Every now and then, a meeting becomes less of a meeting and more of a showdown. This was one of those meetings.
Sometimes advocating for a child means refusing to be intimidated by the person sitting at the head of the table.
And, that’s exactly where she sat.
Those of us on either side of the long conference table, opposing factions armed with papers and documentation, stared down the length of polished wood to the school’s principal, seated neatly at the end. She wore a fuchsia, Fifth-Avenue business suit for the occasion, with her blonde hair secured into a high top-knot, as if a crown graced her head. Her smug smile begged for a spotlight, and I thought if the room were just a smidge bigger, she’d have insisted upon a microphone.
Lady Principal was known for ruling with an iron fist, which she stealthily concealed beneath a satin glove, deliberately donned for the parents and media. Underlings nearly bowed in reverence as she paraded through the elementary school halls, checking that everything was up to snuff. Her tight inner circle acted as a fierce line of defense, armed to the teeth, and ready to pounce on any attack from the outside–or from within.
On one side of the table sat my husband and I, in a vulnerable position as we advocated for our son. We were seated across from the very people who held the power to say yes or no—but we had brought our team.. His psychologist and educational therapist joined our efforts to get the Holy Grail of school concessions at that time: academic accommodations.
Across from us sat the contingency from the county school administration. A group of men in varying stages of business attire from a knitted polo shirt to suit and tie. The sat with their heads down, rifling through papers. This was a long time ago, when no one could turn to a phone for distraction. You had to do it the old fashioned way with paper and pens.
Lady Principal’s icy words shot through the room like snow pellets: calling the meeting to order, then beginning the assault. She listed the reasons why no accommodations could be provided. She blamed my husband and for homeschooling our son for a few years. She made it clear that we hadn’t met the criteria–despite the fact we hadn’t even presented our facts yet.
Finally, after her barrage that nearly bent on the personal, it was our team’s turn. We each spoke and provided documentation. While Lady Principal would not take so much as a piece of paper from us–we’d brought plenty of copies–the administration looked closely at the test results and findings provided by our team.
My husband and I sat there with nerves buzzing. We knew we were right, but wondered whether anyone from the school system was going to say it.
It was time for the verdict, and it would come from the county, not Lady Principal. The hierarchy of academia placed the decision firmly in their hands and their say was thankfully in our favor. They granted my son his accommodations and as they declared it, I couldn’t help but steal a glance at the face of the queen at the head of the table. Her mask slipped only a bit before she regained composure.
The head of the table had suddenly become the end of the table, so she rose and exited with the room with a perfunctory “good day.” My son would have a chance, not only at school, but at life.
Those accommodations weren’t a battle over paperwork. They were a battle over giving a kid the tools he needed to succeed.
Because Lady Principal would not exit that elementary school meeting victorious, our son had the strategies and resources he needed to graduate high school and, as of now, find success in his junior year of college.
Sometimes advocacy looks like paperwork. Sometimes it looks like persistence. And sometimes it looks like walking into a room where someone has already decided you’re going to lose—and refusing to let them be right.
Because our kids need someone willing to stand in the gap for them.