More Than a Distraction: An Open Letter to My Son’s Teachers - Finding Cooper's Voice

To the Teachers Complaining About My Son Being in Their Class,

First, I want you to know I get it. I understand that the blunt way I was told about your frustrations with my son wasn’t just about him. It was about you feeling hung out to dry. About being expected to manage him and 25 other students without the support you need. I see that.

And I want you to have that support, not just for my son, but for you and for every child in your classroom. Because when those supports aren’t given, frustration builds. And too often, that frustration ends up being directed at him, whether intentional or not.

I imagine the clock-watching, the 30 or 45 minutes he spends in your class looming ahead of you. The dread that comes when he walks through the door. The worry about how distracting he will be, how many times you’ll catch him out of the corner of your eye running or pacing, how you’ll have to explain him to the other children when you aren’t even sure how. You start talking together about how maybe his parents should do this or that, medicate him, not medicate, do this therapy or that, or work with him more.

And somewhere along the way, he becomes the representative of all the supports you don’t get. He is seen as the problem.

But I want to tell you a little more about that “problem”:

He loves to play with his toys, and his passions run deep. He still treasures many of the same things he did when he was little: Charlie Brown, Peppa Pig, Sunny Bunnies. He also loves some things kids his age enjoy, but at his core, his baseline is sweetness and innocence.

He feels deeply. I know it may not always seem like it in class, but he feels more than most people I’ve ever known. Sometimes a night he cries or yells about “friends” at school, though he can’t always explain why.

But we know why. It’s because he is treated differently. It’s because he doesn’t quite know how to be a friend. It’s because he doesn’t really have those friendships.

He loves being cheered for and praised.

He plays adaptive sports and loves to score and the roar of the crowd. He loves music and musical theater. He dreams of playing Willy Wonka in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory someday. He loves to sing, even songs in other languages that he gets completely wrong but sings with passion.

He lives in his mind a lot of the time. I know that can be frustrating when you’re trying to teach him or keep him on task. But I would give anything to see inside that mind. Sometimes, if you listen closely, you’ll hear him talking to himself. That is the inside leaking out. You’ll hear a boy trying to figure out the world in references he knows, asking questions he only feels safe asking himself.

He is so much more than the disruption you see. He deserves to learn and to grow. And I wish I knew how to make that easier for you, too. I want to be on your side. I want open communication. I want to fight for both you and him to win.

I won’t lie. The words I heard about your complaints about my boy broke my heart. I have felt sick over it for days. I know that 45 minutes of your day is hard. But I need you to know the battle you are fighting for support is my son’s whole life. We have to fight for him in every space he enters, for him to have a place in this unforgiving world. We are constantly trying to balance what will help and what won’t. What is safe and what is best. It is never easy.

My hope is always that people will see more than a distraction. That they will never dread his presence. That they will see the beauty in him, because it is there, so bright, so real, and so worth seeing.