From Rolling Chaos to Systemic Change: A Special Education Odyssey
Even before I inserted the key into the ignition, a familiar knot of dread tightened in my stomach. The van stood before me in the harsh Los Angeles morning sunlight—battered, scarred, and reeking of stale urine, sweat, and something more intangible: years of accumulated desperation. Torn seats and graffiti-covered walls bore witness to countless journeys. Someone had carved "FUCK THIS PLACE" into the plastic behind my seat, a sentiment I confronted daily as I wondered if today would be the day I finally agreed.
A Dangerous Daily Commute
My route involved transporting ten students, mostly boys aged 10 to 18, who had been placed at a nonpublic school after their home districts exhausted all other options. These children came from group homes and foster care, rejected by traditional educational institutions. For supposed "safety," a behaviorist accompanied me—a precaution because students had previously attempted to jump from moving vehicles.
The aide who climbed into the passenger seat was already engrossed in his phone, earbuds firmly in place, mentally checked out before we even left the parking lot. "No phones during transport," I stated firmly, keeping my voice level. "We need all eyes on the kids." He glanced up with barely concealed irritation before returning to his screen.
I was still completing my special-education credential on a preliminary permit when I accepted this position. My graduate program, attended nights while my son did homework beside me, covered educational theories and strategies but offered nothing about surviving chaos within a rolling metal box. Yet here I was, essentially operating without a manual.
Moments of Crisis and Connection
The van lurched forward, and immediately Diego began pounding—not tapping, but full-force hammering with both fists that made the entire vehicle shudder. "I want out! Let me out! I WANT OUT!" he screamed, switching to kicking the window with his shoe. "Do something!" I pleaded with the behaviorist. "The window's going to shatter!" The calm response: "Safety glass. It'll hold." I wasn't convinced, imagining an explosion of glass and blood while trying to control a van full of passengers on a busy street.
On another morning, Marcus lunged for the emergency exit as we rolled through traffic. The red handle jerked upward in my rearview mirror, sending ice through my veins. "Marcus, NO!" I shouted, picturing his small body on asphalt with cars speeding past. Swerving onto the shoulder amid screaming horns, my hands shook violently. The behaviorist remained seated, stating he couldn't use physical restraint without authorization. "He could be killed!" I screamed. Finally, reluctantly, the aide unbuckled and shuffled toward the back.
Marcus gripped the handle, face twisted with desperation. "I wanna walk! Twenty miles, I don't care! I hate this van! I hate everything!" In that moment, I recognized something in his expression—a child on the absolute edge, ready to throw himself into traffic rather than remain trapped. "I know you hate it," I said quietly. "I hate it, too. But we're getting through this together." Something in my tone reached him. His grip loosened.
The Personal Cost and Professional Reality
What sustained me through these darkest moments was stubborn Midwest grit and desperate financial need. As a single mother barely holding onto the home I'd fought to purchase—money tight, refrigerator often empty—walking away wasn't an option. My father's lessons echoed: Get a job, rely on yourself, be tough. Those deeply embedded threads of self-reliance became my lifeline when everything inside screamed to quit.
Most mornings required a brutal pep talk just to leave the house. Friday nights, I'd call my sister, who taught at a private Midwestern school. "I can't do this anymore," I whispered from my dark kitchen. "I'm losing my mind." Her response: "Then quit." But it wasn't that simple. Deep down, I began sensing that these students and I were kindred spirits—both hanging on desperately, trying to find our way.
Behaviorists saw them as problems to manage. The district saw numbers on spreadsheets. I saw children being failed by every system meant to protect them. No one warns prospective teachers that most new special-education educators don't survive five years—a statistic that doesn't appear on glossy program brochures with hefty tuition tags. The chasm between training and reality wasn't just frustrating; it was dangerous, leaving me scrambling daily to construct systems I'd never learned.
Inside the School Fortress
By the time I pulled up to our destination each morning, my hands shook against the steering wheel. The school sat like a fortress at the top of weathered steps: a pink stucco annex attached to a church. Inside that makeshift building were five cramped classrooms lining dim corridors. Scarred desks bore years of carved graffiti. And something no one mentioned during interviews: containment rooms tucked behind classroom closets—bare spaces barely larger than closets themselves, with single flickering bulbs and burly behaviorists stationed outside while students inside screamed, kicked, and banged.
The sounds were maddening: raw desperation mixed with fear. The smell—sharp, unmistakable urine when a child finally lost control. I realized quickly this wasn't about education. It was about containment and management. The van had merely been the beginning.
Systemic Dysfunction and Personal Advocacy
I stayed twenty years. I worked my way from that battered van to becoming a SELPA (Special Education Local Plan Area) director, overseeing services for thousands of students. Attending monthly meetings with sixty-plus California SELPA directors—every district in the state represented in one room—I witnessed something alarming.
This wasn't isolated dysfunction. It was a playbook. Districts manufactured budget crises while paying consultants $285 per hour. Students' success became justification to cut their services. Compliance violations were so routine they only mattered when someone documented them. Administrators who spoke up faced "restructuring."
I documented everything. Published editorials. Presented evidence to board members. When I refused to stay silent, the retaliation took a toll on my health that I'm still recovering from today. But I remain here, committed to writing about what I witnessed behind that classroom door—what special-education teachers truly endure and accomplish against tremendous odds.
Sally Iverson served over two decades in California's special-education system, progressing from classroom teacher to SELPA director. She is the author of "THE UNLIKELY TEACHER: Down the Rabbit Hole of Special Education" (She Writes Press, April 2027). This essay has been adapted from that forthcoming book.
