Music and Inclusion

Building a Vision Through Song

by Mara Sapon-Shevin

“Metal mouth”  “freckle face”
“fatso”  “four eyes”

Many people’s memories of school include rejection, isolation, teasing, and exclusion. They remember the groups they were not allowed to be in, the child who was different who was teased unmercifully, the private snickers and not so private jokes about children who were poor, didn’t have the “right” clothes, came from non-standard families or whose academic skills either lagged behind or were far ahead. Is this what schools have to be like? Are there other possibilities? How can we hold up a different vision to the world?

My work is in the area of what is called “full inclusion”: how to create classroom settings that meet the needs of all children (regardless of ability/disability) within one, unified setting. Full inclusion is about classrooms which celebrate diversity and nurture and support all members—places in which differences are not ignored, but do not become the excuse for teasing or exclusion. “Full inclusion” is a significant step beyond “mainstreaming” which often required that the child change or be “ready” to be part of a regular classroom. Inclusion asks us, as teachers, administrators, and parents, to make “regular classrooms” warm and accepting places. But this is a challenging vision to accept when many people’s personal experiences are so different from this “ideal” one. Some people have given up on the possibility that schools can be different, even if they wish they were.

Although most of the settings in which I give speeches and presentations are “educational” and not “musical,” I begin every presentation or workshop with a song. Often, I teach the entire group “Love Grows One by One” by Carol Johnson. First I teach the signs, and then the song, and by the second verse, “So let me take your hand my friend, we’ll each take the hand of another, hand in hand we’ll reach round the world to our sisters and our brothers,” the whole group is holding hands and singing. We often stop to applaud ourselves—an assemblage of people who had no idea that they would be singing, who have together produced a joyous and powerful sound. Then I ask, “Why did I start with a song?” People offer different responses: “Because we should be singing with children?” “Because singing is a universal language?” “Because it got us all involved?” “Because it builds community?” I respond affirmatively to each of these, because they are all true, but I have another message as well. “How many of you,” I ask, “would be willing to come up here and lead the next song?” There are always several brave hands raised. “Thank you for your honesty,” I continue, “Now, I’d like the same honesty for this next question: How many of you would rather die first?” Always there is nervous laughter and lots of hands shoot up. I then continue, “For those of you who said you would rather die first, here is my question: What would it take for you to be comfortable coming up here to sing? What would it take?”

The ensuing discussion is always rich, as people talk about not having to do it alone, knowing people in the group better, and, always, assurances that no one would laugh, that they would not be made fun of, isolated, teased, or embarrassed in any way. In other words, in order to take the risk of singing, they would want some sense of safety. They would want the safety of a supportive community, would want to be surrounded by people who would appreciate their effort no matter its quality, celebrate their successes, and offer support and encouragement. The vision becomes clearer—if we, as an audience want this kind of safety, need this kind of safety, in order to take risks and learn and grow, isn’t this exactly what children need as well? Ah—an inclusive, nurturing classroom. We have just defined it. Children need the support of an inclusive classroom in order to learn, and adults need support and community in order to work for educational and societal change.

Singing together is about creating community, and it is about inclusion as well. I laughingly refer to what I do as “full inclusion singing.” I talk openly about the many messages that many of us got growing up: messages about keeping quiet, about just moving our mouths during chorus, about not spoiling the sound for the “real singers.” And I talk about the ways in which those messages, those lies, silenced us and made us lose our voices. For me, singing, and providing opportunities for everyone to sing, is a powerful way of modeling the process of reclaiming voice, of creating a space in which all voices count, all voices are welcomed, and all voices are acceptable. I am able to use singing as a metaphor as well as singing as a way of building community and inclusion. We need all people to be part of the change process. No one is expendable. Everyone is important.

The songs that I lead are about inclusion as well. My husband, Mayer Shevin, and I wrote new words to “Home on the Range,” entitled “Oh, Give Me a School.”

