Author’s Note: Keynote address presented at the International Special Education Conference. Manchester, England, July 2000. This manuscript was prepared while the author was supported by the Spencer Foundation/National Academy of Education Postdoctoral Fellowship Program and the COMRISE Project at the University of Virginia under grant #H029J60006 awarded by the U.S. Department of Education, Office of Special Education Programs. Stan Trent, Kris Gutierrez, and Mike Rose provided invaluable feedback on earlier versions of this manuscript; however, the author assumes responsibility for limitations in the content and interpretations presented in the manuscript.
As we craft the history of the field in the present, we witness the inexorable convergence of what I consider the two most important developments in contemporary special education, namely the inclusive education movement and the overrepresentation of ethnic/linguistic minority students in special education. Although different segments of our field are acquainted with each of these phenomena, we rarely reflect about their connection or about the implications of such convergence. Hence, I reflect in this paper about the intersection of inclusion and overrepresentation and locate my analysis in the context of the United States (U. S.) and as it affects school-age individuals with mild disabilities (particularly learning disabilities).
I choose the U. S., not because it is the standard against which other experiences should be measured, but because it is the context where I live and work. Moreover, I focus on mild disabilities because this group comprises the U. S.’s largest segment of the school-age population with disabilities; also, this is the group of people with disabilities that I know best through my professional experiences. I hope my reflections will challenge the audience to situate their own analyses and/or reactions in their respective local contexts.
I emphasize a research perspective because one of my most important professional roles is to work as a university-based researcher. Lastly, my own positionality is an important consideration to bear in mind. As an immigrant ethnic and linguistic minority male of middle class background from Nicaragua via Guatemala, my voice does not represent the mostly white male perspective that pervades in the U.S. special education field. At the same time, I cannot claim that I represent the minority voices of the U. S. special education community. My perspective is a minority voice committed to social justice for people of color who sees human development and learning as imbued in cultural processes.
I build my analysis of inclusion and overrepresentation on two ideas. First, current special education developments ought to be examined in the context of larger cultural and political processes located in educational reforms and society at large—e.g., the underlying values, views of competence, and goals of current reforms increase the likelihood that poor and minority students will be further disadvantaged. Second, the convergence of the inclusion movement and the overrepresentation of minorities in special education create paradoxes and dilemmas that can interfere with the development of educational systems founded upon democratic ideals. These paradoxes and dilemmas become evident as we examine these phenomena’s underlying assumptions about the coordinates of human existence, namely space and time. Indeed, human development and learning processes unfold in space and time planes suspended in a cultural medium. My analysis suggests there is a troubling silence about minority issues in the inclusion discourse while overrepresentation scholarship lacks a vision of an ideal state of affairs; moreover, both discourse communities ignore the multi-layered historical character of human development and the multifaceted nature of culture. I develop these ideas in the following sections.
The cultural politics enclosing special education transformations
As I witness the advent of the inclusive education movement and the debate about minority representation in special education, I cannot ignore the contexts in which these events are taking place. The most immediate context is general education reform, which in turn is influenced by larger sociopolitical factors. The neo-conservative tide of reforms implemented in recent years are largely based on the premise that schools are producers of human capital (Apple, 1996). These reformers reason that in an era of increasing global competition and unprecedented economic progress, schools’ labor must be aligned with the needs of the economy; in other words, schools must produce a skilled and competitive labor force. But Apple (1996) argues this premise is ingrained in a larger and complex cultural agenda: the imperative to value individualism and competition, and thus to accept as part of the natural order of things that the educational system ought to have winners and losers (see also Varenne & McDermott, 1999).
Policymakers and the general public have concluded that the means to be competitive in this era of globalization is by fixing schools so that they produce the human capital the new economy demands. Popular remedies are the imposition of national standards, curricula, and testing and privatized choice plans (see Apple, 1996 and McLaughlin & Tilstone, 1999 for analytic overviews of these reforms). Due in part to concerns over the poor post-school outcomes and lower expectations for students with disabilities, recent special education legislation incorporated several accountability provisions that are aligned with general education reforms. Examples of such provisions include performance goals and indicators, school-based improvement plans, participation in large-scale assessment, access to the general education curriculum, and greater collaboration between general and special education personnel (McLaughlin & Tilstone, 1999). It is feasible the pedagogies implicit in the standards might create contradictions stemming from general and special education’s divergent views of effective instruction (McDonnell, McLaughlin & Morison, 1997). Furthermore, it is not clear whether the new emphasis on standards will shortchange students with disabilities as teachers feel compelled to cover content and promote more sophisticated forms of learning, thus, they have less time to support students who lag behind. Also, teachers do not feel prepared about and seem to confuse standard modifications vis-à-vis instructional accommodations for students with disabilities so that the new accountability framework is applied to special education populations (McLaughlin & Tilstone, 1999; McLaughlin, Henderson, & Rhim, 1998).
Apple (1996) argues this wave of school restoration has secondary gains for reformers, such as maintaining control of highly prized commodities and ideals (e.g., economic and political security, preservation of the dominant group’s traditional values, legitimization of what counts as knowledge and competence, gender roles). In turn, this situation ratifies a politics of difference that favors neo-conservatives for it affords them the privilege to construct and impose exclusionary identities such as insider and outsider, “we” and “them.” Obviously, “we” represents the natural and ideal phenotype, and embodies respect for the law. “We” are homogenous, hard working, speak English properly, and do better in all outcome measures in the labor, educational, health, and social orders. In contrast, “they” are lazy, dirty, ugly, heterogeneous, misuse English, and (more recently) are taking advantage of the government and the homogeneous citizenry (Apple, 1996). The consolidation of deficit views about “them” has drawn attention to issues of “difference” in education and beyond at a time in which the nation is experiencing unprecedented cultural diversification. A sad consequence is that, despite the advent of the multicultural education movement, the Southern Poverty Law Center (2000) recently reported that extremist actions and hate crimes are on the rise.
