• The concept of LRE was established in 1969—before the emergence of disability rights frameworks grounded in neurodiversity and long before widespread internet access reshaped how we interact and learn.

• At its core is the belief that people with disabilities should lead lives “as close as possible to the norms and patterns of mainstream society.” But this raises a key question: Are these norms desirable to all?

• This assumption implies that disabled individuals should want what non-disabled society values—like making small talk over lunch, cheering at football games, attending noisy social gatherings (e.g., birthday parties, prom), playing team sports, or mastering knowledge someone else has decided is important, often out of context and unrelated to personal interests. 

• Perhaps questioning these assumptions (as suggested by Friend (2021)) will help educators come up with a problem statement that’s more equitable such as – how to provide every child with access to the knowledge and skills they wish to acquire and opportunity to socialize with the people in their community in ways they find enjoyable/useful. 

While this may sound like a reasonable solution to the question of how to “include” students with disabilities, Friend (2021) recommends that teams first enumerate all possible solutions before settling on one.

Will alternative solutions even be considered—such as a fundamental rethinking of what access to knowledge, discourse, and community could look like in education?

Can we imagine a model of learning that goes beyond measuring a child’s progress through a curated academic and social “curriculum,” and instead honors how they naturally engage with the world?

Yell et al. (2020) explain that in Daniel R.R. v. State Board of Education (1989), a six-year-old child was deemed not to benefit from inclusion in a prekindergarten classroom because he wouldn’t “participate” or “master the skills he was taught.”

Friend (2021) encourages asking “why” repeatedly—not just to get to the root of a problem, but also to question whether something framed as a “problem” even warrants solving.

So, I ask: Why must a six-year-old perform to earn access to peers and knowledge?
Why is access to community and learning withheld until a child conforms to adult expectations?

ChatGPT, as a teacher, does not demand performance before sharing knowledge.
Couldn’t truly “free” public education—unconditional, curiosity-driven, and inclusive—be one of the solutions on the table?

However, Friend (2021) notes that collaborative problem-solving is only effective when all participants bring comparable levels of knowledge to the discussion. This raises critical questions: Are parents of children with disabilities expected to understand curriculum standards, placement options, and instructional methodologies—at a level not expected of parents of nondisabled children? If so, what kind of "input" is truly being invited? And if not, how are they supposed to meaningfully contribute to designing an individualized education plan that reflects their child’s needs, rather than one shaped primarily by school personnel?

Friend, M. (2021). Interactions: Collaboration skills for school professionals. Pearson.

Yell, Katsiyannis, A., Ennis, R. P., Losinski, M., & Bateman, D. (2020). Making Legally Sound Placement Decisions. Teaching Exceptional Children, 52(5), 291–303.

But what does “success” mean in this context?
It is typically measured against grade-level benchmarks—not goals based on a student’s unique interests, preferences, or strengths.

So, when a student doesn’t “respond to intervention” at a given tier, what are we really measuring?
Is it the student’s deficit—or the system’s failure to be inclusive?

Does education become truly individualized and inclusive at any tier of MTSS—or even beyond, in special education?