In recent years, disabled students have been enrolling in academic high schools—classical studies, science tracks, and the like—often because families believe these environments offer more protection than vocational schools.
For a conscientious teacher, the real challenge emerges when the student must be graded against so-called "minimum objectives" in each subject. But reaching those minimums requires fewer demands. Teachers work hard to modify—sometimes slightly, sometimes substantially—the volume of material to cover, the exercises to assign, the homework to complete, the number of topics to know for tests.
All of this happens with invaluable support from special education teachers who create an IEP (Individualized Educational Plan) containing a detailed account of the student's cognitive, emotional, and relational challenges, along with the class's operational strategies for guiding the disabled student toward a formative path that serves both his growth and the school's broader mission.
Teachers face hard questions: How do I grade this student's progress objectively? Compared to other students, who navigate a complex learning process with sometimes demanding expectations, is it fair to assign grades above a passing mark? And crucially: since these students can earn a diploma with the same legal weight as their peers—one that makes no mention of their disability, their IEP, or any modified assessments—is it right that their final grades be higher than merely passing?
The deepest problems surface in the relationship between the disabled student and the rest of the class. It is clear that starting conditions are not equal, and that lesson plans and assessments necessarily reflect those differences and diverse needs. But the real crux is elsewhere: the endpoint. The destination. Italian law currently allows disabled high school students either a simple certificate attesting to the coursework completed, or a full diploma. In the latter case, the degree holds legal weight, and the transcript makes no mention of the student's disability.
Yet we must recognize that this student has followed a differentiated course of study—carefully tailored to his actual abilities, with reduced content load, fewer homework assignments, simplified topics, extended time on written exams, scheduled oral tests (not surprise quizzes, which might trigger unmanageable emotional reactions), and more. This is not to question whether such measures are right—they clearly are, if they allow these students to earn the diploma. Rather, the point is to expose the contradictions embedded in how we integrate students with disadvantages into the system.
Classmates also perceive that the disabled student receives "help" from teachers—while they themselves must exceed the minimum standards. This perception often creates tension in the group. Sometimes other students ask teachers for the same "accommodations," forgetting that their peer has learning difficulties and possible cognitive deficits. Even the presence of a special education teacher is sometimes seen as a kind of "privilege," sparking rivalry or resentment toward someone who simply needs more attention and care—both human and educational.
The core problem—one that affects teachers most acutely, since they must render a judgment and keep it fair relative to the whole class—is that at the end of the school cycle, the diploma bears no reference to the student's particular circumstances or the methods by which the degree was earned. In short: the disabled student is returned to a condition of "normalcy," indistinguishable from his classmates.
So when the educational journey ends, all the issues that arose during those school years vanish from the record. Why? Should not the work done by both the teacher and the disabled student leave some trace? That is what school law currently demands. But in whose interest?
In the name of protecting the right to education for disadvantaged people? Are we trying to deny that right? Or is this another instance of wanting to hide, erase, flatten, or simply forget disability and difference?
Much of this probably stems from an old model of the classroom that still dominates schools—the belief that all students must be the same, must do the same work, must be treated the same way. In short: all must be "equal." But we know better. We know that every student is different, and that each deserves a differentiated learning path suited to developing his own abilities.
So why not differentiate the diploma itself? After all, the Moratti reforms introduced the idea of a student portfolio—a record of competencies compiled over the school years and handed over at the end of secondary education.
The proposal could be this: award these students the diploma, but accompany it with a note specifying the competencies achieved, the learning gained, and the methods used to reach the goals set. A brief dossier could outline all the conditions that made the final milestone possible—and, ultimately, the much-praised "educational success" that today's school legislation constantly invokes.
Chiara Di Serio, 2013