Oh, Give Me a School
(To the tune of “Home on the Range”)

Oh, give me a class
Where each student can pass
And we all help each other to learn.
We work and we play
And we stay friends all day
’Cause we know that we’ll all have a turn

Home, this feels like home
It’s a vision of what school can be.
People caring and fair
Always willing to share
And we’re starting right here, you and me

Oh, give me a school
Where to share is the rule
And no teacher must feel all alone.
Where seldom is heard
A comparative word
And where your success adds to my own

Home, this feels like home
It’s a vision of what school can be.
People caring and fair
Always willing to share
And we’re starting right here, you and me

Oh, give me the earth
Where each person has worth
And all of us know we belong.
We can work as a team
But it starts with a dream
And that’s why we’re singing this song

Home, this feels like home
It’s a vision of what life can be
People caring and fair
Always willing to share
And we’re starting right here, you and me

Although the song is “corny,” it allows people to sing about, to voice, a vision of classrooms and schools organized differently. I am able to present, through song, a vision that might be difficult for people to hear through words alone. I often share Bob Blue’s powerful song “Courage” with groups. No other song that I know makes as poignantly clear the relationship between the exclusion we learn in schools and our subsequent propensity for viewing others as “surplus population,” outside our domain of care or responsibility. Because the message comes through a song, people are able to relate to it far better than if I were to stand in front of them and drone, “There are important connections between what we teach in school and the kind of world we create.” The song says it far more eloquently.

And I have also used song to help people to develop repertoires of advocacy, ways of responding to critics and cynics. After Pete Seeger’s inspirational rendition of “Dear Liza, Dear Willy” at a CMN gathering, I wrote new words to the song, and have had a wonderful time leading large groups of people in singing it:

A New Dear Liza, Dear Willy Song

There’s a child in our district, dear Liza, dear Liza,
There’s a child in our district, dear Liza, a child

Well, include him, dear Willy, dear Willy, dear Willy
Well, include him, dear Willy, dear Willy, include him

Well, how shall we do it, dear Liza, dear Liza
Well, how shall we do it, dear Liza, then how?

In a classroom, dear Willy, dear Willy, dear Willy
In a classroom, dear Willy, dear Willy, in a classroom

But with what kind of children, dear Liza, dear Liza
But with what kind of children, dear Liza, what kind?

Well, all kinds of children, dear Willy, dear Willy
Well, all kinds of children, dear Willy, all kinds

But what shall we tell them, dear Liza, dear Liza
Well, what shall we tell them, dear Liza, then what?

That children need children, dear Willy, dear Willy
That children need children, dear Willy, children

But what is your hurry, dear Liza, dear Liza,
But what is your hurry, dear Liza, but what?

Cause there’s a child in our district, dear Willy, dear Willy
Cause there’s a child in our district, dear Willy, a child

When people sing these words, they begin to own them, begin to feel more comfortable saying out loud the kinds of things they may believe but have trouble articulating. Singing is a way of giving voice to our deepest beliefs and passions, of putting not just into words, but into music, messages that need to be shared.

After I participated as an expert witness in a legal case related to the exclusion of a young boy with mental retardation, Mayer and I wrote the following song, which, I am told, has been sung by parent groups throughout the US and Canada:

The Full Inclusion Battle Song
(To the tune of “Union Maid”)

Chorus:
Oh, you can’t scare us, we’re fighting for inclusion
We’re winning and you’re losin’
It’s our future that we’re choosin’
Oh, you can’t scare us, we’re fighting for inclusion
We’re fighting for inclusion and we all know why

There once was boy named Mike
An easy kid to like
He went to the school just down the block
Where the kids didn’t care how he walked or talked.
But then the district said
“This kid needs Special Ed”
You could hear the sound from miles around
When his mom reared back and said

Chorus

The screening team got mad
At the weird ideas Mom had
“We don’t see why these parents mind
This kid belongs with his own kind.
The special school is great
He’ll learn to bowl and skate”
But the more they tried to change her mind
The more Mom got irate

Chorus

The head of Special Ed
Pulled out his file and said
“Just look at these IQ statistics
These parents must be realistic.
Our job is to protect
This child from gross neglect”
But the parents held their ground and said
“We mean no disrespect, but…”

Chorus

But back at Michael’s school
The kids could not be fooled
They said, “We want our classmate back”
They gave the teachers lots of flak
“We know that Mike is slow
But he shouldn’t have to go”
The teachers said “But you’re just kids”
The kids all said, “We know, but…”

Chorus

When the hearing it came ’round
The family stood their ground
They brought the folks from SAFE and PEAK
And fourteen kids from down the street.
The judge said, “I can see
And I’m sure you’ll all agree
I have no doubt where Mike belongs”
Then he joined in with this song

Chorus

By combining songs that are about inclusion and acceptance with a format that encourages all people to sing, I am able to model what I preach: everyone’s voice is necessary for us to move the world forward. We don’t leave anyone out. We don’t leave people behind. If people are scared or lack skills, we figure out how to teach them and support them. The message is simple: All means all. And, to paraphrase Dolly Parton, “What part of ALL don’t you understand?”

Originally published in Issue #16, Fall 1995.