Every September we talk about school, teachers, and students. This year, let's consider Maria Montessori—and how her insights and methods speak directly to the education of children with disabilities.
Montessori's entire educational philosophy rests on a single conviction: children possess an innate, spontaneous drive to learn, to work, to test their own strength, to build and create, to understand the world around them—provided they are placed in an environment that is properly designed and scientifically organized to receive them.
The adult's role, then, is twofold. First, to construct an environment that awakens the interests the child gradually demonstrates. Second, to remove every obstacle to the child's practical and psychological work. "Help me do it myself"—that is the rallying cry of Montessori's method. It names the child's fundamental need: to bring forth what already exists within him in potential. And it names the educator's duty: not to inhibit but to liberate the child's natural impulse to act on his own tendencies. In special education—teaching children with particular needs—Montessori charted many paths of inquiry. Not only the "early" Montessori, the researcher who worked with what were then called frenastenici children (though here she showed brilliant insight by speaking of delay rather than mental insufficiency), but also the pedagogue of the so-called normal child.
For the disabled child, "help me do it myself" takes on special urgency. The need for autonomy far exceeds the value of exercises performed for their own sake.
The Montessori method offers both theoretical and practical tools to anyone committed to truly integrating disabled children into school.
A few months ago, a newspaper article
In Italy, some remember her because she appeared on the thousand-lira note. A television drama recently told her story. Yet Italy has only 500 Montessori schools—daycares, preschools, and primary classrooms—while the method grows and spreads globally. This is not the place to examine why Italy has never honored her or appreciated her profound educational values as she deserves. But the question merits deeper thought.
In Montessori schools, a child's autonomy begins from the earliest days of life. The environment addresses his primary needs: not only feeding and care, but movement and the capacity to observe the world. A low, soft rug lets him turn whenever and however he wishes. Simple everyday objects placed nearby, refreshed regularly, offer endless sources of interest and stimulation—not the high-sided crib with painted bees circling overhead and a blank ceiling as the only view. Giving a child stimulation calibrated to his development fosters self-esteem and a sense of efficacy: "I can do this, so I can accomplish whatever I set out to do."
Montessori schools carefully study the child's environment—the activities and tools that ensure freedom of initiative and independence even at eighteen or twenty months. The same approach works for an older child, to encourage him, so he need never say, "I can't" or "I'm not able." A child can use the toilet alone if his pants have an elastic waist instead of complicated fastenings. A glass stays upright if it is not too light. Many small considerations serve one large purpose.
Maria Montessori founded the first Casa del Bambino in San Lorenzo, Rome, in 1907. She was already known in Italy as one of the first women to earn a medical degree, for her feminist positions, and for her revolutionary writings about children and education.
Every child, when he can, wants to do things himself—driven by remarkable inner directives. Even a child with difficulties, within certain limits,
In a Montessori school, time belongs to the child. We hear much about early diagnosis and early intervention—essential for understanding what a child needs as soon as possible. Yet there is a real danger: we accelerate the rhythm of the child's life, imposing rapid, repetitive interventions. Adults hurry the child along, frustrated by his slowness and need to repeat. This disorients and pains him. Interruptions, too, matter deeply. Any of us grows frustrated when disturbed in the midst of something we find important. In ordinary schools, interruption is the norm—children are constantly pulled away to move on. When time is divided equally for all, the child with difficulties is obviously penalized most.
Montessori schools provide all indirect supports that enable a child to act independently, without direct help from others. Rather than hanging a towel at adult height, place it where the child can reach it. In a Montessori environment, everything is scaled to the child: the logic of removing barriers, using supports, so that even a disabled child can, as much as possible, "do it himself."
Furniture is chosen and built with attention to the child's age and size, designed with intentional fragility. Because these pieces are delicate, they reveal the consequences of careless or disrespectful use. This is why Montessori classrooms have ceramic plates, glass cups, and breakable objects. Children learn, through daily exercise, to coordinate their movements with care, self-correction, and prudence. Adults become figures of support and facilitation, not judgment. They do not impose, dictate, or forbid. They propose, prepare, stimulate, and guide.
Laura Nardini, 2010
