Edition: U.S. / Global

Special Pupils, Regular Classes, Thorny Issues

Published: January 26, 1994

Flopping on the family couch, his glasses sliding down his nose, Aaron Moreland looked like any 9-year-old, perhaps a future doctor, pilot or accountant. Yet he cannot read or write or follow basic third-grade drills. And as his parents spoke of his learning disabilities, his attention deficit disorder and episodic tantrums, he nodded glumly and agreed, "The bad things."

In Aaron's case, the "bad things" mean wild behavior in his third-grade class. When he is angry or frustrated, said his teacher, Margaret R. Bays, he wails and spits or crawls beneath his desk, barking like a dog.

"The whole class stops," she said. "I feel like I'm in a ping-pong game. The kids watch Aaron. Then they watch me. Then, while I'm busy with him, they act up."

Twenty years ago, when Mrs. Bays embarked upon a career as a grade-school teacher, children with physical handicaps or learning problems were rarely taught in public schools. Some school districts shipped handicapped children across state borders to residential institutions. In Louisiana, for example, one whole generation of students with disabilities came to be known as "the Texas Children," in a nod to the state where they went to school. A Change to 'Inclusion'

But court challenges and changing social philosophies led to the creation of a separate system of "special" education that guaranteed every child a place in public school -- usually off to one side with individual attention.

Now the base line is shifting again.

In public schools across the country, students like Aaron and others with more acute medical, physical and mental disabilities are being placed in regular classrooms in their home schools. The movement, called "inclusion," is driven by a simple theory: By putting all students together, regular children learn tolerance for human differences, and disadvantaged children have a chance to learn from and with their peers.

No formal Federal policy requires the change, yet it has forceful backers at the Department of Education.

"Ever since 1975 with the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act, this is the direction that we have been heading in," said Judith E. Heumann, the assistant secretary for the office of special education and rehabilitation services. "We have to recognize the fact that we have a disenfranchised group of children moving from the backwaters to the mainstream of society. Sometimes those changes foster a need to have people change their thinking." Same Help, New Place

The most ardent supporters say full inclusion is a civil right. They point to poignant breakthroughs both by children with special needs who are no longer ostracized and by the classmates who come to care for them. Done properly, say the movement's backers, "inclusion" means not a reduction of services but the same services provided in a different setting.

In practice, though, the extra help sometimes never comes. The result can be chaotic. And as the movement sweeps across the country, educators and parents are increasingly complaining that while the theory is appealing in the abstract, it often breaks down in application.

They also argue that it puts a premium on socialization rather than on academics. Parents of regular children say the practice slows down normal class work. And even supporters note that budget constraints and lack of training can turn a good idea into a painful failure for every student touched by it.

Robert Brown, a national representative for the American Federation of Teachers, which has called for a moratorium on the practice, said he believed that West Virginia was one example of a state that had moved too far, too fast, partly because of money problems.

"A school gets $5,000 from the state for a regular student," he said. "A special education student gets three times that. So by putting a special education student in a regular classroom, they can essentially triple their take." A Case in Point

Aaron Moreland's experience may be a case in point. When Aaron was first put into Mrs. Bays's classroom, he came with a special assistant. Three months later, said his teacher, the aide was transferred and Mrs. Bays had to juggle his needs with those of 21 other regular students struggling with math, science, writing and all the normal fears and triumphs of the third grade. By last month, his only special help came in a one-hour computer class.

The result was frustration for all concerned. Aaron's parents speak with admiration of his teacher but acknowledge that she has neither the time nor the training to give their son special help.

"We're just at the point where it is, 'Look fellows, we have a 9 1/2-year-old who still can't read," said Mark Moreland, Aaron's father. "We are running out of time."

This week, their patience at an end, the Morelands transferred Aaron and his 6-year-old sister, Caitlin, who does well in school, to a private school. There, Aaron will be taught in a small class led by a special-education teacher. Caitlin will study with other 6-year-olds at her same level.