Two areas in which we observe the interplay between conservative educational reforms and their implicit pursuit of a cultural agenda that privileges certain groups are language and literacy reforms, particularly the debates over bilingual education and the English Only Movement. As these debates polarized, we witnessed the adoption of English Only policies and the abolition of bilingual education programs in several states. These policies have had dreadful consequences as they became embodied in “backlash pedagogies” (Gutierrez, Asato, Santos, & Gotanda, 2000). Backlash pedagogy aims to maintain the status quo and thus, it assumes inequality is a natural state of affairs in educational practice and reform; it disregards the history of oppression and marginalization suffered by minority people (Gutierrez et al., 2000). Backlash pedagogies are ultimately grounded in colonialist views of literacy and learning.
Macedo (2000) questioned the assumed supremacy of English Only instruction in light of the millions of people educated in English Only programs who remain functionally illiterate. Further, he asked, if English Only is needed to offer linguistic minorities a better future in U. S. society, “why do the majority of Black Americans, whose ancestors have been speaking English for over two hundred years, find themselves still relegated to the ghettos?” (p. 16)
The anti bilingual education and English Only movements are informed by visions of what it means to be competent and literate; such visions inform the sanctioned ways of being and behaving in the larger society. Thus, it is germane to ask why certain ways of making meaning and of being are advocated while others are dishonored, devalued, and marginalized in these reform initiatives? (Lankshear, 1998) Ultimately, we ought to ask, what and whose perspectives, preferences, and worldviews are encoded in these reforms? (Lankshear, 1998). Obviously, the anti bilingual education and English Only movements favor white middle class worldviews and preferences.
As we witness the initial implementation of standards and accountability reforms and initiatives such as Proposition 227 in California, we must ask, what will be the consequences for historically marginalized ethnic and linguistically diverse groups? For instance, will referrals of English language learners (ELLs) to special education increase?, what will be the consequences of special education placement for ELLs in terms of access to the general education curriculum, and drop out, graduation, or re-classification rates?, how will the principles of the inclusive movement be operationalized when placing ELLs in special education considering (a) that ELLs are likely to be taught by teachers without credentials (Gándara et al, 2000), (b) the dramatic shortage of special and bilingual teachers, (c) the poor training of most inservice teachers on the influence of language and culture in children’s learning, and (d) the limited experience of teachers with collaborative/team teaching arrangements?
This is the cultural politics enclosing the special education field in which an emphasis on individualism and competition, views of competence and literacy that privilege certain groups, and a troubling politics of difference intermingle to shape who gets placed in special education and how inclusive education models are implemented. We must not loose sight of this cultural politics as we consolidate a more inclusive educational system and as we grapple with overrepresentation. I outline in the next sections the inclusion movement and minority representation as well as the paradoxes and dilemmas created by their convergence.(1)
Outline of the inclusive education movement
A central argument of the inclusive education movement is that students with disabilities ought to be educated as close to general education as possible. Starting in the 1980s, the inclusive education movement aims to promote student academic learning, social competence, social skills, attitude change, and positive peer relations in inclusive settings. In its early years, the movement focused primarily on students with severe disabilities (Fuchs & Fuchs, 1994); however, it has steadily expanded to include students with mild disabilities. The inclusive education movement embodies several important characteristics and beliefs: School-wide approaches, a belief that all children can learn, a sense of community, services are based on need rather than location, natural proportions of students with disabilities shaped by attendance to neighborhood schools, supports provided in general education, teacher collaboration, curriculum adaptations, enhanced instructional strategies, and a concern for standards and outcomes (Lipsky & Gartner, 1999). Despite these common characteristics and beliefs, unclear goals and multiple definitions of inclusion seem to permeate the movement’s discourse and research practices. For instance, these definitions can range from part- or full-time placement in a general education classroom to the transformation of a school ethos or the construction of entire educational systems based on an inclusive education philosophy.
The diversity of definitions and goals of the movement contribute to the creation of multiple discourses. Dyson (1999) argued there are several discourses about inclusion that can be organized along two dimensions: (a) the rationale for and (b) the realization of inclusion. With regards to the former, he identified two discourses, the rights and ethics and the efficacy discourses. Simply stated, the rights and ethics discourse’s thesis is that individuals with disabilities have the fundamental human right to be educated, ideally alongside nondisabled peers. This basic right is grounded in ethical principles of fairness and social justice (Lipsky & Gartner, 1999; Skrtic, 1991). According to Dyson, the rights and ethics discourse is derived from structuralist analyses that suggest societal inequalities are reproduced in educational systems. Individuals and groups who posses cultural capital have advantages over marginalized or oppressed people in terms of educational or labor opportunities since educational systems are built upon the knowledge and values of dominant groups. When applied to special education, this critique asserts that a segregated parallel system further privileges certain groups by marginalizing students deemed to be problematic or difficult. The existence of this system, in turn, validates the professions that construct tools and legitimize criteria to define deviancy and eliminates the necessity to restructure societal conditions. Therefore, special education placement decisions are inextricably linked to issues of equity and social justice. The maintenance of a segregated special education system is incongruous with the establishment of a socially just educational system, and ultimately a democratic society.
Despite the clear logic of this critique, particularly with regard to equity issues, we must acknowledge competing definitions of social justice permeate this discourse community and the special education field (Christensen & Rizvi, 1996). This complicates the implementation of inclusion for it adds confusion to an already complex process. For instance, current reforms based on notions of free market and choice, which are in turn grounded in individualistic meritocratic principles define social justice as merely fairness for individuals. In such version, “social justice is no longer ‘seen as linked to past group oppression and disadvantage’ judged historically, but represented simply as a matter of guaranteeing individual choice under the conditions of a ‘free market’” (Rizvi & Lingard, 1996, p. 15). Within the rights and ethics discourse, social justice is defined as access and the redistribution of resources in general education for students with disabilities. Unfortunately, as Rizvi and Lingard (1996) argue, this distributive view is limited for it does not “account adequately for either contemporary politics of difference, or the various complex ways in which exclusion and discrimination are now practiced, in both their individual and institutional forms” (p. 21). This is indeed a major shortcoming of this discourse in light of the growing overrepresentation of minorities in special education.
