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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
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
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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
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
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
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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
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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
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
Ian at His High School Graduation Ceremony
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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.
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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
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
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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
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
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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
Douglas and His Friend Lenny at High School Graduation
Ian Often Meets friends at One of the Local Pubs
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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
A Favorite Activity Is Playing the Slot Machines at a
Nearby Casino
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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
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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
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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
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.
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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.
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
This dependency is perhaps most familiar in those aspects
of the welfare system (e.g., Supplemental Security
Income, Social Security Disability Income, Medicaid)
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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.
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,
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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.
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
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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.
Douglas Takes a Break Outside the Sprout House
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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
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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
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Ian’s House and Front Yard
Ian at Work with Cart
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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.
Douglas Meets His New Nephew Patrick
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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
Ian and Lyn Enjoy Camping Trips at a Nearby Lake
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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.
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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
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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
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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
Abbas, R., 323
Abbott, D., 603
Abery, B. H., 62
Able-Boone, H., 45
Adams, J., 85
Adams, M. J., 518
Adelman, B. E., 140t
Affleck, J. Q., 572
Ager, C., 105, 520, 521, 537, 539, 561
Agosta, J., 58
Agran, M., 141, 143, 145, 191, 447,
469, 498, 553, 557, 593,
596, 637
Ahearn, W. H., 414
Ahlgrim-Delzell, D., 494
Ahlgrim-Delzell, L., 160, 164f, 167,
495, 499, 500, 514
Akmanoglu, N., 562
Alba, K., 623
Alber, S., 167
Alberto, P. A., 17, 91, 97, 140t, 186,
193, 202, 204, 208, 209, 212,
215, 282, 386t, 499, 500,
502, 506, 537, 540, 541, 557,
562, 592
Albin, J. B., 387t
Albin, R. W., 81, 261, 262, 270n, 276n,
279, 282, 285n, 286, 287n,
289, 293–295, 298
Aldridge, J., 500
Aleexih, L. M. B., 59
Algozzine, B., 160, 499
Algren, C. L., 322, 323, 328
Al-Khabbaz, S. A., 135
Al-Khabbaz, Z. A., 435
Alkin, M. C., 440
Allaire, J. H., 479
Allen, J., 78
Allen, N., 45
Allgood, M. H., 511
Allinder, R. M., 84, 85, 88
Alonso, M. A. V., 262
Alper, S., 143, 548
Alpern, G., 77
Alpert, C. L., 178, 481
Alter, P., 282
Altkorn, R., 310
Alwell, M., 137, 443, 498
Amari, A., 106, 386t
Anderson, C., 282
Anderson, C. M., 263, 278, 279
Anderson, M. D., 537, 539
Anderson, S. R., 383, 384n, 398n, 399,
402–404, 407, 410
Andorfer, R. E., 279
Angell, M., 414
Angelo, M., 470
Anglesea, M., 417
Antaki, C., 481
Anthony, L., 482
Apgar, V., 77
Ard, B., 290
Aries, P., 615
Armstrong, P. M, 387t
Arnett, J. J., 615, 622
Arnold-Reid, G. S., 548
Arnow, D., 322, 323, 328
Arthur, M., 481
Ashby, C., 468
Asmus, J. M., 281
Aspel, N., 575
Attermeier, S. M., 84
Atwell, J. A., 495
Auerbach, S., 438
Ault, M. H., 275, 562
Ault, M. J., 134, 135, 136t, 137, 157,
163n, 167, 386t, 393, 549
Averink, M., 407
Ayres, K. 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,
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,
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,
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
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.’’
F. S. Broadway (&)
Department of Curricular and Instructional Studies, University of Akron, Akron, OH, USA
e-mail: fsb@uakron.edu
S. L. Leafgren
Department of Teacher Education, Miami University, Oxford, OH, USA
e-mail: leafgrs@muohio.edu
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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?
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
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
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.
–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
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
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? Can we be without identity or be ‘‘I AM THAT I AM’’ (Exodus
3:14 KJV, capitalization in original)? At best, all for which we can hope—albeit that hope
is a deadly sin (Weigle and Broadway 2009)—is not that we cease all violence or better yet
not hate, but that we violently love.
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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
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.
Unmasking: on violence, masculinity, and superheroes

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