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 The following is an excerpt from the book Reaching and Teaching Neurodivergent Learners: Strategies for Embracing Uniquely Talented Problem Solvers, by Jodi Asbell-Clarke, Senior Scientist at TERC, published November 14, 2023 by Routledge Taylor & Francis Group. 

Ms Bradbury’s grade 8 science class was just settling in and getting ready for a lesson on heat and expansion. Ms Bradbury was at her desk taking attendance and completing a few other logistical needs while I stood in front of the class, holding up a copy of their science textbook that happened to have a colorful photograph of the Hot Air Balloon Fiesta in Albuquerque, New Mexico on its front cover. I was married in Albuquerque during the balloon fiesta so I was really excited about making the connection. 

I asked the class if anyone knew what made hot air balloons float. I looked around for a response. Most of the students just continued to stare down at their phones, and poke and flirt with one another as junior high schoolers are apt to do. No one took the bait. 

One student—I’ll call him Caleb—walked continuously around the perimeter of the class, pacing quietly while delicately running his fingers over every surface in his path. He dragged his hand over the window, the bookshelves and even my face as he walked right in front of me. As Caleb walked close to me, I realized he was mumbling under his breath. He was repeating a rhythmic chant to himself over and over as he circled the room. 

“The fire heats the gas. 

The particles spread apart. 

The gas expands. 

The balloon rises. 

The fire heats the gas. 

The particles spread apart. 

The gas expands. 

The balloon rises . . .” 

Which is, by the way, exactly how a hot air balloon works. 

Caleb danced his fingers along the wall, singing his little song to himself, while I tried to get his attention. I wanted to coax him into sharing his knowledge with the class. But once I called out his name, Caleb’s aide—a paraprofessional who felt it was her job to stop him from disrupting the class—ushered Caleb back to his seat, apologizing to me profusely and hushing him up while she pressed him on his shoulders, forcing him down into the chair. 

This confinement, of course, prompted the inevitable meltdown. As Ms Bradbury started the lesson on heat and expansion with the rest of the class, we all had to practically yell to be heard over Caleb’s ongoing outburst. The aide finally soothed him as she’d been instructed, with his favorite pen and notebook. He sat for the rest of the class quietly drawing buildings. He was completely disengaged from the conversation on heat and expansion. 

Ms Bradbury told me the story of Caleb wasn’t unique. She was aware that many of her students knew much more than her lessons could reveal. She knew many of their talents were masked, and even stifled, by the constraints of school. Some of her students couldn’t or wouldn’t write or speak, so she had no demonstration of their knowledge, at least in the way school outcomes were measured. Some of her students were so exhausted on a test day that they handed in blank sheets of paper void of the brilliance she’d seen the day before. Some were forced to sit in a chair, or take off their headphones, or sit next to their bully—distracting them and sometimes enraging them and possibly burying their talents in STEM problem solving. 

Caleb had an Individual Program Plan (IPP)—the Nova Scotian equivalent of what is called an Individual Education Program (IEP) in the US. Caleb had been diagnosed with autism. His IPP provided modified outcome goals that were adapted to his observed capabilities and restrictions. Unfortunately, his IPP did not call for rigorous, open-ended scientific explorations where Caleb could have excelled. Since that day I have asked nearly every educator I’ve met if they’ve ever seen the recommendation to engage a neurodivergent learner in a maker space, or in the music room, or the art studio as part of their IEP. To let them learn in an environment where they would excel. Not one teacher I’ve asked has ever said yes. 

My observation of Caleb’s experience, and many like him, was the catalyst for an ongoing discussion between Ms Bradbury and me. What if we let kids move around, express themselves as they chose, and encouraged them to become an expert in whatever interested them? What if we let every student’s brain work in the way it worked best? What would her classroom look like then? 

Children like Caleb have much to offer the world. They aren’t broken. Caleb clearly understood the science, perhaps better than many of his peers, but the requirement of sitting in a chair and behaving in an “appropriate classroom manner” excluded him in the lesson. That was a loss, not only for Caleb but for his fellow classmates who could have learned from him, and for those who will rely upon innovative STEM thinkers, like Caleb, in the future. In other words, for all of us. 

I hope these stories will begin to reveal the unique talents of neurodivergent learners in STEM. To understand more about neurodiversity and strategies to nurture STEM problem solving in inclusive classrooms, please read on and see the book.  

The next post in this series will delve into my interview with Dr. Sara Seager, an astrophysicist and MacArthur Genius awardee, who is also autistic.