Class Composition: Your Child Should be More Than a Letter on a List

 

June is a time of planning and preparation in schools. As educators look toward September, class placement conversations begin. Sometimes these happen around a staffroom table, across colour-coded sticky notes on chart paper in the gym, or on shared spreadsheets. But no matter the method, one thing remains consistent: there is always a system to code and categorize disabled students.

The first time I participated in one of these meetings, it felt efficient and even fair. It seemed like we were doing what was best for students. But in truth, we were making decisions that served the needs of staff, not children. We have been conditioned to believe that class composition is about balancing the load and spreading disabled students across classrooms to avoid placing "too many" in one space. This belief, that too many disabled students in a class is a burden, is deeply embedded into our education system.

In these meetings, children become letters or colours. They are marked with category codes, turned into sticky notes, or labeled in spreadsheets so they can be easily moved and sorted. Split grades are created not for pedagogical reasons, but to evenly distribute disabled students. A class list with multiple inclusive education codes is quietly labeled a “hard class” before the teacher has even met the students.

I have seen teachers barter and negotiate for students. I have seen autistic students separated from one another because someone believed that if they were in the same class, it would be too difficult to pull them out of their "autistic fantasy world," and they would not accomplish any real work. I have seen the assumptions, the avoidance, and the coded language used to justify exclusion before a single relationship has been built.

And the hardest truth? I participated in it. I accepted it. I didn’t question it.

We have been conditioned to believe that class composition limits are about fairness. That balancing out the "high needs" students is the only way teachers can survive. But this is not equity. This is systemic discrimination in practice, hidden behind spreadsheets and staffing formulas. It is a quiet sorting system that reinforces ableism while calling it planning.

Our union tells us this is about working conditions. But what happens when working conditions become a reason to marginalize disabled children? We have bargained for class composition like it is a neutral tool, but it is often used in ways that divide and exclude.

This is what systemic discrimination looks like:
When a child becomes a letter.
When a diagnosis becomes a burden.
When the presence of disabled students is something to be “spread out.”
When no one in the room stops to ask, "What does the child need?" or "What does inclusion look like here?"

We cannot stay silent.

We must question the systems we have accepted. We must name the harm, even when we have been complicit in it. Because students deserve better. They deserve to be known, seen, and welcomed for who they are, not reduced to a letter on a planning chart.

Class composition cannot be an excuse for discrimination.
And if we truly believe in inclusion, we have to start acting like it.