The rationale based on the efficacy discourse is closely aligned with the rights and ethics thesis. This rationale cites evidence that suggests students with disabilities placed in segregated programs do not exhibit greater educational gains than comparable peers educated in integrated contexts. Evidence is also cited about the lack of differentiation between the instructional practices observed in programs for various disabilities and general education classrooms. This discourse’s underlying view of social justice is also based on the aforementioned arguments of access and equity. Unfortunately, access does not guarantee meaningful participation, full membership, or more comparable outcomes (Rizvi & Lingard, 1996).
In addition to the discourses advanced to justify the creation of an inclusive educational system, visions of how such system ought to be realized have been proposed. Dyson (1999) labeled these discourses political and pragmatic. The political discourse is concerned with developing forms of resistance and it focuses on struggling against the interest groups (e.g., professional) that uphold the traditional special education system. Struggles can be pursued in myriad ways such as actions undertaken by persons or groups to create inclusive systems or programs, coalitions with other marginalized groups to achieve inclusion goals, or the deconstruction of traditional special education’s assumptions, premises, and values.
The pragmatic discourse has received by far the most attention from researchers. This discourse addresses what inclusive education programs and schools look like. Some scholars have developed profiles of inclusive schools related to the ethos, structures, and processes in such contexts while others have offered conceptual analyses of the fundamental differences between inclusive and non-inclusive schools (Skrtic, 1991; Villa & Thousand, 1995). It is common to find within this discourse practical materials and guides for teachers and administrators interested in developing inclusive programs and schools (Dyson, 1999). A potentially damaging consequence of the pragmatic discourse is that educators might become overly concerned with how to allocate human and material resources and carry out procedures (i.e., a technical view) or with the creation of regulatory stipulations aimed at compensating for or avoiding discriminatory practices (i.e., a legalistic view) (Slee, 1996).
A quick review of research based on this discourse reflects the following findings about the inclusion of students with disabilities in general education contexts (U. S. Department of Education, 1999):
At the same time, some studies suggest students with LD not always participate meaningfully in general education classrooms and instruction for this group is undifferentiated; in fact, effective instruction principles for students with LD are rarely observed in general education classrooms (McIntosh et al., 1993; Vaughn, Moody, & Schumm, 1998; Trent, 1998; Zigmond & Baker, 1990; Zigmond et al., 1995). Similarly, students with LD in inclusive contexts do not receive individualized, explicit, and intensive instruction (Trent, 1997; Zigmond & Baker, 1995). On the other hand, a few studies suggest the presence of students with disabilities in inclusive contexts does not have a negative effect on nondisabled students’ developmental or academic outcomes (e.g., Staub, 2000); in fact, some argue gains for nondisabled students is the most consistent finding in this line of inquiry (Manset & Semmel, 1997).
The inclusion movement has faced strong resistance particularly from segments of the special education professional community and heated debates have unfolded in professional journals and conferences. Discussions and disagreements revolved around technical (e.g., empirical bases of arguments, lack of specificity in proposed models), ideological (e.g., values and beliefs about learning, teaching, disability, and research), and rhetorical issues (e.g., meanings of expression such as “all children”) (Brantlinger, 1997; Fuchs & Fuchs, 1994; Gartner & Lipsky, 1987; Kauffman & Hallahan, 1995; Pugach & Lilly, 1984; Stainback & Stainback, 1991; Wang & Walberg, 1988). To the dismay of debate participants, general education hardly paid attention to these deliberations. Even to this day, large-scale efforts to monitor the implementation of major general education reforms “have generally ignored the issue of disability and ... the information that is available has been collected in a piecemeal fashion” (Vanderwood, McGrew, & Ysseldyke, 1998, p. 366).
Overview of minority representation in special education
The special education population is increasingly segregated along ethnic lines as reflected in the overrepresentation of ethnic minorities (Artiles & Trent, 1994; Dunn, 1968). Aside from several computational caveats (Artiles & Trent, 2000; Reschly, 1997), overrepresentation is typically estimated by contrasting the proportion of an ethnic group in the school population with the representation of the same group in a special education program. Overrepresentation is confirmed if student representation in special education is equal or greater than 10 percent of their proportion in general education (Chinn & Hughes, 1987; Harry, 1992). African Americans, Latinos, and American Indians are affected by overrepresentation more poignantly in the so-called mild disabilities programs learning disabilities, mild mental retardation, and serious emotional disturbances (LD, MMR, and SED respectively). Poverty also seems to play a role in these placement patterns. As we know, the association between poverty and risk for disability is strong, though to our dismay, “[w]e know precious little about the intervening dynamics that connect socioeconomic status to disability” (Fujiura & Yamaki, 2000, p. 196). Unfortunately, sociological analyses about the connection between poverty and disability are rarely conducted in the special education field and thus, we rarely ponder the historical, cultural, and structural antecedents of the systematic link between poverty, ethnicity, and disability (Slee, 1996).
Despite the litigation and sporadic attention in the professional and political arenas, overrepresentation has been present in the field since Dunn’s denunciation of the problem in 1968. The National Academy of Sciences (NAS) appointed a panel of experts to assess this problem in the early 1980s and despite the excellent analyses and recommendations made by this group (Heller, Holtzman, & Messick, 1982), it is not clear what was the impact of the panel’s report. Another panel was appointed by the NAS recently and the group is preparing to write a final report. Although few question whether overrepresentation exists, there is some disagreement about the magnitude and causes of the problem and some have even asked why overrepresentation is a problem. Aside from these divergent views, a few basic generalizations can be made from the extant literature.
