoeven, L., 503, 513 Vermeer, A., 513 Vernon, D. D., 311 Vietze, P. M., 110, 258, 262, 263 Vigour, E., 587n Villa, R. A., 4, 5, 19, 60, 228 Vincent, C., 257 Vitello, S. J., 329, 335 Voeltz, L. H., 190, 191 Vogelsberg, R. T., 563 Vollmer, T. R., 105, 172, 281, 293 Von Tetzchner, S., 474 Vorndran, C. M., 140t Vygotsky, L., 468 Wacker, D. P., 279, 281, 435 Wagner, M., 438, 439, 449, 572, 582, 589, 608 Wagner, S., 438 Wakeman, S. Y., 160, 499, 514 Walker, A. R., 595 Walker, D., 141, 308 Walker-Hirsch, L., 437 Wall, M. E., 561 Wallace, M. D., 415 Wallace, P., 446 Wallis, T., 109 Walther-Thomas, C., 192 Walton, C., 481 Wang, M. C., 514 Wang, P., 186 Ward, M., 582 Ward, P., 141 Ward, T., 232, 496, 497 Warner, J., 194 Warnes, E. D., 437 Warren, S. F., 481 Watkins, N., 138 Watson, M, 557 Weatherby, A. M., 84, 471 Weatherman, R. F., 85 Weber, K. P., 513 Weber, L., 59 Webster, A. A., 59, 435, 438 Wechsler, D., 82 Weed, K. A., 94n, 125 Wehman, P., 5, 574, 601, 618, 623, 624 Wehmeyer, J., 191 Wehmeyer, M. L., 2, 5, 37n, 39, 50, 62, 63, 90, 141, 143, 145, 191, 258, 447, 469, 498, 519, 520, 529, 530, 562, 582, 624 Weigel, C. J., 62 Weikle, B., 500 Weiner, J. M., 59 Weiner, J. S., 433, 443, 487 Weinstein, S. L., 318 Weisner, T., 439 Weiss, P. L., 513 Wells, D. L., 311 Wendelborg, C., 63 Wendt, O., 465 Wenig, B., 105, 535 Wentzel, K. R., 431 Werts, M. B., 482 Werts, M. G., 138 West, D., 486 West, E. A., 482 West, R. P., 387t Westling, D. L., 506, 513, 559, 560n Wetmore, R., 330 Whalen, C., 137 Whalon, K., 190 White, D., 511 White, M. T., 469 White, O. R., 83, 211, 219, 220 Whitehurst, G. J., 500 Whitney, R., 387t Whorton, D., 141 Whyte, S. R., 614, 615 Widaman, K. F., 3 Wilcox, B., 492, 497, 520 Wilcox, M. J., 342 Wildonger, B., 499, 541 Wilkins, D., 4 Will, M., 572 Williams, F. T., 192 Williams, G. H., 626 Williams, J. A., 518, 543, 562 Williams, K., 414 Williams, W. L., 402, 563 Williamson, P., 225, 440 Williams-White, S., 59 Wilson, B. A., 63, 494, 624 Wilson, D., 329, 330 Wilson, L., 43 Wilson, P. G., 516, 520 Wilton, K., 446 Winn, S., 63 Winterling, V., 135, 552 Wise, B., 495 Wohl, M. K., 386t Wohl, R., 615 Wolery, M., 134–135, 136t, 137, 138, 151, 157, 160, 161, 163n, 165f, 166f, 167, 169, 174, 204, 208, 386t–387t, 393, 414, 417, 421, 422, 482, 544, 549, 552 Wolf, L., 55 Wolf, M. M., 22, 189, 193, 275, 399 Wolfe, P., 555 Wolfensberger, W., 3, 258, 441, 623 Woo, T. M., 323 Wood, B., 414, 417 Wood, W. M., 62 Woodcock, R. W., 85 Worrall, L., 469 Woster, S. H., 279 Wrenn, M., 478 Wright, B. A., 3 Wright, E. H., 529 Xie, B., 452 Xin, Y. P., 517, 559 Yamamoto, J., 512 Yell, M., 335 Yoder, D. E., 16 Yoder, P. J., 481 Yoo, S., 60 York, J., 109, 110, 352, 441 York, R., 562 York-Barr, J., 351, 356, 359, 363n, 364, 365, 446 Young, J., 235 Young, K. R., 387t, 553 Young, S. J., 311 Yovanoff, P., 492, 582, 623 Ysseldyke, J. E., 75, 78, 82 Ytterhus, B., 63 Yu, C. T., 106 Yuan, S., 11, 26 Zames, F., 625 Zhang, D., 50 Zhang, J., 561 Ziegler, M., 7, 437 Zigmond, N., 194 Zirpoli, T. J., 186–188, 192, 212 Zuk, L., 317 Zwaigenbaum, L., 51 Zwernik, K., 110 ISBN 1-269-33051-9 Instruction of Students with Severe Disabilities, Seventh Edition, by Martha E. Snell and Fredda Brown. Published by Pearson. Copyright 31. education/ major curriculum& instruction Abstract Through exploration of public mask/private face, the authors trouble violence and its role in science education through three media: schools, masculinity, and science acknowledging a violence of hate, but dwelling on a violence of caring. In schools, there is the poisonous ‘‘for your own good’’ pedagogy that becomes a ‘‘for your own good’’ curriculum or a coercive curriculum for science teaching and learning; however, the antithetical curriculum of I’m here entails violence—the shedding of the public mask and the exposing of the private face. Violence, likewise, becomes social and political capital for masculinity that is a pubic mask for private face. Lastly, science, in its self-identified cultural, political and educational form of a superhero, creates permanent harm most often as palatable violence in order to save and to redeem not the private face, but the public mask. The authors conclude that they do not know what violence to say one should not do, but they know the much of the violence has been and is being committed. All for which we can hope is not that we cease all violence or better yet not hate, but that we violently love. Keywords Violence ! Schools ! Masculinity ! Science-as-a-superhero ! Love Lead Editor: M. Weinstein. This is a forum response paper to Carolina Castano’s manuscript ‘‘Extending the purposes of science education: addressing violence within socio-economic disadvantaged communities.’’ doi:10.1007/s11422-012-9412-4. F. S. Broadway (&) Department of Curricular and Instructional Studies, University of Akron, Akron, OH, USA e-mail: [email protected] S. L. Leafgren Department of Teacher Education, Miami University, Oxford, OH, USA e-mail: [email protected] 123 Cult Stud of Sci Educ DOI 10.1007/s11422-012-9425-z ‘‘We will love before we can hate’’ (Harlow 1986, p. 310). We wear masks. Although we have worn and wear masks, we cannot wear the mask of ‘‘9–10 year old children from a socio-economically disadvantaged population from Bogota´, Colombia’’ (Castano 2012, hereafter Castano). As much as we can’t tear ourselves from our performative body, we can’t wear the body of another. ‘‘[I]dentities are reiterated through bodily performances. This implies that identities are not inherent to the body: identities become naturalized through the body’s reiteration of specific norms attributed to identity categories’’ (Ruffolo 2011, p. 291). Although we may try to become someone that we are not, we are like a slave who has to learn to wear a mask to seem as if he fits the owner’s concept of ‘the nigger.’ At the same time he has an identity of his own that must be hidden, because it is a threat to the slave system. In effect, he maintains a double identity and shifts between the two according to the occasion…If the mask slips, the [slave] does not suffer existential crisis, but arrest, capture, whipping, and possible death (Butterfield 1974, p. 20) Therefore, we tread lightly on the identity of Castano’s ‘‘children—who are reactive aggressors, possess a low social status, and are rejected by their classmates…[or are] instrumental aggressors [who are] commonly connected with high social status, power and acceptance…[and have a] lack of empathy and compassion,’’ ‘‘who otherwise might turn to violence as the only way they see for surviving and gaining power’’ and who ‘‘live in poverty and immerse in situations of violence’’—as we respect their difference.Therefore,within our pondering,we seek the private face rather than the publicmasks by askingwhy, ifwe have a social and schoolmodel for violence, for boys, for science education, and for the conflation of these elements, should schools create a world of a democratic tradition (Counts 1932/1978) that does not exist? If, as NelNoddings (1997) suggests, ‘‘ithasalways been an anathema to democratic life for authority to impose its dictates on unwilling subjects’’ (p. 188),why impose thisworld, this dream, upon its students and theworld inwhich they exist? Arewe suggesting what we say we do not want others to do, namely, ‘‘to impose,’’ or in Count’s words ‘‘finally be prepared to, as a last resort, in either the defense or the realization of this purpose [democratic tradition], to follow the method of revolution’’ (p. 38) and so, resort to violence? In responding to Castano, three elements are central: violence is paradoxically inherent in the good—the violence of love; and the bad—the violence of hate, but in both cases violence harms. School is a place where the violence, most often bad, conflates with gender and science-as-a-superhero; hence schools are a place of violence. And finally, the role of masculinity/gender and of science-as-a-superhero are inherently violent because both ask for an identity—to be like someone else. Castano proposes and dreams that ‘‘science education could serve as a special place for interrupting violence by encouraging compassion based on understanding the emotional and social lives of others, starting with other animals and moving toward humans.’’ We conjecture if science education ‘‘could play a significant role in changing the life path of children,’’ then science (education) is a superhero; one who saves and redeems. Structurally, we problematize Castano’s hopeful proposal by examining the cultural context of school, namely schools as institutions of violence. Schools as institutions of violence Within moments of entering a school building, the culture of the place—its internal reality as experienced and maintained by the people who are members of that cultural context— F. S. Broadway, S. L. Leafgren 123 can be felt and observed by even the most nai¨ve visitor. Several years ago, a group of teacher candidates visited an elementary school and returned to their university class with a story to share that we recall here to mirror elements of Castano’s case study observations. Students who were also socio-economically disadvantaged populated this school in the Midwestern United States. In this school, the teachers involved in the story, like the teacher in Castano’s study, viewed the students as very difficult and hard, and they likewise used ‘‘verbal aggression’’ in their interactions with them. The following vignette, recalled from visitors’ observations, tells a tale of first-grade boys and their teachers. The first-grade team of four white female teachers referred to them as gangsters: a collective of five 6-year-old boys—five friends who were inseparable on the playground and any place they could find where they could be inseparable in school. Gangsters, we must presume because these teachers perceived this group of friends as a gang. A gang— because they were Negroes and because they were boys and because they were other than the teachers who labeled them. A gang—because they were perceived as violent, potentially violent; they threatened to be violent by virtue of their blackness, their maleness, and their otherness. In the school, they were, ostensibly, separable (as opposed to inseparable)— because through coercion and force school does separate (Leafgren 2009, 2011), and thus compelled the boys to a subversive –and so even more threatening—collective. It was immediately noticeable in this school that the children moved through hallways in straight, silent, gender-based lines. The rate of speed and style of movement was arbitrarily prescribed by the authority of any adult who was present at the time and there were harsh consequences for those who did not meet these unstated and often unexpected expectations. On the day of the observation, one of the gangsters moved through the hall to join his classmates who had begun their mute trek back to their classroom from a collective restroom break. As the boy moved down the staircase toward the neat line of children below, a teacher stopped him: ‘‘Stephen!!’’ barked out harshly. He stopped in mid-step and looked to her. And every child in his class turned from their now-paused movement in their line to look to him. The teacher –not Stephen’s teacher, but another member of the firstgrade team of teachers who had happened to be in the hallway, too—glared at Stephen and said, ‘‘Don’t you know how to walk down the stairs?’’ Stephen looked puzzled and said, ‘‘Yes.’’ ‘‘Then go back to the top of the stairs and walk down the stairs correctly.’’ Stephen surreptitiously looked toward the line of his classmates—all gawking at him by now—then sheepishly ducked his head and turned to return to the top of the stairs. He walked down as he had before—one step at a time, and with his characteristic slight, very slight, hop as his left foot touched every other step. He reached the bottom step and looked to the teacher. ‘‘No,’’ she shook her head, ‘‘That’s not the right way. Go back to the top and do it again. Do it right.’’ Stephen did not look up; with head down, he turned and walked slowly to the top of the staircase again, and walked back down—no slight hop this time, slowly and carefully. Perhaps too slowly, because on his last step, the teacher, red-faced, said, ‘‘Very funny. Go back again and come down the stairs correctly.’’ Stephen looked toward the line of classmates again—all frozen in their spaces. Stephen’s classroom teacher apparently decided to remain in the hallway with the entire line of children to witness his difficulty with the other teacher—without a word to interrupt or question this series of humiliations. This time, when Stephen looked to his class, he locked eyes with two of his gang, and they looked to him with intensity and empathy. They held eyes for a time—and Stephen seemed to gather some strength from their unspoken support and fury. He turned and walked to the top of the stairs and turned, staring defiantly down at the teacher in the hall—his tormentor—and waited. She slit her eyes and ground out her words, ‘‘Now—let’s see if you do know how to walk down the stairs correctly. We’re going to keep doing this until you do it right.’’ Unmasking: on violence, masculinity, and superheroes 123 Stephen slowly stepped from one stair to the next, allowing both feet to rest for several moments on each stair before moving to the next. The teacher raised her voice and ordered him back to the top before he was half-way down, and Stephen looked to the line of his classmates and caught the unblinking gaze of his gang,—each of them fuming, each of them looking to Stephen with the intensity of a shared sense of injustice and hurt. This series was repeated over and over. Each time, Stephen moved more slowly to the top and then toward the bottom of the staircase; and each time, the teacher became more obviously angry and frustrated. After six repetitions of sending Stephen to the top of the staircase, the teacher gave in and abruptly shouted, ‘‘Just as I thought. You don’t know how to do it right.’’ She shot a look to Stephen’s classroom teacher, prompting the classroom teacher to say, ‘‘You’re flipping your card when we get back to the room, Stephen.’’ Stephen joined his line at the end, shrugging his shoulders with a false attitude of indifference regarding the punishment of the card flip and the prolonged affront to his dignity. The bully school: an institution of violence Violence is done whenever we violate the identity and integrity of the other. Violence is done when we demean, marginalize, dismiss, rendering other people irrelevant to our lives or even less than human. Violence is done when we simply don’t care or don’t look hard enough to evoke our caring for another (Palmer 2009). Stephen’s friends—his gang—in their unspoken support and commiseration demonstrated the compassion described by Castano as ‘‘interrupting violence by encouraging compassion based on understanding the emotional and social lives of others.’’ These boys cared enough to ‘‘look hard,’’ and so saw Stephen’s need and acted on an orientation toward helping, understanding and caring for him. They also acted on their collectivity. Just as Peter, Philip, Nill and Charley maintained their status through being a collective of boys, so were Stephen and his comrades ‘‘always together, and, despite the fact that they were not doing anything’’ they managed a tacit collectivity through this silent exchange of friendship and comradely support. In this collective behavior, Stephen and his gang were practicing a nai¨ve and unintentional form of satyagraha, a Gandhian non-violence—a practice that is not passive, not assenting to the lack of tolerance and acceptance on the part of their teachers and their school, but not resorting to violence either. Reverend James Lawson (2000) refers to the ‘‘non-violent athlete,’’ one who actively responds to injustice as an alternative to pacifism— action being a necessary alternative because while pacifism does serve non-violence, it does not affect the kind of change needed to confront injustice. Stephen was not violent. But he did resist. He and his friends resisted humiliation and irrelevance, and they especially resisted separation. Because of their resistance, their non-violence—their satyagraha—Stephen and his friends/gang were considered to be violent boys by the teachers in their school: naming their collectivity and friendships as gangster, naming their intention and potential as violent. Through adjective and anecdote, Castano describes the boys in her study as actually physically and verbally violent. Palmer names violence as more than physical and verbal acts; rather acts of exclusion, degradation, and lack of care; acts that are most effectively inflicted by those in authority and by those who have a profound responsibility to care. Palmer’s understanding of violence as violence against identity, against belonging, against self-worth mirrors Castano’s discussion of school factors that ‘‘could intensify violence… context and environments that discourage emotional, empathetic and F. S. Broadway, S. L. Leafgren 123 compassionate behaviours, favour heavy discipline, competitiveness and control, and marginalise and stigmatise certain groups of students.’’ If this is the case, then perhaps the source of school violence is in the institution and its teachers and administrators more so than in the students compelled to be there. For instance, as Castano discusses violence as reactive aggression ‘‘motivated by anger in response to a real or perceived offence’’ and as instrumental aggression as ‘‘calculated and pre-mediated’’ toward acquiring and maintaining power and social status, one can interpret the violence done to Stephen on the staircase as a means to both exert power on a subordinate and/or a reaction to what the teacher perceived as an offense. Whatever the perception or intention of the action against Stephen, and indirectly, against all who witnessed it, the impact on the children is the same. They learn that, ultimately, those in authority do not really see them; that children’s experience and feelings are irrelevant, as calculated order is maintained through stigmatizing and marginalizing those most vulnerable or most offensive to those in power. Castano refers to the students in her study as using ‘‘violence as a way of acquiring or maintaining their social status and also many of them lacked tolerance and compassion toward others or became involved in bullying.’’ In considering the institution of school as a place of violence, one might easily replace the actor of students to that of teachers—as agents of school—and be just as accurate. Dan Olweus (1993) explains bullying as exposure to repeated and prolonged negative actions often in a context of an imbalance of power as bullies use their power to control or harm others. School, via the actions of its teachers repeatedly and over time, excludes, inflicts discomfort, embarrasses, calls children ‘‘savages,’’ humiliates, stigmatizes certain groups of students, subjects them to surveillance, and separates them from who and what they care about. Because schooling is a ‘‘process intended to perpetuate and maintain the society’s existing power relations and the institutional structures that support those arrangements’’ (Shujaa 1993, p. 330), schools are by definition and inherently a place of violence, a place that perpetuates violence, a place that can only thrive through violence. This schooled-goal of perpetuating an existing power structure leads many teachers to claim that the violence is a violence of care. Noddings (2002) famously posed the question, ‘‘Can coercion be a sign of caring?’’ It is ‘‘for their own good’’ that teachers insist that what they are demanding from their students is right and that coercion and cruelty, if they are used, are necessary and for the child’s own good. The student’s ‘‘own good’’ signifies survival and, if one is good enough, success in the existing society; it signifies learning to comply without question, and to subvert one’s identity. For his own good, the child is coerced to wear the mask that fits the teacher’s and society’s concept of the good child, the good student, of the nigger. So, here, in school, even caring is violence. Even love hurts. Mistaking the world of the institution for the world of scholarship: a coercive curriculum The pervasive penchant for order and compliance via coercion manifests itself in the literature about school and schooling: the flags raise in alarm in what has been referred to as the hidden curriculum (Jackson 1966), the implicit curriculum (Eisner 1985), and the subversive curriculum (Postman and Weingartner 1971). These hidden, implicit and subversive curricula are what lie beneath the lessons that all schoolchildren learn about what matters and who. Castano ‘‘offers evidence of the way a decontextualized curriculum [not relevant to students] could reinforce structural violence and have a negative impact in the well-being of Unmasking: on violence, masculinity, and superheroes 123 children, contributing to them joining violent groups’’ and suggests that science learning might more consistently and intentionally include contact with nature. Yet, the separating nature of school insists that content exists in texts and notebooks rather than in bodies and senses interacting with nature, outdoors, and one another. The poisonous ‘‘for your own good’’ pedagogy becomes a ‘‘for your own good’’ curriculum as science learning is reduced to squiggles on a page and copying ideas of others. For their own good, students are coerced to lose themselves, to become absent and un-present as they are confronted in school with a narrow and stingy curriculum that does not love them and which they, then, cannot love. We reject teaching to public masks, often expressed as ‘‘for your own good’’ curriculum, but we perform a curriculum of I’m here—a curriculum in which students exist, are present and accounted for—a curriculum which necessitates private faces made public. A curriculum of I’m here struggles to achieve a dignified self that loves and cares, (Gaines 1993) and to realize dreams (Steiner 2003), but no matter how democratic and devoid of gender and knowledge of self, pedagogy to perform a curriculum of I’m here entails violence—the shedding of the public mask and the exposing of the private face. In other words, Castano must realize that a curriculum of I’m here requires the acceptance of the pain of change (from the public mask to the private face) or the disruption of status quo (being the private face rather than the public mask). Choosing sides: conflicted student identity Peter, Philip, Nill and Charley ‘‘hardly entered anything in their notebooks’’ (Castano)— and if they had, what would they have entered? Something of relevance? Something relating school science to application to their daily lives, and to local context and issues? Does local relevance and applicability signify that the curriculum is of them? We suggest that relevance is not enough; that Peter, Philip, Nill and Charley were seeking a curriculum of we’re here! as evidence of their identity and visibility and not finding it, decided to resist the coercive pedagogy and what those filled notebook pages might have done to their identity. Andrew Gilbert and Randy Yerrick (2001) suggest that when teachers –whether knowingly or unknowingly—convey to students that they view them as inferior and ‘‘very bad’’ and impugn their abilities in the narrow context of notebook pages, that the resistance they meet negatively impacts classroom cooperation and student learning. We claim that the resistance from the students is not the problem; we claim that there is not enough resistance to insult a coercive pedagogy. Just as coercive pedagogy is committed knowingly or unknowingly, we wonder whether many students are aware of the harm being done to them? The ones who do know…do they act? Are they what Lawson terms ‘‘non-violent athletes,’’ actively responding (resisting) to the injustice of coercive pedagogy, or do they passively accept, and even expect, the daily affronts to their nature and intellect? In the face of the violence against their intellect and their identity, some students must choose sides and many will become the ‘‘very aggressive,’’ ‘‘really bad,’’ ‘‘students who have bad attitudes and grades …and have a lot of issues and behave very badly.’’ Castano describes a more passive resistance as the celebration and enjoyment of anything the really bad students did—even when it was aggressive toward other students. ‘‘Any action they did, even teasing other students and pushing or grabbing their school stuff, was celebrated and enjoyed by the other students who did not intervene to prevent the action’’. Here is evidence that students have chosen sides—perhaps as a result of what Gilbert and Yerrick (2001) describe as pressure to identify with a particular peer-group, often based on schoolbased achievement or lack thereof. Gilbert and Yerrick claim that students may face difficulty in school if students attempt to move outside of their micro-culture identity of F. S. Broadway, S. L. Leafgren 123 peer groups (a collective) who, perhaps, resist a school-identity—and, in doing so, resist oppression, resist coercion, and resist the norms that do not include students as valued and cared-for members of the culture. Students experience a conflict of identity as some seek to strike a balance between an identity as accepted members of the schooled micro-culture—whether out of a desire to please the adults in charge, to fit in, or to avoid punishment, ridicule, or exclusion—and the often conflicting (especially when the school is housed in communities of low socioeconomic status or of populations of people whose race and culture is non-dominant) identity as a member of the micro-culture of their peers. Even compassion and empathetic behavior such as that demonstrated by Stephen’s friends come to be perceived by their teachers as a threat—as oppositional to the good of the order, and even named as savage or gangster behavior, leaving students to flounder in identity confusion. Confusion ensues as the consequence of conflicted identity by way of the wearing of public masks to accommodate the needs of others that leads to what as been termed the ‘‘false self’’ and the ‘‘as-if personality.’’ Students in schools are asked to perform and to be like the ‘‘masked view’’ of themselves (Miller 1979/1990, p. 27), but we suggest that through violence, the student is choosing a conflicted identity to expose the vast self that is behind that ‘‘masked view.’’ Choosing sides is thus an action of resistance and of fear. Fear because as masks may slip, there is risk—not of ‘‘arrest, capture, whipping, and possible death’’(Butterfield 1974) but of ‘‘rejection, ostracism, loss of love and name calling,’’ which will affect the student with suffering and dread of identity. Masculinity: violence and schools Castano’s comment, ‘‘[b]oys who develop this form of masculinity identity are characterized by physical strength, competitiveness, emotional neutrality and detachment,’’ invites and necessitates an explicit discussion of masculinity. First, we unwrap Peter’s comment, ‘‘‘Come and show me if you are man enough!’’’ as a sexually implicit moniker for the performative gender act of hegemonic heteronormative masculinity always raced White. We argue, furthermore, that hegemonic heteronormative masculinity is congruent with the violence aforementioned existing in schools. Hence, schools are hegemonically heteronormatively masculine. Rather than change the gang into another masculinity such as a ‘‘feminizing masculinity’’ (McCormack and Anderson 2010, p. 857), we summarize that gender is not necessary. If anything, we surmise gender may hinder Castano in realizing a place of less violence albeit that violence is natural. ‘‘Come and show me if you are man enough!’’ is the conflation of sexuality and gender. Therein, gender, being performative herein defined as ‘‘a continual and incessant materializing of possibilities’’ (Butler 1988, p. 521, italic in the original) and ‘‘constituting the identity it is purported to be’’ (Butler 1990/1999, p. 25), is the ‘‘materialization’’ of the sexual possibilities and the purport of the sexual identity. Thus, the request to come and to show the gendered identity—man—is the enactment of the sexual which is indicated by a penis and testicles as the penis alone does not denote sexuality. This performance of anatomy is explicit in dog trials where male animals are identified as being whole by specificities: the testis, specifically ‘‘two normal testicles normally located in the scrotum’’ (American Kennel Club 2010, p. 46) that produces the Y-chromosomes, denotes the normative animals and, when applied to humans, a hegemonic man. Although the boys might want the object of the command ‘‘Come and show me if you are man enough!’’ to ‘‘drop trousers’’ and present penis and testicles for inspection, the gang depend on a Unmasking: on violence, masculinity, and superheroes 123 performative (gender) representation of man. If ‘‘masculinity is a multiplicity of gender practices (regardless of their content) enacted by men whose bodies are assumed to be biologically male’’ (Pascoe 2011, p. 6), then the males, boys, within Castano’s article rely upon their performative gender role confounded by race, class, and (dis)ability to make ‘‘Come and show me if you are man enough!’’ happen or a hegemonic white (hetero) masculine that is ‘‘rational, competitive, sexually assertive—bearing the phallus’’ (Renold and Ringrose 2012, p. 48). ‘‘Come and show me if you are man enough!’’ is a question of sexuality and gender identity, as well as race, ‘‘his skin darker than theirs, so they called him negro (negro is the Spanish equivalent to ‘nigger’),’’ class, ‘‘a paddock full of rubbish and many small houses around,’’ and (dis)ability, ‘‘some of his classmates calling him ‘‘lame’’ while they were fighting’’. Castano’s boys perform masculinity through violence in the competitive command ‘‘Come and show me if you are man enough!’’ and violence in the sexually assertion of the penis and testicles through the masculine artifact of the phallus. Thus the boys use their gender role and performances to express violence as power. The boys use violence to establish heteronormative hegemonic white masculinity as well as use violence to invent a self. For example, Peter, Philip, Nill and Charley personated a hegemonic masculinity often exhibited through violence and maintained their status through being a gang—‘‘They were always together, and, despite the fact that they were not doing anything, … In several instances, when any of them got into trouble with another classmate, at least one of the other three went to join him.’’ Violence became social and political capital for the gang. As a gang, Peter, Philip, Nill and Charley insured and policed each other ‘‘‘‘doing’’ boy in appropriately masculine ways’’ (Kehler 2007, p. 275) by being at the scene of violence and through the exchange of friendship, comradely supported through violence. Furthermore, if schools are violent and violence is performative as hegemonically heteronormative white masculinity, then the juxtaposition of school, gender and sexuality situate schools as institutions of violence. School prescribed as masculine because ‘‘boys should be the schools’ primary clients’’ (Brown 1990, p. 497) as Castano gives primacy to the boys in this paper. The masculinizing of schools is illuminated by the control of school by predominately hegemonic male principals and superintendents as well as school boards void of schooling expertise who dominate teachers who are gendered female and raced black (Pinar 2007). Thus, boys are hegemonically and heterosexually masculine. Thus Castano’s quest for a masculinity that foster[s] compassionate attitudes that contribute to the amelioration of aggression in children. A science education informed by philosophical approaches such as ecojustice, ecological literacy and interspecies education, which recognize and value other species for their intrinsic worth, will improve the social and moral development of children in schools is problematic. The use of masculinity as a ‘‘catch all’’ phrase to explain all male behavior is debatable (Mac an Ghaill and Haywood 2010) and secondly, the idea of multiple masculinities ceases to recognize the performative nature of gender. This hope for multiple masculinities ignores the conflation of non-hegemonic and hegemonic forms of masculinity and necessitates that all boys continually negotiate the status attributed to masculinity which is often stated through explicit or implicit violence or a ‘‘demonstration of misogyny, homophobia and heterosexual fantasies’’ (Haywood 2008, p. 9). Thus, can schools that are themselves hegemonically masculine create a masculinity that is not violent? Is the removal of violence from schools the creation of genderlessness if ‘‘-lessness’’ denotes a disaffiliation (Fordham 1988), in this case, a disaffiliation from the F. S. Broadway, S. L. Leafgren 123 category of gender? Do the performances, that at one instance were named gender no matter how often they were replicated, lead to a non-identity, or does gender not exist because it cannot claim existence through performativity? In other words, acknowledging that destroying the notion of gender is the extreme consequence of changing the gender of the Castano’s boys and gang into one of the multiple masculinities, if gender as a category did not exist, then would schools maintain their violence? Science-as-a-superhero With the problematizing of gender as a means to minimize violence and Castano employing science, or the teaching and learning of science, as a means to save the children in her class, we, the authors, want to comment that Castano is positing that science is often afforded the role of hero. Elements of Joseph Campbell (1949/1968) definition of a hero as one who ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man (p. 30, italic in the original), indicates that science-as-a-hero ‘‘bestows’’ boons or acts like a savior. Castano sees science as a hero because science is a means to deliver the boon of social justice to the boys and the students in her class and the community in which students in her class live. Additionally, Castano, acknowledging that the nature of science includes tentativeness, presumes science as a vehicle to regain a just world. Science has in common some of the characteristics of a superhero, namely a superhero, with its tentativeness especially in terms of identity (Indick 2004), saves (Winterbach 2006) and redeems (Jewett and Lawrence 1977). Thus, science is arguably both a hero and a superhero. In other words, heroes are saviors. Jesus, in this sense, perfectly fits the template: For G-d so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For G-d did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him. (John 3:16-17 KJV). Therefore science, as a hero, saves, presents a boon of eternal life. On the other hand, superheroes are redemptive saviors in that not only do they present the boon, they, superheroes including science, restore that which was lost. ‘‘In the modern superhero story… helpless communities are redeemed by lone savior figures who are never integrated into their societies and never marry at the story’s end. In effect, like the gods, they are permanent outsiders to the human community’’ (Jewett and Lawrence 2004, p. 29). Thus, labeling or identifying science-as-a-superhero connotes science, through the gift of its (the hero’s) boon—life everlasting—will allow the world to become whole again. For example, in the United States, science is cast as a superhero by documents such as A Framework for K-12 Science Education: Practices, Crosscutting Concepts, and Core Ideas (National Research Council 2012) ‘‘[s]cience, engineering, and technology permeate nearly every facet of modern life and hold the key to solving many of humanity’s most pressing current and future challenges’’ (p. 1). In other words, in addition to science delivering the boon to humanity, science, with incredible odds working against it, must face the powerful super-villains that are working against the United States. Additionally, Unmasking: on violence, masculinity, and superheroes 123 because science has a tendency to be unsure of itself, as science is both tentative and temporal, and hence laced with frailties and weaknesses because ‘‘scientific knowledge is reasonable while realizing that such knowledge may be abandoned or modified in light of new evidence or reconceptualization of prior evidence and knowledge’’ (NSTA 2000), science, at least the science of schools, does not desire to be anything but a superhero. The superhero that is (school) science facilitates the continued existence of America [sic] by allowing the people of the United States of America, the America [sic] from which all men are created equal, to exist once again. Science not only as hero, but superhero, is the redemptive savior hero. The redemptive savior science is the science to which Castano turns. ‘‘Science education could play a significant role in changing the life path of children who otherwise might turn to violence as the only way they see for surviving and gaining power.’’ In other words, science as a savior will deliver the boon of no violence—‘‘amelioration of aggression in children’’—in order to reinstate a world in which the children survive and have power—‘‘will improve the social and moral development of children.’’ Science (education), like the superhero who must overcome its ‘‘personal doubts, fears and anxieties about himself and his atypical identity. Incorporating both the grand and mundane in his character’’ (Indick 2004), needs ‘‘to connect science to society in a topical sense and has not aimed at addressing local issues, such as violence’’ (Castano). We might ask, ‘‘Who are the scientists that are the product of science education or what scientists do science education want students to emulate, to glorify and to identify?’’ We might as well ask: ‘‘Who is the superhero of science?’’ We put forth two answers. First, not the superhero of science Albert Einstein, who as ‘‘an Einstein’’ (i.e., an archetype) is not like us; hence he will never inspire us. Therefore, we turn to another superhero of science, Harry Harlow, who, through his work with monkeys and mother-devices, sought to prove love, ‘‘togetherness’’ (Harlow 1958/1986, p. 118) or affection. Harlow was ‘‘an unhappy man who knew in his gut the truth about what love, and it absence, meant’’ (Ottaviani and Meconis, 2007, back cover) and studied love—not ‘‘doing permanent harm’’—through not loving—‘‘doing permanent harm.’’ Harlow is an example of a practitioner of science who posited and thoughtfully demonstrated science, as science-as-a-superhero, knowing that love needs to be present through experimentation that caused (permanent) harm in order to prevent (permanent) harm in people including himself. Likewise, Castano supposes that her superhero called science would save and redeem children, specifically the gang, and the ‘‘communities within countries like Colombia, where many have been marginalized by poverty and show high levels of criminality and violence.’’ We are being judgmental concerning the superhero Harry Harlow although we accept Harlow (1958/1986) findings: ‘‘we will love before we can hate’’ (p. 310). Harlow hurt monkeys that wanted love, to love. For example, Harlow’s experimental devices such as the Surrogate Mother Device (cloth or wire) versus the Iron Maiden (wire): ‘‘The surrogate was made from a block of wood, covered in sponge rubber, and sheathed in tan cotton terry cloth. A light bulb behind her radiated heat’’ (Harlow 1958/1986, p 106) and ‘‘the wire mother differed in no appreciable way, provided postural support and was warmed by radiant heat’’ (p 6). The Pit of Despair (also called Well of Despair)—‘‘[a] stainless steel trough with sides sloping inward toward a narrow bottom; Baby monkeys hung upside down in ‘v’ shaped devices in darkness and total isolation for periods up to 2 years’’ (Suomi and Harlow 1975, p. 150)—was designed and used to show that love is basic and that to hate is something that needs to be taught. Donna Haraway (1989) probes in her analysis of Harlow, how can a scientist who wanted to experiment with love engage in F. S. Broadway, S. L. Leafgren 123 experiments that are not human(e)? What did Harlow need to do to show that the physical touch is needed in order for beings to feel comfortable enough to develop not only emotional skills but physical and cognitive skills? But as a superhero, Harlow’s ‘‘use of violence is qualified by elaborate restraints: he never kills or even seriously hurts anybody [the monkeys (primates)], even though he often shoots [experiments with] them’’ (Jewett and Lawrence 2004, p. 31) in hopes of showing ‘‘we will love.’’ We, in our lives, have hurt people who we have wanted to love. And, here we find ourselves using knowledge that came about because of the need to love—to hurt much like Harlow. Jim Ottaviani and Dylan Meconis (2007) found an eye of providence in the work of Harlow, namely that love, beyond the triteness of making the world go round, is real, a value in the academy, a motive force and violence. Nobody today argues that we should repeat Harry Harlow’s experiments. The baby monkeys, even those raised with contact comfort, suffered permanent harm from their upbringing. Inanimate arms were and are never enough, so it’s bad enough that anyone needed to do those experiments in the first place. But someone did, and thanks to Harlow and his colleagues, we know that love is as real as mathematics. It exists, it’s learned, and it matters. That’s all we need to know (p. 87). In light of Castano’s need for science-as-a-superhero to produce saviors and redeemers for one’s self and the group in which one lives, how are science teachers and science teacher educators implicated in the production of individuals like Harry Harlow? In other words, is Castano complicit in using violence on the children in her study to produce good, to make the children social justice agents? School, and by default their agents—teachers— turn complaisant naive science students into scientists—and the scientific institutions and infrastructures that actively use violence and justify permanent harm to transform the world into a better place. More specifically, in what ways do structures of science (education) such as the National Science Education Standards and the tools of the science standards movement create scientists who are violent? If violence uses science-as-asuperhero to reinforce an angelic science as a palatable violence, then, Castano needs science to be the savior and the redeemer. Conclusion –and we livin in a time when a hero ain’t nothin but a sandwich. (Childress 1973/ 2003, p. 74). You do not need an identity to become yourself; you need an identity to become like someone else (Delany 1996, p. 19). We agree with Castano when she argues ‘‘that science classes could be well suited to address issues of aggression but also, if not careful, could contribute to perpetuate violence’’; however, Castano does not venture to examine the paradox which is best expressed by Counts’ definition of the democratic tradition in the United States that includes verbs such as ‘‘to combat,’’ ‘‘to destroy’’ and the infinitive clause ‘‘to follow the method of revolution’’ (1932, p. 38). Democracy is violent. Thus, who is to say that violence is harmful or hurtful or do we talk about a good harm? Furthermore, the paradox of Harlow’s causing permanent harm to decimate permanent harm permits Stephen to exert violence in order to love. Much like Harlow’s Macaca mulattas (rhesus macaque monkey), Stephen sought to love—to cling to his gang, to Unmasking: on violence, masculinity, and superheroes 123 believe in himself. In other words, the violence of the teacher and the violence the teacher placed upon herself made public through anger allowed