Sarah E. Silverman

Note: This post is based on a recent LinkedIn post I wrote which I got some great feedback on. I am hoping to expand on the ideas here in a longer essay soon.

Cover image by Oleg Laptev on Unsplash

Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about what I like to call “a modest and critical” approach to inclusive teaching. Inclusive teaching is one of the most worthy pursuits I can think of as a teacher, but sometimes I’m concerned about the generalized, low-context way the concept can be deployed. I am already on record as being opposed to “for all” framings in inclusive teaching (e.g. “use xyz method to be inclusive of all students”). In the linked piece that I wrote around a year ago, I discussed two specific models of inclusive teaching that I am aware of: Inclusion as an alternative to segregation (rather than disabled students learning separately from non-disabled students, disabled and non-disabled students learn together) and inclusion as a way of rethinking and rewriting curricula to center the experiences of people previously not represented: BIPOC folks, women, queer people, and poor people. These two models share a lot of important qualities in my opinion, but here I’d like to highlight that they are specific in their aims and that they address particular forms of past and present inclusion in their agendas. They feel different to me than many of the conversations I hear today about inclusive teaching, which often involve lost lists of strategies and promises or imperatives to include “all” students.

Since then, I’ve been speaking to more and more colleagues about how to make language and communication choices about inclusive teaching that emphasize specificity and acknowledgement of the present forms of exclusion that inclusive teaching would ideally address. The way I like to think about messaging is: How would someone who is presently feeling excluded feel reading your language? Would they feel like the people in charge understand that inclusion is a process, and are open to input, or would they feel like the point is to project an already existing state of inclusion, with no room for their experiences or needs. Some examples are provided in the table. (I actually was thinking of this recently when I attended an exercise class that billed itself as “neurodivergent-inclusive,” while I had a very different experience).

I call this a modest and critical approach because I sometimes feel like inclusive teaching could become a concept that is performative and not substantive, as there are significant advertising and PR incentives to be a school that is inclusive rather than one that is still working on it. I think a modest and critical approach to inclusive teaching also necessarily means being in conversation with students and responding to student needs and experiences, and letting that guide efforts, rather than starting from lists of inclusive strategies developed by researchers or other schools. There is of course room for collaboration and learning from others, but I think starting with our actual students is important.

To be continued!