First, overrepresentation patterns vary depending on whether the data are dis-aggregated by geographic location, ethnicity, and disability program; overrepresentation trends can also be mediated by ethnic representation in the school population, year, and indicator used (Artiles & Trent, 2000). For example, visual inspection of 1994 data from four states (Alabama, California, Hawaii, New York) with varying minority enrollment suggest:
(a) Blacks’ over-representation in mild disability programs is still observed at the state level and it seems to increase in states with large Black student enrollment; (b) over-representation patterns for Latinos and American Indians vary from state to state and from category to category and their proportion in the school population does not seem to affect over-representation patterns…; (c) Asian students tend to be under-represented in mild disability categories … (their proportion in the school population does not seem to affect disproportionality patterns); and (d) White students tend to be over-represented in the [Gifted & Talented] and [LD] categories (Artiles & Trent, 2000, p. 515).
At the national level, African Americans have been historically overrepresented in SED and MMR programs and Latinos are generally not overrepresented in mild disability categories, with the exception of speech and language impairments. Oswald, Coutinho, Best, and Singh (1999) recently confirmed the national overrepresentation of African Americans at the district level and documented interactions between demographic variables and overrepresentation patterns: Poverty and black overrepresentation were linked but disability category mediated the direction of the association—i.e., poverty and overrepresentation were positively related in the MMR category whereas the opposite was observed in the SED group. More specifically, black overrepresentation in MMR programs worsened as poverty increased while overrepresentation in the SED category was exacerbated in wealthy districts.
Variations in overrepresentation can be observed in connection to political and contextual forces. For instance, overrepresentation of minorities was reduced in the 1970s after courts ordered the reclassification of minority students in California. In contrast, over- and under-referral of ELLs has been reported; the latter typically due to fear of litigation or concern over the technical limitations of assessment instruments for ELLs (Gersten & Woodward, 1994). In the aftermath of Proposition 227 in California, our preliminary results suggest overrepresentation of ELLs during the 1998-99 school year (when Proposition 227 was first implemented) in a large urban school district emerged in 5th grade (the grade level at which many ELLs are transitioned from bilingual to general education). Overrepresentation persisted until 12th grade and the proportion of ELLs placed in special education increased steadily during the elementary grades and it stabilized between 11 and 16 percent in secondary schools. Furthermore, the number of Latino ELLs in special education increased considerably between 1993-94 and 1998-98 as well as the number of poor special education students (as reflected in eligibility for free or reduced lunch) (Rueda, Artiles, Salazar, & Higareda, in press).
Based on data gathered in New York’s urban schools, Gottlieb, Alter, Gottlieb, & Wishner (1994) concluded that “1 in 6 students with LD have IQ scores that could render them eligible for classification as mentally retarded calls into question the definition of learning disabilities that is being applied” (p. 455). Thus, it seems that the LD category, which used to be reserved mostly for white middle class students, may be becoming a repository of poor ethnic minorities, many of whom come from immigrant or migrant families (Figueroa & Artiles, 1999; Gottlieb et al., 1994). Sometimes these placement decisions may be made to avoid accusations of bias due to the greater stigma of the MMR category or out of fear of litigation; other times, as Gottlieb et al. suggest, decisions are based on the need to use scarce resources for low-achieving students.
Similar to the inclusion movement, the underlying view of social justice that predominates in the overrepresentation discourse is a liberal individualistic perspective that stresses access to general education and strives to achieve a better distribution of resources (i.e., the programs and opportunities afforded by general education). This discourse community tends to ignore the history of poor conditions and services offered to minority students in general education. Although some scholars have begun to denounce systemic and structural inequities that hint at the need for alternative views of social justice (Artiles, 1998; Patton, 1998), such indictments fall short of identifying alternative solutions.
I argue overrepresentation and inclusion discussions and analyses rest on particular assumptions about time, space, culture, and social justice. Paradoxes and dilemmas arise between and within these phenomena as we unveil such assumptions and as we reflect about the increasing convergence of overrepresentation and inclusion at the dawn of the new millennium. I identify several assumptions, paradoxes and dilemmas in the following sections.
Silence and voice in the inclusion and overrepresentation discourses
The inclusive education discourse has been largely silent about the fact that the majority of students entering the special education system in many regions of the U. S. are ethnic and linguistic minorities. This is a major oversight considering that the history and status of minority groups in this society play a major role in these students’ educational experiences and outcomes. Minority students have been perceived historically as lacking the skills, experiences, and dispositions to be successful in general education and indeed, we know academic achievement is correlated with ethnicity, language background, and social class. Thus, minority students exit general education with a deficit identity that foregrounds the aforementioned markers of difference. At the same time, it is paradoxical that due to the inclusion movement, minority students might be returning to general education,(2) but with an identity that adds ability to the composite of ethnic, linguistic, and social class deficits. Since the new identity has been dispensed by the special education system, it legitimizes the surveillance of these students in general education through legal and technical means (Erickson, 1996), and it perpetuates the poor school outcomes of minorities since disability status (particularly MMR) is correlated with drop out rate, low school completion rate, low reclassification rate, and poor employment outcomes (Gottlieb et al., 1994; U.S. Department of Education, 1997; Wagner et al., 1993). Moreover, let us remember minority students with disabilities are returning to a general education system that is fraught with paradoxical policy and reform pressures as reflected in the tensions between the push for individual entitlement to the same treatment (e.g., same standards and curriculum access) and entitlement to differential treatments (individualized education) (McLaughlin, Fuchs, Hardman, 1999). It is not clear how this paradoxical situation will be resolved and it will be interesting to trace whether these reforms are enforced differentially with various segments of the disabled population (e.g., minority vs. nonminority students) or whether these reforms will benefit certain groups (e.g., nonminority students).
It is also paradoxical that, as the inclusive education movement represents the emergence of empowered voices about disability rights and better educational services for this population, the same movement has been painfully silent about the plight of minority students. Congruent with customary practices in the field (Artiles, Trent, & Kuan, 1997), the inclusion literature has tended to ignore sociocultural issues (Bos & Fletcher, 1997). When diversity is summoned in the inclusion literature, it is generally associated with diversity of ability levels; the plight of minority students is only superficially recognized in the rationale discourse. This is troubling given the obvious presence of ethnic and linguistic minorities in the special education system. Similarly, scholars working on overrepresentation (including myself) are guilty of silence about the implications of inclusion for minority students. These silences are likely related to the traditional ways in which special education scholarship has omitted culture. In discussing the notion of “silence as cultural censorship,” Sheriff (2000) cited Sider to explain that “the creation of culture is also, simultaneously and necessarily, the creation of silence… we can have no significant understanding of any culture unless we also know the silences that were institutionally created and guaranteed along with it” (p. 118, emphasis in original).
