The Irony of Full Inclusion: How a System Fails Its Most Vulnerable
The quotes “A system cannot fail those it was never meant to protect” and “And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them” resonate deeply with my experiences, both personally and professionally, as an autistic trans woman. These phrases capture the essence of marginalisation within systems designed to exclude. The first quote (often attributed to W.E.B. DuBois) speaks to a fundamental truth I encounter daily as I navigate a world that often disregards people like me—systems built without consideration for neurodivergent and trans individuals cannot fail us, because they were never intended to protect us in the first place. The second quote (often attributed to Jane Austen) reflects the emotional toll of this reality. As I move through my professional life, I frequently find myself unable to articulate the weight of exclusion, not only as a teacher but as a human being.
Working at a Magnet school that claims to practice ‘full inclusion,’ the irony is glaring. Whilst the official stance promotes inclusivity, in practice, it falls short for both students and staff. Today’s article, written after hours as I attempt to decompress from the daily feelings of trauma, reflects my personal views and in no way represents the official message of my employer. These are my thoughts, as I try to make sense of how a system that promises inclusion seems to perpetuate exclusion at nearly every level. The gap between ideals and reality is a constant source of frustration and emotional strain, and writing about it is one of the few ways I can process the challenges of my daily life.
The Myth of Full Inclusion
The idea of “full inclusion” is held up as a cornerstone of my school’s identity, with the Magnet label suggesting a commitment to equity and accessibility for all students. However, the reality often falls far short of this ideal. Full inclusion, in practice, should mean providing every student—whether a language learner, autistic, trans, or otherwise marginalised—with the support and accommodations they need to succeed in the classroom. Yet, I have seen how trans students, for example, are met with negative comments from both staff and students, creating an atmosphere where true inclusion feels more like a distant promise than a lived reality. Before I came out publicly as trans, I frequently overheard hurtful remarks about the few trans students we had. These comments deeply affected me and delayed my own decision to come out, as I weighed the potential impact on my relationships with colleagues and the broader school community. It was clear that the system was not prepared to embrace diversity in the way it claimed, and this understanding influenced the timing of my transition.
This disconnect between the school’s messaging and the lived experience of its students mirrors my own marginalization as an autistic trans woman and an RSP teacher. Despite my extensive background—having written nearly a thousand articles on autism, publishing a book (“No Place for Autism?”), completing a PhD dissertation on the attrition problem for autistic students in college, and earning the autism added authorisation on my credential—I often find myself treated as just another random adult on campus. My five decades of lived experience and deep professional expertise are frequently dismissed or overlooked when it comes to discussions on best practices and creating supportive learning environments (oh, btw, one of my masters degrees in in Instructional Design, and another one is in SPED). Colleagues, particularly those in single-subject roles, often default to outdated methods, ignoring input from those of us with the expertise to bring real change. The system claims to value my expertise and experience, but much like the students I serve, I am frequently left feeling unseen, unsupported, and excluded from the conversations that matter most. The gap between the school’s public commitment to inclusion and the reality on the ground serves as a constant reminder of the systemic barriers that persist, both for marginalised students and for educators like myself.
The Role of RSP Teachers: Unwelcome and Marginalised
As an RSP teacher, my role is often misunderstood or, worse, seen as an intrusion in the classrooms of single-subject credentialed teachers. Rather than being viewed as a collaborative partner, I am often treated like an outsider, someone disrupting the flow of the lesson rather than supporting the learning process. This sense of exclusion came to a head early on in my time here when an attempt at co-teaching resulted in an adult yelling at me for the first time since my college football days. I was simply trying to deliver IEP services to a student, only to be told by the teacher that the student didn’t need such support, just “a little nudge every now and then.” The experience left me reeling and reinforced how disconnected RSP teachers are from the larger professional community in a supposedly inclusive school.
This kind of exclusion is not limited to isolated incidents. I have been left out of meaningful professional collaboration and decision-making processes time and again. Despite the school’s supposed commitment to inclusion, the reality is that many of my colleagues stick rigidly to their pre-existing lesson plans, year after year, regardless of the needs of the students in their classrooms. It feels more like the mainstreaming practices I experienced in my youth—where students with disabilities were placed in general education classrooms, but no effort was made to adapt or adjust the teaching to meet their needs. Teachers teach their programme, and very few make changes to accommodate a new set of students or recognise the diverse range of learners in their rooms.