Stephen to love. Love is violence. What do we teach when we teach a science that is void of violence, again, as if we can teach and not be violent? The violence of a [s]cience education [that] could serve as a special place for interrupting violence by encouraging compassion based on understanding the emotional and social lives of others, starting by other animals and moving towards humans … [and include] within science education notions of justice and equality inclusive of all species which could foster attitudes of care and compassion for others and inhibit aggression. (Castano) makes science education the stranger (Phelan 2001) rather than the superhero. Science (education) as the stranger premises science (education) is neither a solution nor a problem for Castano’s elucidation. Elementally, the curriculum and pedagogy of science is the unfamiliar, the unknown, and the grotesque. Captured in this idea is that, in science education, the mask of science-as-a-superhero does not prevent the ‘‘whipping, and possible death’’ (Butterfield 1974, p. 20) for loving our students, hence science, through ‘‘methods of revolution,’’ becomes caring and compassionate, as well as just and equal. Love is an act of violence. Therefore how do we teach children not to be violent when we enact violence upon them in order to love, to care, to protect? As noted in this discussion, Castano bounds masculinity to violence. Instead of positing to change one’s gender or performativity of masculinity in whatever form ‘‘reinforc[es] violence and contribut[es] to normalize it [violence] in society,’’ we again argue genderlessness, in terms of Delany (see the epigram for this Conclusion) who states that you do not need an identity to be unless you ‘‘seek to become like someone else.’’ To perform gender is to perform violence as school teaching persons, such as Castano, seek to be heroes because ‘‘nobody in the world believe in me no kinda way, bout nothing’’ (Childress 1973/2003, p. 81). School teaching persons and the content they teach need an identity to be superhero—saviors and redeemers. Superheroes are gendered masculine, raced white, notwithstanding Luke Cage (Goodwin, Tuska and Graham 1972), and sexed heterosexual, notwithstanding Northstar (Claremont, Byrne and Austin 1979); and why do we need to be superheroes? If we are a (super)hero albeit gendered, raced and sexed, then why do we need gender if we are who we are? We, those people performing in the most broad sense science (education), are not gendered masculine nor science-as-a-superhero, but violent. We ‘‘turn to violence as the only way … for surviving and gaining … power’’ (Castano). In imposing ‘‘eco-justice, ecological literacy and interspecies education, which recognize and value other species for their intrinsic worth, [we] improve the social and moral development of children’’. Therefore, what is the identity of those people engaging in science (education)? Who are we? Are we the owner ‘‘of ‘‘the nigger’’]… [who] has an identity of his own that must be hidden [or] a slave who has to learn to wear a mask’’ (Butterfield 1974, p. 20)? As (school) science teaching persons, we come nowhere near being the strangers in the eyes of those who self-identify or are labeled stranger (Stone 2001). We do not know how to be without a gender. As we have failed at bringing salvation and redemption to those with whom we live and those whom we have taught, we do not know how to be a superhero. As we often ask ourselves, as we ask the teacher candidates and teachers who we teach, our job is to nurture, to educate and to care for those who will create a sustainable world rather than maintain the status quo. And they ask, ‘‘How do I do that?’’ And we answer, ‘‘I do not know for I am of my time, my place, and my experiences.’’ We ask F. S. Broadway, S. L. Leafgren 123 that Castano be read not as the vision of the world as it should be in the eyes of the author, but rather as what the world needs to be—unmasked—for all children including us and ‘‘children who, for example, live in poverty and are immersed in situations of violence.’’ We do not know what violence to say one should not do. We only know the violence that we have committed. Some might say that we have not committed violence. Can we give without receiving? 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Education and schooling: You can have one without the other. Urban Education, 27, 328–351. Steiner, G. (2003). Lessons of the masters. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Stone, K. (2001). Queer commentary and the Hebrew Bible. Cleveland, OH: Pilgrim Press. Suomi, S. J., & Harlow, H. F. (1975). Effects on differential removal from group on social development of Rhesus monkeys. Journal of Child Psychology and Psychiatry, 16, 149–164. doi:10.1111/j. 1469-7610.1975.tb01264.x. Weigle, L., & Broadway, F. S. (2009). Pedagogical practices of hope at Akron North High School. Paper presented at the Curriculum and Pedagogy Group, Decatur, GA. Winterbach, H. (2006). Heroes and superheroes: From myth to the American comic book. South African Journal of Art History, 21, 114–134. Author Biographies Francis S. Broadway is Professor of Education in the Department of Curricular and Instructional Studies at the University of Akron. After 19 years of teaching science and mathematics at the high school and middle school level, he teaches early childhood undergraduate courses and graduate curriculum studies course. His F. S. Broadway, S. L. Leafgren 123 research interest is curriculum studies, children’ literature, urban education and African American students and teachers in science most often through a queer theory lens. Sheri L. Leafgren is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Teacher Education at Miami University in Oxford, OH. After 19 years of teaching primary grade children in Akron, OH, she now teaches early childhood undergraduate courses and a graduate curriculum studies course. Her research interests include children’s disobedience and resistance, the role of aesthetics and spirituality in teaching and learning, and exploring the complicated nature of teaching via narrative inquiry with a rhizoanalytical lens—lately, with a focus on the experience of early career teachers. 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