What started this morning as my usual weekly trip to the bank, and coffee with lee, turned out to be a day of discovery and revelation – day which, in a way, stopped my in my tracks and made me question my beliefs. A day on which deamons have been put to rest. I think this will be a long one.

Before we start, let me assure you I am still working on my masters. It’s just today other stuff took priority.

I don’t know much about muscular dystrophy. All I know is that your muscles waste away, and people with it die early. It’s a bastard, and I have lost two good friends to it. Two of my other friends, donno and phiil, have it. I lost contact with these two about five or six years ago – possibly more – and this morning me and Mayer got talking about them. Turns out he had not seen either of them in ages; they hadn’t been at Rich’s funeral.

I began to worry. A dread came upon me: could it be that they, too, had…I needed to know. I needed to find out. Now! When I had taken my leave of Mayer, I got on a bus to winsford. When I spoke to them last, they were both working at a place called the neuro-muscular centre, winsford. I reasoned that, if my friends weren’t still there, the staff at the NMC would know what became of them – where they were working now, or if they had passed away. I am acutely aware that time is moving on and running out.

I was dropped off on the high street in winsford. Although I had been driven up and down that road every weekday during term time for 13 years, it took a while for me to get my bearings. When I did, I crossed the road and headed for woodford lane, west, home of both the NMC and, of course, my old school.

I must admit I was scared. I didn’t know what I’d find; frankly, I found it likely that I would be sitting here tonight bashing my keyboard reporting that they were both dead. That entry will come eventually…but not tonight.

I met a nice fellow called Matthew. He asked if he could help, so I explained my quest, expecting the worst. He, smiled: ”they work here Tuesdays and Fridays.” He said, making it quite clear that I’d be welcome to visit tomorrow if I wanted. I think I’ll accept his offer. I also met a physio who used to work at school but now works at the NMC; we chatted, and I told her what I’d been doing these last seven years. It was good to see her. However, when it was time to leave, I asked her whether I should pop into school or not, and was quite surprised to hear her say that she didn’t see why not.

I couldn’t resist, in more ways than one. this was the place where I grew up, after all, and, all politics all the negative stuff aside, I still have great affection for the place – whether I or you like it or not. The staff there are good people who mean well.

I was greeted with surprise, but also warmth. I had made my views on inclusion known to them, and I could sense a kind of hesitancy from certain people – even a coldness. I have been extremely critical of special schools in the past, and believe in inclusion, and yet these people are not bad people. they want what is best for disabled children, and I think they might have a point. As Mrs. Whitaker said, inclusion is not black and white. Simply to dump a disabled kid into a mainstream school, unaided, often does more harm than good. There’s also something to be said for the resources special schools offer in terms of access to equipment and expertise. Hebden’s ”access team”, which equips kids with communication aids, is perhaps one of the best in the country – it could only work effectively at a special school, and I have reason to believe that it has saved lives. Kirsty dallow, I was told this afternoon, is now living independently with her own team of Pas, thanks to the work done at Hebden.

There was a time when I thought of school as an evil place. Where else, I reasoned, could a kid have three classmates die during his time there, and another after leaving? If they were included, I reasoned, then the pain would have been spread more thinly. Yet Hebden is not the cause of their deaths; it is not evil. I no longer believe, moreover, that a special school’s aim is to overtly or covertly repress disabled children, but to supply a stable environment where they might be educated. Disabled people are not hated; we are not being ‘kept down’ as the bourgeoisie once kept the proletariat down. I still believe that, in terms of equality, inclusion would be best for all; but I no longer believe it is that simple – it is not black and white.

I’m starting to worry that the disability community might be charging headlong into inclusion, without taking stock. Our former teachers are not our former repressors. For all my rhetoric over the years, I am still very fond of my old teachers. They have some knowledge, some expertise, and I think their views are valid, even for the time being necessary, until the best solution can be found for all kids. Today stopped me in my tracks, and made me think. are we going too fast? are we doing what is best for all kids, or are we simply settling our own grudges? We must be sure – absolutely sure – that we are doing the right thing. We all need days like these.