Indeed, the culture of our scholarly community has created a silence about ethnic, racial, gender, and linguistic differences as evidenced in a major analysis of contemporary special education research we conducted recently. We found that less than three percent of the empirical research published in four visible peer-reviewed special education journals over a 22-year period (1975-1994) examined data across ethnic and social class lines (Artiles et al., 1997).(3). An important implication of this finding is that we must strive to understand the goals and functions of the institutionalization of silence about difference in the culture of special education scholarship. More importantly, we must end this silence to better inform future analysis of inclusion and overrepresentation. Although we begin to see a small increment in the number of peer-reviewed articles dealing with cultural, ethnic, and linguistic issues published outside of special issues (e.g., Artiles, Aguirre-Muñoz, & Abedi, 1998; Dennis & Giangreco, 1996; Skinner, Bailey, Correa, Rodriguez, 1999; Townsend, 2000), it is not clear whether this trend represents an increment in the number of empirical studies. This state of affairs complicates our understanding of the processes that lead to and the consequences of overrepresentation patterns in inclusive contexts and it also constrains intervention and prevention efforts.
Discontinuities in the analysis of space
Despite the silence about various forms of cultural difference, the inclusion movement appears to be consolidating in physical spaces. Placement data suggest that, despite important variations across states, the nation’s students with disabilities are increasingly educated in general education schools and classrooms (particularly students with LD) (McLeskey, Henry, & Axelrod, 1999). Interestingly, there has been a small increment during the 1988-1995 period in the proportion of students with LD educated in segregated contexts (i.e., special education classrooms) (McLeskey et al., 1999). Unfortunately, we know little about the ethnicity, social class, and linguistic background of the LD students placed in these segregated settings. It is paradoxical that at a time when concern over the overrepresentation of minorities is growing, basic demographic and sociocultural markers about the students being included is not reported. Moreover, the inclusion discourse has dealt with space in unique ways.
Systematic theorizing about space has intensified in recent years, particularly to study social life (Foucault, 1986; Soja, 1996). Lefebvre (1991) argues for the creation of a “science of space” which aims to bridge the separation between spatial practice or physical/perceived space (Firstspace) and conceived/mental space or representations of space (Secondspace). Spatial practice entails the process of producing the material form of social spatiality; the social or spatial practice of a society “is thus presented as both medium and outcome of human activity, behavior, and experience” (Soja, p. 66). Representations of space (Secondspace) encompass mental or conceived spaces, they include “representations of power and ideology, of control and surveillance… it is the primary source of utopian thought and vision” (Soja, 1996, p. 67).
A science of space should aspire to build a knowledge of space and its production as First and Second spaces interact and influence one another in multiple ways. As such dynamic interactions unfold, a Thirdspace is created, namely lived space (i.e., spaces of representation). The space of representation, however, both encompasses and is distinct from the other two spaces. Thirdspace is the “habitus of social practices, a constantly shifting and changing milieu of ideas, events, appearances, and meanings” (Kahn, 2000, p. 7). According to Soja (1996), counterspaces or spaces of resistance can be created in Thirdspace because it is filled with ideology and politics, with relations of dominance and subordination, with the intricate interdependency of the real and the imagined. Thirdspace is a powerful tool because it enables us to question simplifications of space as “site” or “destination” and to transcend dichotomies of representations such as insiders and outsiders. At the same time, Thirdspace is a dynamic construct that surfaces as a result of the dialectic of the physical and the mental, the concrete and the abstract or the imagined; it contains the perceived and conceived spaces simultaneously (Soja, 1996).
It is interesting that, despite the far-reaching conceptualization (conceived space) of inclusive education (e.g., Lipsky & Gartner, 1996), a cursory review of the extant research on mildly disabled students suggests spatial practice considerations have been paramount. In other words, there seems to be a discontinuity between the representations of space of inclusive education (Secondspace) and the actual examination of inclusion processes and outcomes, which focuses on spatial practices (Firstspace). Firstspace analysis “concentrates on the accurate description of surface appearances … [or] searches for spatial explanation in primarily exogenous social, psychological, and biophysical processes” (Soja, 1996, p. 75). Consistent with this view, inclusion research has assumed that placement in the target physical contexts of general education classrooms (or elements in such spaces) can have an effect on disabled students’ learning and development. Thus, researchers have also examined the perceived and mental spaces (cognitive skills, perceptions) and social practices surrounding the inclusion of these students to discern the presumed impact of physical spaces.
In addition, inclusion seems to be concerned with outcomes at the expense of documenting processes.(4) Assessment of outcomes is often based on student or parent reports, gathered primarily through survey instruments (U. S. Department of Education, 1999). Although it is important to tap parent and student perceived spaces, it is also necessary to obtain detailed or moment-to-moment accounts of the construction processes of academic and social outcomes. Support for the need for this line of research is apparent in studies reporting mixed results; in such instances, the authors allude to contextual aspects. For example, in the case of the outcomes of mixed-ability groups, it was reported that “[f]actors such as partner selection, teacher monitoring, and the establishment of a cooperative ethic appeared to influence the outcomes. Clearly the structure and support are essential to the success of these arrangements” (U. S. Department of Education, 1999, p. III-29). Another example is found in the research on the mixed impact of program models on students with disabilities; the reviewers conclude such finding underscores “the need to pay greater attention to specific organizational and instructional practices in heterogeneous classrooms” (p. III-22).
