Milestone on Hard Road

The Class of 2005 banner hung across the small stage in Joaquin Miller High School’s multipurpose room. Nicholas Gallant was wheeled to the stage, shaking a rattle. Genevieve Gonzales giggled as she walked in her cap and gown.

A bus driver played “Pomp and Circumstance” on the piano. A speaker read messages to each student from the teacher. And all the students handed their parents or guardians a rose to say “thank you.”

The recent occasion marked one more momentous milestone for the 16 graduates of the special education high school.

Genevieve learned to read two-syllable words.

Nicholas, who doctors said wouldn’t live past his first birthday, turned 22.

Amada Vega developed the social skills and independence she needed to get a summer job busing tables at a cafe.

Leaving high school this June was the first step toward independence for Miller’s students and about 29,000 others in the Los Angeles Unified School District. The departure for those with developmental disabilities, like Genevieve and her classmates, is a scary first step into adulthood -- one that holds a limited promise of freedom and possibility.

Many special education students struggle with tasks people half their age can accomplish with ease. Some don’t understand the value of money. Others aren’t able to communicate their needs and desires and will always be dependent on other people.

At Miller, students learn daily living and vocational skills, including how to ride a public bus, pay for groceries and even pursue a job as a baker, gardener or assembly-line worker.

When they leave school, these students lose a built-in social network and an environment where they are accepted. Their parents lose a daily seven-hour reprieve.

“Life changes for these kids pretty dramatically” after graduation, said Principal Wayne Foglesong. “This is the best time in their lives for most of them. They’re engaged every day. This school is designed for them and the staff is committed to them in the same way.”

Miller, in Reseda, opened in 1958 and is among the oldest of 18 special-ed schools in the district. Ninety-plus teachers, assistants and administrators cater to its 200 students’ diverse needs and abilities.

In L.A. Unified, 4,200 of the 34,000 students who attend special-ed classes do so on campuses designed solely for them. Federal law requires school districts to provide public education to students with developmental disabilities until they turn 22.

All of the students at Miller have at least one developmental disability, a severe mental or physical impairment that begins before the age of 18 and is expected to continue indefinitely. This includes autism, cerebral palsy, epilepsy and mental retardation. Most of the students have multiple disabilities.

They are typical teenagers and young adults in some respects. They form cliques, flirt, tease, joke and gossip like their peers without disabilities.

But in other ways, they are worlds apart. At the prom, students are excited to see the principal arrive. At lunch, faculty and staff hang out or play basketball with students. And before graduation, teachers and assistants dress the graduates in their caps, gowns and carnations.

“This is an environment that is very nurturing and provides the students and their families with an unbelievable amount of support,” said Cyndi Olson, a Los Angeles Unified transition teacher who works with students to identify and meet their post-graduation goals. “When the student reaches 22, the family is in for a shock because no longer do they have this safe and compassionate environment for their child to go to.”

The move out of high school is often jarring and stressful for parents of special education students. They are confronted with their child’s limitations and lose the support of the public school system. This is particularly hard for families at Miller, where students such as Genevieve become part of the school’s social fabric.

Genevieve

“Her enthusiasm can brighten any room.”

-- a teacher

Genevieve Gonzales crumpled the tissue in her left hand and looked up at her mother.

“I saw you crying up there,” said Alex Gonzales, nodding toward the stage where her daughter sat during graduation. “Were those happy tears or sad tears?”

“A little bit happier,” said Genevieve, 22.

That meant she had been more happy than sad, her mother explained.

But Alex Gonzales was sad. She didn’t leave her seat until at least 10 minutes after graduation ended.

Miller had offered her daughter the chance to be a cheerleader, attend the prom, act in school plays and roam the halls on her own.

Genevieve is mentally retarded and slightly autistic. She stands 5 feet 1, has osteoarthritis and moves slowly. She has the social skills of a 2-year-old, her mother said.

“That’s why it’s important to have special-ed schools, instead of a one-size-fits-all thing,” Gonzales said. “Mentally retarded is not like a cookie cutter.... It’s a plethora of things. And parents should have options.”

She pushed for separate special-ed schools two years ago when the debate over whether these students should be included in regular schools became particularly heated. Those who oppose separate schools say special-ed students don’t develop the social skills they need to be successful if they are isolated from their non-disabled peers.

Gonzales pulled Genevieve from a special-ed program at a regular school after the girl fell on the playground and injured her knee eight years ago.

“My knee broke,” she repeatedly told teachers. Gonzales said they didn’t take Genevieve seriously because she couldn’t articulate the extent of her injury and they didn’t see any damage.

Genevieve walked an entire day with a dislocated and partly shattered kneecap. She had to wear a hip-to-toe cast for three months and was bedridden for five.

