Table Talk: An IEP Meeting — from the Other Side

There was a long oblong wooden table. It took up most of the space in the room. Surrounding it were chairs. Enough for everyone who had been invited or summoned to the table. At the head of the table sat a woman around my age, sipping from a cup with the district logo on it. “We’re so glad that you could make it today.” I stared at her and felt myself getting angry. Was she throwing shade already? Was this how this game was going to be played? I took a breath and tried to focus; maybe I was just being defensive.

It had been a long morning. I shouldn’t have gone to work, but I didn’t want to let anyone down. I also didn’t have any leave so there really wasn’t much choice. It was a teacher workday. One meeting and the rest of the time in my classroom. I had decided that I would walk out the door on time and I would be able to make it to the meeting on time. The day was already hot and the air was getting thick. The air conditioning in my room was not working. I didn’t need to look in the mirror to know that I was starting to sweat my hair out. The light cleaning that I had planned to do turned into a commercial for Clorox as I fought with the tables who refused to let go of its sweat, its fingerprints, and memories that covered it. Time got away from me, and I left later than I had intended. There was still time if I hurried.

Every car, truck, and bus seemed to be moving in slow motion. The heat stopping their desire to move any faster. I had somewhere to be, and I was now officially late. 

I saw the building and pulled into the first parking space that I could find. Forget the hair, forget the clothes that were now wrinkled and smelled faintly of Clorox, my goal was to get to that meeting as soon as I could. I walked past the imposing gothic columns that protected the school administration building, pushed through the doors and found the elevator. In my work world, IEP meetings were held in our school buildings. In my work world, I was in control. This was not my work world. Today, I was a parent. I searched the directory for the special education office, pushed the button, and waited. “Ma’am, you need to sign in” a voice came from behind me. Walking to the security desk I scribbled my name, keeping my eyes on the elevator. 

What was taking that elevator so long? 

When I finally entered the room, I found the largest table that I had ever seen for a meeting like this. I looked for a place to sit. They were all taken except for the one that the table had held for me. The head of the table was occupied by the woman who had yet to greet me. She didn’t wait for a reply or for me to sit down, instead she took command of the room and said, “We can now begin the meeting. We’ll go around the table and introduce ourselves and our titles and department.” She looked directly at me and stated her name, title, and then smiled. With her mouth. There was no smile in her eyes or in her voice. In her eyes I saw what she saw. What they all saw. A disheveled, overweight, single, late Black woman. A walking stereotype. She was bored with it. They all were. You could see it in the way that they glanced down checking their phones only to look in my direction when it was their turn to speak. They had to go through the motions, but they had made up their minds. It occurred to me that there was an invisible seating chart at this table. No place cards or name placards as they would have in an important meeting, but somehow this table had been arranged to show me that I was surrounded by the experts. That they were the ones who knew what was best. They were the epitome of the three C’s. Calm. Cool. Collected. A police officer, a social worker, a psychologist, an occupational therapist, a speech therapist, and assorted other official people were all seated at the table. The person who had the final say in the matter, the head of special education for the district, sat at the head of the table.   

I was struggling to appear calm and listen to what was being said. These people were all so confident and self-assured. Struggling to keep from biting my nails, I remembered that Sheryl Sandberg had said in her book that when you are in a meeting you lean in to show that you are engaged. She said that leaning in showed that you were in control. So I leaned on the table, folding and unfolding my hands, forcing myself to make eye contact with every person. Inside my head, the voices said, “You got this.” The things that they were telling me were not unfamiliar. These were words that I had heard and said hundreds maybe even thousands of times before. From the other side of the table. But this time the words were coming at me. They were so fast. Like darts aimed to hit and destroy their target. Me. I wanted to say “wait.” I wanted to say “stop.” Instead, I said nothing.

“Do you have any questions?” a deep voice from the other side of the table asked. When I said nothing, another voice asked, “Do you understand?” 

I looked down at the table and wondered how many meetings like this it had been a part of. I wondered how many tears did this table hold from parents who did not have the words to speak for their children. Had there been other people whose voices were swallowed into the silence and absorbed by the table? How many other people had grabbed its sides for support when they could not bear to hear the terms, the words, and the judgments being shot at them and landing in their soul. 

In my silence, I understood many things. What I understood was this table was chosen to give the appearance of inclusivity. What I understood was that I was a piece of pepper expected to drown in a sea of salt. What I understood was that these people saw me as a statistic not a person and had no interest in seeing me differently. What I understood was that they read a file and saw a child who never knew his father, who had experienced homelessness, who had been taken away from his mother, lived with his grandparents, lost his grandmother, and was now living with relatives he did not know. All before the age of 7. What I understood was, they had already written him off. What I didn’t know was how I could fix it. Before I could think of what to say, the special education head announced her decision to not provide the services requested and leaned back. I didn’t understand. I had collected the necessary documentation. Jumped through every hoop that they had set up. Medication. Counseling, individual and family. Now, I was being dismissed.  

Something began to move on the inside of me. At some point, I must have leaned back in my chair because when she leaned back, I felt the table pull me to lean in. All the way in. I was once told that I was my own worst enemy getting in my way. But when the ancestors, emphasis on the Anne, began to rise up inside of me, they gave me a voice. They came up at one of two times, first when I felt that something was unfair or unjust or when you try to do something to one of my kids. When the Annecestors rise up, there is no holding me back.  

Slowly, in a quiet voice I thanked them for their decision. “I realize that I only have a master’s degree in education and 13 years in special education,” I said with a smile on my lips, and steel in my eyes, “but it is my understanding of Public Law 94-142 that I have met my burden of proof for eligibility and you are required by law to provide the appropriate services and placement for this child.” As I looked around the table at the shocked faces, I held tightly onto the table, this time to keep from laughing. “While I would not like to take this to litigation,” I continued, “please understand that my husband and I will not hesitate to do so if this child’s needs are not met.” The school representative was looking through the file that she had closed and rested on the table. The social worker and the psychologist put their heads together and compared notes to hide their confusion, probably trying to figure out how they had missed the fact that I had a degree, and a husband. It was then that the table released me and I sat back. 

Leaving the room and the table, I realized how lucky I was to have found my words.  That I understood the system and the process. I also recognized that there were so many people who looked like me who did not. As educators, we say that we work to include “all stakeholders” when we discuss best practices for students. But do we really mean that? I wondered, with shame, how many times, I had made someone without the knowledge and skills that I was able to call on, feel as if they had no voice or that their voice didn’t matter. Being on the other side of the table helped me to remember that as many stakeholders as may be at the table, the person with the largest stake is still simply a parent trying to do what’s best for their child.