Similarly, the bulk of the overrepresentation literature is based on perceived or physical space analyses as reflected in the almost exclusive attention to placement patterns for various ethnic groups in disability programs. Outcomes (i.e., placement patterns) are foregrounded in these analyses and static markers of difference (e.g., ethnic labels) are included in studies to discern their association with various physical spaces (e.g., school location). For example, researchers have studied whether minority placement patterns are shaped by student poverty and school location (urban vs. suburban). Unlike inclusion, however, the overrepresentation discourse has devoted hardly any effort to develop representations of space (Secondspace). Given that Secondspace is “entirely ideational, made up of projections into the empirical world from conceived or imagined geographies” (Soja, 1996, p. 79), the lack of utopian thinking or imagination in the overrepresentation discourse has potentially devastating consequences for this scholarship runs the risk of merely accumulating superficial descriptions of spatial practices that are not guided by a vision of an ideal state of affairs.
In conclusion, there are discontinuities or gaps in the spaces examined by the inclusion and overrepresentation discourse communities. Although both communities tend to concentrate on the production of spatial practices (Firstspaces), the inclusion community seems to be guided (or surveilled) by representations of space (Secondspace) or visions of an inclusive education system; in contrast, overrepresentation lacks such conceived space. I argue we cannot afford to reconstruct the educational system based on visions that ignore the history and implications of racial, ethnic, class, and linguistic differences for the social organization of learning in culturally and politically charged contexts. More importantly, we cannot afford to reconstruct the system without a vision of what we want to achieve in a heterogeneous educational system to consolidate a socially just society.
Parallel time scales and partial visions of culture
In addition to space, time is a critical dimension in human development and performance. I rely on sociocultural theory’s view about the role of time in the study of human development. For Vygotsky, human development ought to be studied over time; in fact, the essence of Vygotsky’s approach was to study “phenomena in movement,” that is, historically (Scribner, 1985). To study development historically means researchers should be concerned with the genesis of developmental processes as well as with changes over time. This can be done in several ways, depending on the level of analysis that is germane to a study’s goals. Sociocultural theory proposes the use of a multi-layered model of history to study human development at the cultural historical (the history of a group, institution, or society), ontogenetic (history of an individual over his or her lifespan), and microgenetic (the history of moment-to-moment lived experience) levels. Such model allows us to obtain a comprehensive view of the genesis and transformation of human learning and development as embedded in cultural media (Cole, 1996; Scribner, 1985).(5)
Cultural history is concerned with the past or the historical (cultural) patterning of a group, community, institution, or society—the best known example is the information included in multicultural approaches that stress ethnic groups’ distinctive traits (e.g., learning or cognitive styles, interpersonal values). However, cultural groups can also include groups of people that get together routinely, as in “school culture,” “classroom culture,” or even “the culture of a reading group” (Jacob, 1995). Traditionally, cultural history has been treated as a static notion; this is problematic considering the complex dynamics involved in the creation of cultural history—I shall return to this issue in a subsequent paragraph. Ontogenesis, in turn, documents the developmental trajectories of individuals through the life span. The goal is to trace individuals’ developmental pathways so that patterns, stages, milestones, and transitions are identified at different points in a person’s life; as we know, this is done cross-sectionally and longitudinally. Inherent in ontogenesis is the tension between normative views of developmental trajectories (i.e., what members of the cultural group are expected to achieve at different life stages) vis-à-vis the hybridity of individuals (i.e., the uniqueness of a person). Lastly, microgenesis focuses on the moment-to-moment construction of development. Obviously, these historical or time scales are embedded in one another and their separation is merely a heuristic to understand the complexity of human development. More specifically, microgenetic processes are the building blocks of ontogenetic trajectories, which in turn represent hybrid constructions between the cultural historical and microgenetic processes. The differentiation of these time scales also allows us to account for cultural reproduction and cultural change—i.e., the cultural historical level represents the cultural patterns that are reproduced from one generation to the next whereas the microgenetic level enables us to discern how an individual both acquires and thus reproduces such patterns while at the same time, he or she transforms cultural history as the person exerts his or her agency. The result is the composition of unique ontogenetic pathways.
An implication of these ideas is that a sound definition of culture should account for both cohesion and within-group diversity. This challenge is reflected in seemingly contradictory statements such as “Latinos’ thinking is field-dependent and they value group activity, cooperation, and spirituality” (cohesion) versus “it is unfair to compare middle-income with low-income Latinos or U.S.-born with recent-immigrant Latinos” (within-group diversity). The discussion in the preceding paragraph on the multiple layers of history offers a sound explanation about cultural cohesion (as observed in the cultural historical level) and within-group diversity (as created in the ontogenetic and microgenetic levels). Another important feature of a sound definition of culture is that it should include both internal and external aspects (Cole, 1996). Internal aspects include beliefs, values, and cultural knowledge structures that assist individuals to navigate the world, guide their behavior, interpret reality, and coordinate their actions with other members of the cultural group. External aspects are material manifestations of culture embodied in routines, practices, rituals, and symbols for coordinating artifacts. This sociocultural perspective of culture informs my analysis which is grounded in a balanced view of “culture-as-subjective-knowledge” (internal) and “culture as material practices” (external), culture as cohesive and diverse, and culture as concerned with both reproduction and change (Cole, 1996; Gallegos & Cole, in press; Geertz, 1973).
The overrepresentation discourse focuses on culture at the cultural-historical level and it assumes culture is an independent variable that produces main effects; it equates ethnicity with culture. This view assumes that membership in a given ethnic group will produce patterns of beliefs, behaviors, customs, values, and so forth (internal view of culture). It follows that ethnic groups posses distinct thinking, communication, and relational patterns; group homogeneity is assumed. The interactions between markers of difference (e.g., race, ethnicity, gender, language background, social class) are not accounted for. In other words, the overrepresentation discourse is primarily concerned with an internal view of culture and with the cultural historical level of development; the external view of culture and other time scales (e.g., ontogenesis, microgenesis) are ignored. Recommendations stemming from this discourse are aligned with traditional multicultural education approaches and thus, they exhort sensitivity toward the cultural historical characteristics of groups (e.g., dialect and language preferences, learning styles). It is paradoxical that in their attempt to affirm cultural diversity and difference, these recommendations end up advocating implicitly for essentialist views of culture and cultural history. Furthermore, this cultural historical view of minorities assumes group traits are immutable features with no previous histories (i.e., cultural reproduction is stressed). Largely ignored is the potential mediating influence of the cultural history of groups prior to their arrival in the U. S.
