"Outing" My Kids by Linda Moran

Unfastening other people's backpacks and "cutting" in line are just a few of David's behaviors in school that were once tolerated by his mainstream peers. Civility and compassion once ruled the day for my child, who looked and acted so obviously different from the others. By the time he was in second grade, a change was needed. How could I help David's classmates achieve a higher estimation and expectation of him? A fuller understanding of David's disability seemed to be the answer. After all, who among us would intentionally settle for being merely tolerated? We wanted the best for him—to be heard. The verb "to out" is derived from the slang expression "out of the closet". The metaphor, which means "to bring out into the light what is otherwise misunderstood when hidden in darkness," is what I wanted to do for David, who has Down syndrome. My other three "typical" children, Madeline, Marcella, and Dwight, had no need to be "outed" (or so I thought).

We'd been so open about David at home that it wasn't much of a leap when we tried bringing the discussion into his classroom that year. Seated in a circle with the children, David and my husband spoke of David's strengths and deficits, likes and dislikes, and exactly what Down syndrome is. Together, they invited questions, which David was proud to try and answer with dad's help. It took only half an hour.

The first year it was an experiment. When I casually mentioned it afterward, most parents and teachers liked the idea, but a few thought it wasn't necessary. "The kids in this school are already very tolerant," was the reasoning. But I theorized that children need specific information, and when they have it, good things happen. So each October my husband has returned. Each October, once David's classroom peers understand his differences, they become more discriminating about when to let him struggle, when to help, when to let him fail. They expect more of him. They tell him, "No, David, that's my backpack." They become more respectful of him as a growing, learning person, not unlike themselves. Literally overnight, the children are transformed from merely "civil" to active members of David's support team.

Why does this work? Think of it this way. In his children's book, "Just Like Everybody Else," disability author Jim Pierson points out the value of a child imitating another child. According to Pierson's point of view, when a child slants his own eyes with his fingers in imitation of David, he is attempting to put himself in David's shoes—to see what it is like to be David. The child is trying, in his own limited way, to get information. We shoot down that wholesome curiosity when we respond harshly to such an act and label it "making fun." Instead, the attempt should be applauded, and then followed up with information: "Oh, I see you are trying to find out what it's like to be David. Good for you! Do be careful that he doesn't think you're mocking him. So maybe try that at home with a mirror instead. Let me explain why David looks and acts different..." Each year, the entire class is helped to understand not only David, but themselves.

After three years of success integrating David by "outing" him, it struck me that another of our children could be "outed." Dwight had just entered kindergarten and we knew that he, too, has a mild disability: color deficiency (what was once known as "color blindness"). Whatever its name, it does set Dwight apart at times, and he needs extra help. Especially in kindergarten, when children are still pre-readers, everything is color coded. In school, Dwight has to rely on other children from time to time, just as he does with his siblings at home. But isn't it better if the other kindergartners understand it, just as his siblings do? That is the best prevention for teasing such as, "Ha ha. Dwight doesn't know his colors." After seeing our success with David, I knew what to do.

And so, one fall day, Dwight's "show and tell" consisted of exhibiting an Ishihara test (one of those color-blind tests that show numbers made up of colored dots). He explained to his little peers that shades of red and green cause him trouble because the cones in his eyes simply don't work right. He said that he will never see colors the way others do, and that's why he asks for help from other children during school. At the end of the "show and tell" he passed around a photograph of Grandpa, proudly explaining that he's just like Grandpa, who has color deficiency too. Dwight felt like a star.

It worked. Now, when Dwight picks up a crayon for a coloring project and asks the children at his table, "Is this purple?" they understand. Nobody has to remind those little ones not to tease Dwight. They have no reason to. Instead, they feel equipped and proud to help him because they know what's wrong. And since we have conveyed no shame, Dwight is perfectly willing to accept help and tell people in his little kindergarten voice, "I have color deficiency." Some of his mistakes are funny, and now he's able to laugh right along. He knows that brown eggs really aren't pink, although they look pink to him.

Contrary to the "old world" approach, ignoring or denying the difference does not normalize the child. All of us, to be healthy social creatures, need to integrate our unique experiences and deficiencies into our lives and relationships. To accept oneself involves sharing information. And to accept others is to engage in the process of adjusting in response to information, rather than the less relational approach of "tolerance toward all." The more general approach of tolerance does come with time, but children need some examples before they can extrapolate and draw conclusions.

It felt so good to equip and empower my two sons and their peers in this way. My boys are proud of their humanness, and their peers are proud of them too. Unlike Grandpa, who grew up color blind in an era of conformity, my sons don't have to pretend and feel like fakes. By "outing" themselves, they have effectively integrated themselves.