The irony is glaring. In a school that claims to value collaboration and inclusion, RSP teachers are marginalised in much the same way our students are. We are seen as interfering with the real work of teaching, rather than contributing to a more equitable and supportive learning environment. This professional exclusion mirrors the experience of the very students I serve, whose unique needs are often brushed aside in favour of standardised approaches that fail to meet them where they are. The system, in its attempt to promote inclusion, only reinforces the barriers that keep both students and educators on the outside.
Purity Culture and Identity: A Contradiction in “Inclusive” Spaces
The strict dress code and underlying purity culture on my campus serve as another painful contradiction in a school that claims to be inclusive. Rather than fostering an environment where all students feel comfortable, these rules seem to focus on regulating and policing bodies—particularly female bodies. The conversations around the dress code have been especially revealing. I’ve listened as colleagues made disgusting, degrading comments about students’ bodies in relation to the new guidelines, which seemed designed more to shame girls than to create a respectful learning environment. Hearing these comments, it became clear that the dress code isn’t about inclusion or respect, but about controlling appearances in a way that reinforces outdated, oppressive norms.
As a trans woman, this atmosphere has been particularly alienating. I’ve struggled with how my changing body fits into this space, constantly wondering if people are staring or, worse, glaring at me with the same judgmental eyes they cast on our students. The dress code, whilst officially about “modesty,” feels more like a tool to make people like me feel even more out of place. My body, as it shifts and transforms, already draws attention, and this space, which should support my identity, instead feels hostile. The outward claims of inclusion and respect are shallow, and the reality is that the rigid norms in place make it hard to feel truly safe or accepted.
What makes this worse is that before I came out as trans, I heard my colleagues speak terribly about our trans students. These comments were thoughtless at best and openly discriminatory at worst, and they shaped my understanding of just how little regard my colleagues have for diversity. It became clear that their views on inclusion were more about ticking boxes than embracing the reality of difference. Knowing what they thought of students who, like me, existed outside the norms, it wasn’t hard to imagine how they would react to me once I revealed my identity as a trans woman. This hostile environment made me question not just how my body was viewed, but how I was seen as a person, and whether this school could ever be a place where true inclusion existed for anyone who didn’t fit into their narrow standards of “normal.”
The Illusion of Professional Inclusion
In professional spaces like meetings and collaborations, the promise of full inclusion at my school often feels like an illusion. Despite the outward commitment to inclusivity, the reality is much different for those of us who don’t fit the dominant norms. The conversations are often framed around the idea of “all students,” but this blanket term rarely seems to include students with IEPs, neurodivergent learners, or trans students. The same applies to staff who don’t conform to the traditional, unspoken expectations of gender, identity, or neurotypicality. The language of inclusion is paraded around, but it rings hollow when decisions are made without meaningful input from those of us who could provide the necessary perspective.
In these spaces, I often feel invisible, my experiences and expertise overlooked in favour of maintaining the status quo. It’s difficult to articulate this sense of exclusion, which is why the second apocryphal quote—”And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them”—resonates so deeply. The disingenuous use of inclusion as a buzzword makes it nearly impossible to express the emotional toll this has taken. How can I articulate the deep frustration of being in a room where inclusion is discussed but never practiced, where I am physically present but professionally unseen? The system seems to celebrate diversity on paper, but in reality, it often marginalises the very people it claims to embrace.
Final thoughts …
My experiences as an autistic trans woman, both personally and professionally, have made it painfully clear that the promise of full inclusion is often an illusion. Despite the outward messaging of equity and support, there remains a significant gap between the ideal and the reality. Students with diverse needs, whether neurodivergent or trans, are not receiving the accommodations and understanding they deserve (link, link, and link), and staff who fall outside the traditional norms are left feeling excluded and invisible. The school’s claims of inclusion often mask a system that continues to marginalise those who need support the most.
If this article were to be read by my colleagues, I imagine the reaction would be overwhelmingly negative, as it’s rarely presumed that we, as educators, have lives and struggles beyond the walls of this campus. Yet this should not be taken as criticism for the sake of it, but as a cry for help—a call for us to finally become the inclusive institution we claim to be. Genuine inclusion means not just saying the right words but building an environment where every student and staff member feels truly seen and supported. It’s time for our school, and schools everywhere, to live up to the ideals they espouse, fostering a space where diversity is celebrated, not tolerated, and where inclusion is more than just a box to tick.