Behind the Classroom Door: Who's Really Educating Your Child

 

Parents are often told that inclusion is happening. That support is in place. That their child is part of the classroom. But what does that really look like?

Inclusion and integration are not the same. A child can be physically present in a classroom and still be excluded from meaningful learning. They might spend most of their day with a paraprofessional while the certified teacher focuses on other students. This isn’t real inclusion—it’s proximity without participation.

It’s time to ask some honest questions:
Who is with your child during the day?
What training or guidance have they received?
Are they actually teaching, or just supervising?

Because when it comes to inclusion, the details matter.

Inclusion should be more than a goal; it should be a structure. It should mean belonging, learning, and dignity. But too often, support in schools means assigning an Educational Assistant (EA) to a child and assuming the problem is solved.

Instead of redesigning classrooms to work for everyone, we place students with the most complex needs in the care of the least prepared, lowest-paid, and often unsupervised adults in the building. And we call that education.

This isn’t new. Researchers have raised concerns for decades. Despite good intentions, there’s little evidence that assigning paraprofessionals leads to better academic or social outcomes. In some cases, it does the opposite by creating learned dependence and even greater barriers to learning.

Across British Columbia, the role of EAs is inconsistently defined and varies widely from one district to another. Training requirements are not standardized, and in response to growing shortages, some districts have resorted to developing their own in-house programs, while others simply hire uncertified EAs. Many EAs are dedicated and skilled individuals, doing their best in a challenging system. But their commitment should not distract us from the deeper issue

Legally, EAs must work under the direction of certified teachers. But in reality, many are left on their own, particularly those in one-to-one roles. There’s little time for planning, collaboration, or feedback. What was supposed to be extra support becomes the primary support. And that’s not what inclusion is meant to be.

Let’s be honest, we would never accept a neurotypical student being taught all day by someone other than a certified teacher. Yet for disabled students, this has become the norm. Instead of learning, they’re being supervised. Instead of access, they’re getting containment. Meanwhile, overwhelmed teachers are stretched thin, trying to manage overcrowded classrooms without enough resources.

Everyone is struggling. Everyone is exhausted. And students with disabilities are paying the highest price.

This isn’t a critique of EAs. Many are passionate, dedicated, and caring. But no matter how committed they are, they shouldn’t be the ones carrying the full weight of student learning. EAs aren’t the problem. The way we use them is.

We’ve known this for years. The research is clear. The recommendations are there. But nothing changes. Why?

Because it’s the cheapest solution, and budgets matter more than people.

Real inclusion costs money. It means hiring more teachers, reducing class sizes, building co-teaching models, hiring more specialists, and making time for collaboration. It means creating a system where EAs are properly trained and valued, not expected to do the impossible without support.

But that kind of change doesn’t fit easily into existing budgets. So instead, we settle. We tell ourselves that something is better than nothing. We pretend proximity equals learning. And we continue to place our most vulnerable students with the least prepared adults in the room.

Inclusion isn’t about patching things together. It’s about building something better from the ground up. That starts by asking the right questions and being willing to rethink how we define support.

Because when a system normalizes second-tier education for students with disabilities, it sends a clear message:
You don’t matter as much.
You aren’t worth the investment.
You can make do.

That’s not inclusion. That’s exclusion—disguised as care.

We need to name it.
We need to challenge it.
And we need to change it.