This is the second of two posts written by John Felageller. In these posts, he reflects on his son’s 8th-grade graduation. Part one was published in September. - Editor
My son’s middle school was very large, so the stage was filled to both ends with chairs for the graduates, while the school and district staff all sat to one side. Towards the end of the student group, there was my son, with his special ed teacher and his service dog. They took a seat at the edge of the stage, in case they had to get up.
The ceremony, scheduled to last roughly 90 minutes–presumably typical for such an event–would make any special needs parent cringe. I had wondered, “Would he be able to sit through this thing?” even before walking into the building. Thank goodness for his service dog; he could give it a good squeeze if he’s having trouble being still. I was also so grateful for his teacher being with him, someone who knows my son well, and has trained with the dog to redirect my son as needed.
Photo by Adam Griffith on Unsplash
The ceremony began with remarks from the district superintendent, who expectedly acknowledged this class of students as being historic, having successfully navigated school through COVID. The principal and some students shared poems and reflections, and distributed some awards to students for acts of service. My son was surviving pretty well, thankfully with a couple breaks off the stage with his teacher and dog. Then came the moment of truth, the moment that we had all waited for, the one that caused me more anxiety than anything else: it was time for the graduates to walk and receive their diplomas.
My son would be doing this as well, accompanied by his teacher and service dog.
This was an absolute moment of pride for any parent. But for special needs parents like us, we were here after 8 years of blood, sweat, pain and tears, years filled with IEP meetings, reports from teachers and therapists, and a million adjustments in the classroom.
On this night, my child got to be like every other student on that stage, draped in a shiny blue gown, donning a big blue cap with a golden tassel dangling to one side.
My son got to walk for his diploma like every other kid on that stage. But then I stopped and worried, “What is this going to look like, with him walking on the stage with his teacher and a service dog? How are people going to react?” So much fear, so much anxiety and worry about this night, about encountering people I wasn’t sure I wanted to see, being with my ex and her boyfriend, and most of all, thinking that my son–on his graduation day–might get some weird hurtful comments from the crowd.
My mind immediately went back to one of my happiest memories with my son. It was Halloween several years earlier, when he was still in elementary school. I was going through a job transition, my mother-in-law was dealing with illness, so there was a little turmoil in our family. I was able to attend the Halloween party at my son’s school, specifically the “parade,” when students wore their costumes all around the school. Parents lined the gym, as students circled the space before continuing on their way. My son, dressed as one of his favorite foods–a slice of pizza–spotted me in the gym and made his way to me, accompanied by his aide. He walked right up to me, smiled and grabbed my hand, almost motioning me to come with him. The smile and look he gave me was absolutely priceless; he was so happy his dad was there to see him; I was so grateful for that small moment with him. I snapped a picture of him with my phone, and then he and his aide continued on their way.
I left his school that day reminding myself: I showed up for him; daddy was there, I was so proud of him.
I reminded myself of that Halloween parade as the names began to be called. Above all else, this was my son’s night. Nothing would stop me from being there, beaming with pride for what my son was about to do.
As the graduates filed across the stage, there was a reminder from the staff to save applause until the end, so that all the names could be heard. Soon, it was my son’s turn. They stepped up to the right side of the stage, and the staff member announced, “Christopher Felageller, along with Damon.”
I took a breath as she finished saying their names, and then to my shock and awe, the entire auditorium got up and applauded them. Everyone, every parent, sibling, family member and friend in that auditorium got up and cheered my son.
I had wondered if he would be accepted by the crowd because of his challenges, because he needed his teacher and service dog with him. In that moment, my questions–and more importantly, my prayers–were answered. He accomplished what every parent dreams about; he was treated like every other kid. Even better, he was recognized for who he was, and loved for it.
I exhaled, and felt my racing heart slow down, just long enough to comment about how amazed I was. After the ceremony was complete, our mixed group of parents and friends met him and his teacher in the hallway next to the stage.
Immediately, I congratulated and hugged my son, who by this point was rather annoyed that the ceremony had taken so long. He was basically ready to run out of the building and get some dinner! I thanked my son’s teacher for being such a trooper, and for being his assistant that night. I said my congratulations to my ex, acknowledged everyone else, then grabbed my son’s hand. My son, girlfriend and I hurried out of the building to the parking lot and on our way.
My son had received his diploma. I had shown up for it, and for him. It was graduation day. I couldn’t be prouder.
John Felageller is the Ministry Relations Manager at Joni and Friends Chicago. Previous to that, he spent almost 20 years in education, working with children from infants through middle school, serving in a variety of roles including Teacher, Mentor Teacher, and School Director. John lives in Highwood, IL and is a single father to his son Christopher (ASD). He is a public speaker, multiple podcast guest, and regular contributor to Key Ministry’s Special Needs Family blog, as well as other special needs blogs including Hope Anew and The Mighty. Connect with John on his website.