I began to realize what an enormous opportunity it is to be different as a child. By embracing their differences, my boys had strengthened their confidence, empathy, and leadership skills. Perhaps some of their peers would follow their example in daring to be different. Every child hides certain traits about themselves, I suppose, and a few things truly are private, but probably most traits could use a little fresh air and light. Certainly, I thought, my two daughters had learned by watching these well-planned emotional risks we had taken as a family. What I had not suspected was that I was preparing for a crisis that was right around the corner.

My daughter Marcella, in third grade, came home with a disappointing school portrait. This was not the first time. The routine was familiar enough—I explain to her again the medical reason for the little droop in her smile, and I take her for a re-shoot—but not until this year did her difference sink in. Not until a peer commented on her "ugly" picture. Marcella had been teased and was hurting. She thought her portrait to indeed be ugly. How would I respond to this crisis?

I suppose I could have said, as in the old model of child rearing, "Your smile is beautiful and that's that. I want to hear no more about it." Such an approach, although well-meaning, does not help a child work her way through the world. Even the lukewarm tactic of saying to her, "If you have any questions, just ask me," could have inadvertently delivered a message of shame. It only drives the feelings underground, and leaves the child debilitated in her understanding of herself. She knows she shouldn't feel the way she does—yet why doesn't she feel normal? Why won't the adults talk about it? I didn't want to take that chance.

Having been trained by my boys, I knew what I wanted to do. After tossing out the passive options, I chose instead to aggressively equip her to help herself. After all, there is no shame in being human, is there? So I explained to her yet again about the missing muscle in her face, which I think she understood this time. I explained again that on the photo re-shoot, we'll tell the photographer that a closed mouth smile will work better. I explained that while it's fine to be picky about her photos, I'd like her to find the courage to always smile with her mouth open when she's face to face with people. It's not one or the other—she can be picky about her photos, and relaxed about her beautiful face-to-face smile.

And then I did what seemed obvious and inevitable, given our family's school track record. I tipped off her teacher that I'd like her to be "outed." It was a risk for certain, but I disliked the alternatives. What happened after that seemed to unfold almost by divine intervention or some unseen force, and with great speed. The teacher approached the special education teacher, who had been born with a cleft lip and palate and has the beautiful little scar to prove it. Together they discussed our family's comfort with "outing" Marcella. The special education teacher, it turns out, was bursting to help. They devised a plan. First they would meet with Marcella privately.

That very week they "outed" themselves in a meeting with Marcella. The special education teacher discussed her facial difference, her history of being teased, and her feelings about her face as an adult. Especially meaningful to Marcella was the part about photos. The special education teacher, it seems, is picky about her photos, but smiles confidently when face-to-face with people. Just like Marcella. Then the classroom teacher talked about her own childhood experiences with being teased over excessive weight gain that had been caused by a medication. Both teachers had grown from their experiences, they said. Marcella left that room with a spring in her step.

She had been prepared for the next, and bigger, stage. The plan was to have an emergency classroom discussion about teasing. The special education teacher would "out" her facial difference to the whole class, followed by the classroom teacher's medication story. I prepared Marcella carefully for the big day, suggesting that she might raise her hand and tell her story, but that she didn't have to. She knew it was up to her. Secretly in my heart, I hoped she would raise her hand, but I accepted that she might not.

The plan seemed so smooth and timely, but then, in keeping with the human condition, there was a wrinkle, and the prospect of Marcella "outing" herself became even more tenuous. Disaster had struck the special education teacher, who was twenty-three weeks pregnant at the time—she lost her baby over the weekend and would be out of the school for several weeks. Under heavy sorrow, the school marched on, including Marcella's classroom teacher who, in her infinite wisdom, decided to proceed with the swift plan. Now Marcella wouldn't have the special education teacher's story of her own facial difference to set the stage. Moreover, emotions hung heavy in the school that week, as the teachers and students were trying to put language around the tragic death of an unborn baby. How would this go?

I was soon to hear about it from Marcella herself. The teacher had gathered the children in a circle, and started a discussion about teasing. Then she got personal. She told the children about the medication and how she had been teased as a child. And then she opened up the floor. Right on cue, Marcella shot up her hand, and the teacher called on her. Marcella proceeded to explain to the entire class that she is missing a muscle in her face, which causes a droop on one side of her mouth. She explained that she was teased recently over her portrait. She actually smiled her biggest smile for the class, and showed them the droop. I wish I could have been there to see it. But on the other hand, I would have been bawling. Better that mom was home.

