Header image by Elevate on Unsplash
On my very first day of class, I decided to address the elephant, or rather, the wheelchair, in the room. I explained to my middle school science students that I have Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, a connective tissue disorder I’ve had since birth, as well as recent spinal injuries that have caused a mobility impairment, which is why I use a wheelchair and/or forearm crutches. Then I invited them to ask me anything, as long as the questions were respectful.
The hands shot up.
“Can you pop a wheelie in your chair?” (Yes! It’s needed to get over bumps.)
“How do your crutches work?” (I showed them.)
“Will you always use mobility aids?” (It is very likely, but not always a wheelchair.)
“How do you still paddleboard?” (I sit on my paddleboard, and I have a special device to help me get back on if I fall off.)
My students’ willingness to listen, learn, and adapt without hesitation has been one of the most affirming parts of my job. My ability impairment hasn’t stopped me from being an effective, engaged educator. My concern is with the adults and with the system.
One incident still makes my stomach knot. The fire alarm went off one afternoon while I was teaching in my second-floor classroom. As part of my legally required accommodations, I am supposed to receive assistance evacuating during emergencies (and drills), as I am unable to use the stairs safely with my mobility devices.
But that day, no one came.
I sat there, alone with the blaring alarm, realizing I had no way out if this were a real fire. Here I was, a disabled teacher, left behind in a building full of able-bodied adults who either forgot or failed to follow the plan.
The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) and other federal and state disability laws exist to ensure equal access and safety for people like me. These laws are not suggestions. They require employers to provide reasonable accommodations, including emergency evacuation support. However, for myself and other educators I know, those safeguards fail. What happened to me on that day was a violation of federal disability law that could have had deadly consequences.
Being an educator with a disability has meant navigating not just the physical barriers of my environment, but the institutional barriers of the education system itself. Current district policies are helpful, but are also easily overlooked, misunderstood, or treated as optional.
The disconnect between how students treat me and how the system treats me is striking. My middle schoolers don’t question whether I’m capable of teaching because I use a wheelchair or forearm crutches. They see me demonstrate a science experiment or lead a classroom discussion, and that’s all the proof they need.
Adults, however, often approach my disability with suspicion or inconvenience. This mindset doesn’t just create barriers; it is dangerous. If my evacuation support can be overlooked once, it can be overlooked again. And next time, I might not be so lucky.
The larger issue here is that adults’ disability inclusion in education is still seen as an afterthought. This is especially surprising to me considering that we need more effective teachers than ever. Schools focus heavily on accommodating students with disabilities, and they absolutely should. However, students are not the only people with disabilities in education.
Creating policies to protect the rights of educators with disabilities like me supports the retention and recruitment of qualified educators, ultimately benefiting both the educators and the students they serve. Educators with disabilities bring unique perspectives and strengths to the classroom. We model resilience, adaptability, and problem-solving in ways that benefit all students.
If we genuinely want to build safer and more inclusive schools where districts retain talented and diverse staff, we must make changes. This means creating policies such as providing an advocate at no charge to all staff during ADA accommodation meetings, mandated ADA trainings backed by state, and district policies that are led by disability experts from organizations such as the U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, Colorado Civil Rights Division, or the ADA National Network.
It also means developing clear procedures for staff to follow regarding the requesting and providing of accommodations, as well as pathways for staff to follow if their accommodations are not provided.
Because at the end of the day, my students shouldn’t have to wonder why their teacher might be left behind in an emergency. And I shouldn’t have to hope that the next time an alarm sounds, someone remembers I’m inside.
Joanne McGuire is an educator in Denver and a Teach Plus Colorado Policy Fellowship alumna.