In the case of Latinos, for example, the cultural histories of the pre-colonial and colonial eras are overlooked. What could we learn, for instance, from an examination of the mental spaces of immigrant Latinos who appropriated complex gendered and racialized consciousness over generations of colonial rule? Trigo (2000) described how race and gender have been treated as subjects of crisis in the history of Latin America. He recounts some historians attributed the fall of the Spanish empire to constitutional weakness produced from generations of racial mixture. At the same time, native races were often equated with degenerative states. Paradoxically, the ruling class of “Criollos” (people of mixed European and American descent) changed the argument about racial mixing in their favor shortly after the independence movements. The Criollos argued their hybrid race adapted more favorably to the climates of the colonies, which made them more resilient to the diseases of the subcontinent. Furthermore, Criollos used racial scientific theories of the era to justify their privileged position; they claimed that
…different races in their so-called ‘pure state’ exhibited unequal physical resistance to environmental influences. From this perspective, the ‘white European race’ was perceived to be at one end of a continuum of immunity that had pure ‘black’ and ‘indian races’ at its opposite pole. To be effective, and lasting, the government could not be in the delicate hands of a purely ‘European race.’ Conversely, a purely ‘black’ or ‘indian’ race represented a powerful challenge to a hybrid ‘creole race,’ which was imagined occupying the middle ground of the same continuum (Trigo, 2000, pp. 31-32).
This reasoning permeated years of political instability while elites consolidated their power by using their European ancestry to place themselves in a privileged position over indians and blacks while they also argued to be better positioned than Europeans to rule the new republics. As we know, the history of Latin America is fraught with oppression, ethnic, political, and religious conflict, and fragmented identities (Comas-Díaz, Lykes, & Alarcón, 1998). As a result, generations of Latin Americans have been raised under savage economic and educational inequalities and brutal repression, and thus, many people internalized fear, distrust, and despair as a natural existential stance. “In addition to damaging personal lives, such repression harms the social structures themselves—the norms, values, and principles by which people are educated and the institutions that govern the lives of citizens” (Comas-Díaz et al., 1998, p. 779). In these contexts, notions of human and civil rights, democratic participation, and empowerment are incomprehensible.
When people who have lived for generations under such conditions migrate to the U.S., they engage in a complex process of coping and adaptation to the new society that is inextricably intertwined with the cultural histories crafted in their home lands. In this process, recent immigrants begin to compose new cultural histories. As these immigrants weave such hybrid cultural histories in the host society, generational differences emerge between themselves and their fellow ethnic peers who have lived in the U.S. for generations; generational differences also arise between the recent immigrants and their own children as they are raised in the U.S. (Delgado-Gaitán, 1994; Suárez-Orozco & Suárez-Orozco, 1995). This more complex perspective on the cultural histories of immigrants differs dramatically from the static view that permeates the overrepresentation discourse. It is indeed imperative this discourse community takes into account the role of coping strategies, resilience mechanisms, and social and cultural capital in the construction of hybrid cultural histories in minority communities.
In turn, the inclusion discourse community tends to see culture as created in institutions, particularly schools. That is, an external view of culture informs the inclusion literature as the characteristics, values, and practices of either traditional or inclusive school organizations are identified. In this sense, this discourse also looks at the cultural historical level, though the focus is on the histories and traits of organizations and institutions not of groups. Furthermore, the perennial tension between cultural reproduction (or continuity) and cultural transformation (or change) is not recognized; on the contrary, the discourse seems to be concerned primarily with cultural change as inclusionists strive to change the culture of traditional schools. I argue that attention to cultural reproduction is imperative as the inclusion discourse must understand the reproduction of the historical circumstances that marginalize minority students in the educational system and society at large. The inclusion discourse has also focused on the impact of inclusion on individuals’ development at certain ages/grade levels (ontogenesis); in other words, it has examined one scale at a time (either cultural history or ontogenesis) and investigators have preferred cross-sectional analyses. This is not surprising given that special education research relies heavily on developmental psychology, which is inherently organized around chronological age as the primary index of the passage of time (i.e., ontogenetic development).
By focusing on single time scales and monolithic views of culture, these discourse communities seem to assume that (a) time scales are parallel and independent (not embedded) and (b) culture is a uni-dimensional notion (either internal or external). Both discourses are interested in cultural histories, though their targets of study differ (either institutions or students); moreover, opposite views of culture inform these discourses (either internal or external). Which visions of culture and time scales should we use to inform inclusion and overrepresentation discourses? The dilemmas implicit in this question are created in part by underlying assumptions about difference. I address in the next section the dilemmas “difference” creates.
The dilemma of difference in the inclusion and overrepresentation discourses
Dilemmas arise as inclusion and overrepresentation grapple with alternative views of culture, time, and space. Ultimately, these dilemmas are related to underlying assumptions about difference (Artiles, 1998). Minow (1990) stated difference has been equated with deviance or stigma and thus, sameness is a prerequisite of equality. It is not surprising, therefore, that traditional treatments of difference ultimately reaffirm difference and offer options that reify or signal the deficits or disadvantages typically associated with difference. Special education has historically faced the dilemma of affirming or ignoring difference. On the one hand, it was argued that equal instructional treatment was unfair and thus, an individualized educational system was institutionalized. On the other hand, the inclusion movement argues equal access to general education spaces, curriculum, and accountability standards are desirable. The former strategy intends to recognize while the latter aims to diffuse difference; ultimately both affirm it.