To my astonishment, it got better still. I had not considered just what Marcella's boldness could do—following her lead, others shared. One child explained that her family is poor, and that she is teased over her small lunches. Another child, from a foreign country, talked about how his family deals with stereotypes by calmly supplying explanations. He cited a sensitive example. By the time the discussion was over, more than half the children in the classroom had shared something painful. By the end, the classroom teacher had tears in her eyes. A theme had seemed to emerge—that accurate explanations seem to often supplant teasing.

In the aftermath, Marcella was happy that she had shared, and had no regrets. She was proud of her example. When I asked her how it felt to actually show off her crooked smile, she said, "Great because now they know why it's crooked and they won't make fun of me." Incredibly, she had done it without the special education teacher even being there. I think Marcella had internalized her new hero in her heart.

There can be a conclusion drawn. "Outing" yourself works. The willingness of the two teachers and Marcella to bring the hidden to light took all the power out of the whole matter of teasing and imperfections. Why tease about something that is talked about openly in the classroom? Marcella smiles her biggest smile in school, and has acquired two personal heroes—those wonderful teachers. I reflect now that had we not intervened at this critical juncture in Marcella's life (in fact, within a week of the teasing incident), her feelings could have gone underground for years, becoming a festering boil in her tender adolescence. It's not a stretch to imagine she could have then been driven to therapy as an adult, to help her with her maladjustment to the world. But instead, what could have been one of the worst weeks in her childhood was turned into one of the best. Instead of therapy, she'll be too busy "doing unto others."

I think that if only a handful of people come into a child's life and talk specifics—about their feelings, their deficits, how they handled teasing as a child, how they have come to view themselves as loveable and acceptable, how to protect others—the child will catch on. A child can be led to see that differences are not something to be merely tolerated; rather, all diversity has an interesting story to tell. For differences to be respected, both children and adults need some depth of understanding first. I'm convinced that it's not enough to preach tolerance and "no teasing." With a few concrete examples to start, tolerance will then follow. Only by wrapping some language around the differences can we learn to see the world from the eyes of others. I was so pleased that my three children had the chance to tell their story and be examples for others.

But I have four children. What about my fifth grader, Madeline? Where was her opportunity to be understood? It seemed natural that she should be "outed" too. Surely she has something we can expose to the light. All of us are misfits in some way. I thought of the tiny facial scar on her left cheek, a faded memory of an encounter with a metal object and a plastic surgeon. But it's hardly noticeable, and so she really hasn't been teased about it.

Then the answer began to emerge. Madeline, having a brother with Down syndrome, is a sibling of a child with a disability. Surely that status sets her apart and could lead to trouble if overlooked. In the safety of our home, we've already had years of discussion with our kids about their sibling status, with all its joys and pitfalls. At home, Madeline speaks openly about her role as a sibling. I wondered, could she talk about it in the classroom? Yet why didn't I feel any urgency about it?

In the final analysis, I realized that Madeline had already "outed" herself, and in a striking way. With her "sibling hat" comfortably on her head, Madeline had, the previous year, authored an essay, which had been published in the sibling column of this magazine in June of 2003. Indeed, she had reached an audience, not of twenty-two classmates, but of tens of thousands of readers all across the country. Madeline, it turns out, has already told her story with no coaching from us. It seems, then, that all four of our children have, in fact, "outed" themselves about something. The picture is complete.

Contrary to what still seems to be a fairly common belief, I don't think that ignoring a difference will help a child feel more comfortable. My own children have shown me that kids need a chance to "tell their story," hear the stories of others, and cultivate a sense of humor about their own foibles. Recently my girls erupted into giggles when a television show declared the human body to have six hundred muscles. "Or in some cases," my girls chirped, "five hundred ninety nine." Reflecting on my children's understanding of self and others, I realize that, although my family certainly has its many flaws, we have not been ones to be quiet about anything. And that has been very good for our kids.

A note to parents: Teachers are so well trained to protect your family's privacy, and rightly so, that you may need to convince them that you want something about your child exposed. This author suggests that a teacher may need more than one conversation with you before he or she is warmed up to the idea. Teachers need a little reassurance that this is really what you want. With some careful planning, "outing" a child can be done in many venues, too, including special schools, private schools, scouts, or any number of other community organizations.

Copyright © 2003, Linda E. Moran. All rights reserved.

Author bio: Linda Moran is a licensed teacher, stay-at-home mom of four, and an active advocate for all of them, not just David. Her children attend Travell Elementary School in Ridgewood, New Jersey.