When visiting Miller, Gonzales said, “I immediately got this safe, warm feeling. These kids look happy. They’re shining.”

At the school, Genevieve made friends quickly. She learned to add and subtract multiple numbers. Her reading improved.

Genevieve is excited about her plans for the fall. She will attend a workshop and training program for people with developmental disabilities. She calls it “college.”

Her mother hopes Genevieve eventually will live in an assisted-living facility and maybe even find a partner.

“Miller was her life and our shelter for a very long time,” Gonzales said. “Now that’s it. It’s over. We have to move on.”

Nicholas

“His personality and smile ... would just light up my life.”

-- a teacher

The bells around his wrists and ankles jingled to the music.

“If you’re happy and you know it ... stomp your feet.”

Nicholas Gallant’s home-schoolteacher held his ankles, and picked up and put down each Adidas-laced foot.

Nicholas smiled and shook his right hand.

He responds to music and sounds, his mother said. Every weekday, the teacher brings toys that give him the sensory stimulus he needs.

Nicholas has cerebral palsy. He doesn’t speak, is in a wheelchair and eats most of his meals through a feeding tube.

Two years ago, Nicholas left Miller because he repeatedly contracted illnesses from other students; a small cold often turned grave for him. He has been home-schooled by a teacher who is paid by the district, but attended the school’s prom, senior breakfast and last month’s commencement ceremony.

Other students at Miller have severe disabilities like Nicholas. They have hopes and desires they can’t express, leaving their families and the school to make decisions on their behalf. Families also face tremendous financial costs to care for these children.

The Gallants spend $700 a month for Nicholas’ medicines. He has a full-time caregiver and sees a physical therapist weekly.

Other families don’t have the same financial means. Most Miller students receive free or reduced-price meals. Those families either receive services from state and private agencies or place their child in a residential-care facility.

The Gallants can’t imagine Nicholas being away from them.

While he doesn’t communicate in a traditional manner, those who know him say Nicholas has a strong, yet easygoing personality.

“He doesn’t fight anything,” said his mother, Kathy Gallant. “He’s always happy.”

But Nicholas has fought for his life on more than one occasion.

Last week’s graduation -- also his 22nd birthday -- was a testament, friends and family said, to his will and survival.

Amada

“A gentle, loving soul” who “always keeps her word.”

-- a graduation speaker

Amada Vega wheeled the laundry basket around school, collecting dirty towels from room to room. She walked through the boys’ changing room, wrinkling her nose at the smell of a recently changed diaper. The 22-year-old moved the towels in the washer to the dryer before loading the washing machine again.

It was her third trip that day.

This routine was Amada’s lesson in responsibility, follow-through and independent work -- preparation for a job in the real world.

“I work hard,” she said in her soft voice. “I like to clean.”

Few students at Miller can work in the community like Amada.

She is mildly mentally retarded and one of the highest-functioning students at Miller, teachers and administrators said. Socially, she is at a level close to her non-disabled peers.

Amada made such academic progress during her first few years at Miller that she was placed in an advanced class. The class, for students with the potential to earn a high school diploma, was canceled when standardized testing became too rigorous.

Instead of a diploma, Amada began working toward getting a job. In addition to laundry duty this year, the school and the state Department of Rehabilitation arranged for Amada to work at a Van Nuys cafe four days a week.

An assistant took Amada on a public bus to the cafe, where she worked three hours each day. They returned by lunch.

The Department of Rehabilitation paid Amada’s minimum-wage salary and covered her workers’ compensation and insurance needs.

“It’s a win-win situation,” said Bruce Meyer, a Miller teacher. “The company gets to train a potential employee at no cost and the student gets the experience.”

Amada was such a dependable employee that the cafe hired her for the summer -- on its own dime.

Amada’s teachers hope she will sustain her momentum. They worry she might fall into the same position as her brother, who graduated from Miller last year.

Teachers said they believed he was capable of working. Instead, he and his mother stay home in an approximately 15-by-15-foot garage at Amada’s grandfather’s house.

The cramped space is filled with stuffed animals, clothes, figurines, CDs, DVDs -- Amada’s favorite is “Phantom of the Opera” -- and wrestling magazines.

When her summer job begins next week, a school assistant will ride with Amada on the bus for the first week or until she can manage alone.

But after that, Miller’s teachers and assistants will no longer be there to help or push her. There are state and private agencies that could help Amada find a job, but the impetus is on her to contact them.

Graduation from Miller has not only meant leaving teachers and assistants who supported her, but also leaving an active social life. Amada’s family doesn’t have a car or a phone. She doesn’t know when she will see or talk to her friends.

At lunch during the last week of school, Amada and her friends hung out in their usual spot by the basketball court, signing yearbooks. A boy asked to sign her yearbook. As he walked away, she opened it and immediately understood his simple message: “I You Miss, Zachary.”