In the case of minorities, we observe a similar ambivalence in the solutions offered to the dilemma of difference—again, the underlying question has been whether we should ignore or affirm difference. Different treatment was deemed unfair for ethnic but not for linguistic minorities. Indeed, access to the same (integrated) educational contexts was a major achievement for ethnic minorities in the Civil Rights era. Nevertheless, linguistic minorities have fought for differential treatment in the form of bilingual education programs. Interestingly, this solution has changed as reflected in the recent decision to abolish these programs. In the case of the overrepresentation discourse, the goal has been to avoid special education’s handling of difference—i. e., an affirmation of difference through the provision of individualized education. This has been likely due to the additional stigma minority students would endure as a result of societal views on disability and to the long-term consequences of special education placement.
In conclusion, although the same enduring questions permeate how these two discourse communities have handled difference, they have offered ambivalent and even conflicting responses. As stated above, seemingly insurmountable dilemmas arise from these communities’ attempted solutions mainly due to their underlying assumptions about difference. Minow (1990) identified five such assumptions as follows: difference is intrinsic not a comparison, the norm need not be stated, the observer can see without a perspective, the other perspectives are irrelevant, and the status quo is natural, uncoerced, and good. The task then becomes to make explicit these assumptions and to counter them with alternative assumptions. I allude to this issue in the final section of this manuscript.
The challenges ahead: Toward a new generation of inclusion and overrepresentation research
To sum up, the convergence of inclusion and overrepresentation means the educational system may be becoming placing more students with disabilities in general education, but those being included are poor, ethnic and linguistic minorities that have added ability deficits to their identities. My analysis also suggests both phenomena have been examined primarily from a technical perspective—inclusion is a matter of re-distribution of resources so that students with disabilities are educated in a presumed new breed of general education whereas overrepresentation has been reduced to placement proportions calculated through various formulas. These discourses have also emphasized legalistic issues; inclusion has focused on the new requirements for placement in general education, access to the curriculum, and accountability, while overrepresentation has pushed for the creation of anti-discriminatory regulations generally enforced by the Office for Civil Rights.
In contrast, a central conclusion of my analysis is that examinations of overrepresentation and inclusion must transcend legalistic and technical perspectives and must be mindful of the field’s silence about culture and difference. Future research cannot afford to ignore these important aspects as our society grows increasingly diverse. My analysis also suggests views of culture should account for the tensions between internal and external perspectives, between cultural cohesion and diversity, and between the determinism of culture (cultural reproduction) and the individual’s agency, creativity, and resiliency (which ultimately pushes for cultural change). In turn, a systematic attention to culture in our research practices will force us to be aware of and disclose our assumptions about difference (e.g., researchers’ understandings of development, time, space, and culture). Minow (1990) suggested such heightened awareness will compel us to envision difference as produced in relationships and as rooted in comparisons between a person and culturally-based norms that can be unveiled, evaluated, and contested. She also challenged us to enable those who have been dispensed identities of difference to share alternative perspectives. This practice will allow us to reflect on the ways of being and knowing that are privileged by the norms that sanction “difference” (e.g., the alternative ways of knowing underlying the design and implementation of school rules, curricula, assessment practices, and expectations). These recommendations will allow us to transcend the traditional dilemmas of difference (e.g., to provide equal or preferential treatment). Instead, analysis of culture-based notions of difference should focus on “the ways in which institutions construct and utilize differences to justify and enforce exclusions—and the ways in which such institutional practices can be changed (Minow, 1990, p. 86).
Indeed, overrepresentation and inclusion are ultimately about how educators and educational systems deal with “difference” in politically and culturally charged contexts. I argue we must examine these phenomena beyond special education placement issues and should include more sophisticated views of time and space. This will entail the adoption of a comprehensive perspective to examine inclusion and overrepresentation as processes that comprise precursors and consequences of placement decisions. More specifically, we ought to examine the multiple processes that unfold in the continuum of phases created in educational systems to deal with difference. In the current educational system, such phases include the social organization of learning in general education prior to special education identification, pre-referral and referral interventions, assessment and eligibility decisions, and identification and placement in an inclusive (or segregated) special educational program (see Figure 1). We must also examine the consequences of special education placement in the areas of academic, social, emotional, and occupational performance.
As we engage in the intensive and systematic examination of these phases, sound perspectives on time and space must be drawn upon—as stated above, these efforts are to be grounded in a sophisticated view of culture. The present emphasis on reporting only the number of students with disabilities being educated in general education classrooms and schools is creating the illusion that the inclusive education movement is consolidating while it disregards the historicality and sociality of who are being dispensed disability identities or the sociocultural roots of disability constructions.
Moreover, it is troublesome that while the conceived space (Secondspace) of inclusion far exceeds the spatial practice (Firstspace) descriptions of its implementation, the overrepresentation discourse lacks representations of space (Secondspace). Future work must address these gaps in the treatment of space. At a time when politically and ideologically charged reforms will likely have devastating consequences for poor and minority students, our future work ought to focus on the creation and transformation of Thirdspaces—the site where attention to ideology and politics is prominent and where counterspaces and resistance are created. Attention to Thirdspace will inevitably compel us to be mindful of social justice as issues of power, subordination, and dominance are central. Similarly, future inclusion and overrepresentation scholarship needs to adopt more dynamic conceptions of cultural history as well as to target multiple time scales (ontogenesis, microgenesis) to obtain a deeper understanding of human development as situated in cultural, historical, and social contexts. A preliminary model for future research that integrates concerns for complex notions of time, space, and culture might look like the one depicted in Figure 2.
To conclude, as the complexity of the cultural politics of educational reform increases and as its influence on special education transformations intensifies, we must concern ourselves with the study of disability, inclusion, and overrepresentation as grounded in an elaborate cultural medium and mediated by multiple scales and planes of space and time. This way, disability and special education scholarship will transcend the traditional individualistic perspective to examine the influence of technical (e.g., operationalization of definitions, instruments used), contextual (e.g., funding patterns, school climate and administrative support for alternative means to assist students, decision-making processes, teacher expertise), and ideological factors (e.g., deficit views of minorities, institutional racism). This new scholarship must infuse a social justice dimension so that we are perennially concerned with the improvement of educational experiences and the quality of life opportunities for historically marginalized students.
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