Concerned citizens urge state officials to protect special education
from juf.org by Catherine Butzen
Robert Kusel - Catherine Butzen speaking at the Town Hall meeting
Faced with possibly massive cuts in state funding for education, more than 100 parents, teachers, students, and others packed a gym in West Rogers Park on June 16 to urge state officials to protect special education.
The Town Hall meeting, held at the Joy Knapp Center, was organized by Jewish Child & Family Services, Keshet, and the Jewish Federation of Metropolitan Chicago, which operate or support a variety of special-education programs for students from pre-school age to 22. The Town Hall included a panel of five state legislators, plus representatives from the Governor’s office and the Illinois State Board of Education.
-
In an overview of the state’s economic crisis, Special Education attorney and advocate Phil Milsk explained that Illinois is facing a $13.5 billion fiscal deficit, a figure roughly equal to half the entire state budget. In cutting budgets and finding new revenues to reduce that hole, education funding could be slashed by $1.3 billion. Those numbers are by no means final, Milsk said, and could be the focus of wrangling between the governor and the General Assembly for months. But it is clear that major action is necessary.
Several panelists noted that many special-education programs are mandated by the federal government and can’t be cut. That doesn’t answer the question, however, of how to pay for them. Everyone on the panel urged ongoing advocacy by those at the meeting, to make certain their message reaches legislators and other state officials.
The panel, moderated by Ann-Louise Kleper, who chairs the Federation’s State Government Affairs Committee, included Sen. Ira Silverstein (D-8th); Sen. Heather Steans (D-7th); Rep. Rosemary Mulligan (R-65th); Rep. Karen May (D-58th); Rep. Elaine Nekritz (D-57th); Julie Smith, education policy adviser to Gov. Pat Quinn; and Beatrice Diaz, the ISBE’s associate general counsel.
~Joel Schatz
Catherine Butzen, an alumna of the JCFS Therapeutic Day School and published author, opened the Town Hall meeting on special-education funding. This is an edited version of her remarks.
My name is Catherine Butzen, and from 2003 to 2006 I was a student at the Joy Faith Knapp Center. Nobody called it that, though; it was always just JCB. Nowadays it’s JCFS, and I have to struggle to remember the change in the name, but it’s still the same old place.
When I made the transition from grade school to high school, I didn’t see special ed in my future. Sure, I had temper-control problems, but everyone thought it was simply the result of being in a school I didn’t like. At Lincoln Park, I tested into the International Baccalaureate honors program, and my family and I assumed that in the new environment, I would be able to buckle down and do better than I had before. That was the plan, anyway.
I started having strange attacks of rage. Sometimes they were provoked, sometimes they weren’t, but they were always unnatural. I would want to lash out at people who hadn’t done anything to me. It grew harder and harder to speak to my teachers and classmates: if I looked them in the eye, I would feel a powerful surge of revulsion and hatred. I had to be free of them, any way I could. My thoughts began turning more and more to violence.
My high school didn’t know what to do with me. I went to a school counselor, and I’ll always remember what she said: “I don’t think I’m qualified to handle this kind of thing.” It terrified me almost as much as the rages. What was going on with me? My grades continued slipping. I had already fallen out of the IB program, and the way I was going, I could barely qualify for honors courses.
Eventually, Lincoln Park—politely but firmly—kicked me out. They had to, they said; they considered me a danger to their students and faculty. I had no idea what was going to happen to me. My parents were called in to a meeting when the school decided to get rid of me, and one of the Lincoln Park teachers suggested the JCB facility. Special ed? Heck, we still didn’t even know what was wrong with me; special ed felt like jumping the gun, or even like giving up. But my parents felt it would be the best thing for me, and albeit with some reservations, I went.
The problem with telling a story like this is that you risk falling into cliché. Today, I am a fiction writer, and clichés are something I try to avoid. Unfortunately, when you reach this point, there are only so many ways you can say it: JCB saved my life. It sounds overdramatic, but it’s true.
Why do I say that? Because they did wonders. At their therapeutic day school, classes were small and well-organized. Each kid worked at their own pace, often on their own subjects.
There was a weekly class therapy session, and individual counseling for each student. The facility knew how to teach children who didn’t fit into a normal school, and I benefited from that. In that kind of place, I could work. I got straight As during my time at the day school—a record which led to my being offered scholarships by several colleges.
Today, I am a graduate of Coe College in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where I received departmental honors in creative writing. I work as a technical writer and independent contractor for a software company, and my first novel will be coming out in July.
When I went into JCB, I wasn’t headed in the direction of college. More like the state penitentiary. I was out of control; I was hostile and unpredictable, I had attacked a member of my family without provocation, and there was little indication that—even if I had managed to qualify for an honors program—I would ever receive the education that would let me do anything with my life. Tonight, as my father and I were leaving the Town Hall meeting at the Knapp Center, he told me what it was like watching me during my spells: “It was like a mask changing,” he said. “You were a different person.”
I don’t want to be that person. I’ll always regret the things I did during my rages, and nothing can change that. But being placed into the JCB facility gave me a chance, and I’ve done my best to take that chance and go as far as I can with it. That was why I attended the town-hall meeting, and that is why I urge everybody reading these words to consider the future of special education in the state of Illinois. The meeting was about possible budget cuts for special ed, and the JCB—now JCFS—facility would be one of the ones suffering for it.
But the real victims would be the kids. Another cliché, I know, but it needs saying. If a child with problems doesn’t receive the help they need, they may wind up coming to the state’s attention another way—courtesy of the criminal justice system.
An education, especially an education in an environment where teachers and staff are prepared to handle the unique challenges of a special-needs student, can mean the difference between a good life and one not worth living. There’s no doubt in my mind that the JCB school gave me the tools I needed to get to where I am today, and I’ll always remember it fondly.
I was a special-needs student. My condition is still with me, and I know it’ll never go away. But I got help when I needed it the most, and because of that, I know that I can look forward to the future with anticipation. And I hope that other children get that same opportunity.
~Catherine Butzen, Class of 2006
