Coming from someone who went from L.D. to Ph.D., the challenge is sometimes the opportunity. You just have to recognize it.
Written by Jennifer Buss, Ph.D., Professor of Practice, Special Education Department, Lewis University, IL, [email protected]
Early Struggles and the Question of Belonging
From an early age, we ask our children what they want to be when they grow up. Some of these answers may range from being a princess, doctor, teacher, scientist, or firefighter. This simple question influences our lives and causes us to model the types of people we look up to. From this question, I was asked to look at myself and answer not only what I wanted to be, but more importantly who I wanted to be. I wanted to be someone who made a difference, a person that had a purpose and, in turn, gave others a purpose as well. I wanted to be a teacher—a teacher who looked at each student with promise and potential, a teacher who defied all odds to become the confident woman that many know today as Dr. Buss.
My school experience began at a small, local Catholic school. In second grade, it became obvious that I was not learning the material in the areas of reading, writing, or math, like my peers. I remember being in the classroom completely confused about words that were being presented and displayed on the board or in front of me while looking at our books. I remember a conversation I had with myself, saying: How are my friends knowing what to say when the teachers call on them to read? How are they making sense of the letters to form these things called “words?” I remember thinking as well: Why can’t I read them? Why does this not make sense to me? Try harder. Look harder. But the answers always came back as silence when the teacher called on me. At this point in school, I would find other things to do in class—making up my own stories, looking at the pictures in the book, turning each page, and investigating the pictures to create my own characters. This entertained me and was the only way I knew how to attack the reading.
I recall loving and paying such close attention when the teacher would read to us. I loved when her voice would change, and she acted like each of the characters in the book. I would look straight at her while she read, never following along in my book. I remember getting in trouble for this action, but at those moments I wanted to know the real story; I wanted to hear the words I was unable to read. In these moments, I felt a part of the class and not lost and wished that we did reading this way every day.
I also remember working one-on-one with the teacher during guided reading group. I vividly remember that my words were different from the groups’ words. The teacher and I were working on two- or three-letter words. When the teacher was working with the other groups, I would be able to hear them, and I knew at that point that I was different because my activities included basic and small words, while the other groups were reading fast, learning bigger words, and spelling them. In my group, I hesitated to make each sound and never really read any of the books or pages by myself; I also couldn’t fake my story. My teacher would not let me just tell a story based on the pictures. The teacher constantly reminded me to look at the words listed at the bottom of the page, not to simply use visual details.
At this young age, it was difficult to manage the frustrations of not being able to do what seemed so easy for everyone else. I felt helpless. I would lash out by yelling and ripping my assignments to shreds. I was overwhelmed. I was frustrated. I wanted to learn it differently. I wanted more one-on-one instruction, so I asked to have materials read aloud to me. And I asked for words to be spelled to me. My teachers, in a class of 30, became increasingly annoyed with my constant asking for help when they had so many other students who learned without any additional supports. I continued to fall behind, and this caused my teachers to become concerned about how I would comprehend the material. Eventually, my parents were asked to come in to speak with my teacher—who had no solutions for helping me make more progress within the classroom. Instead, my teacher informed my parents that I would have to seek an education elsewhere.
Diagnosis, Rejection, and Learning to Adapt
I was diagnosed with a learning disability within the areas of reading, writing, and mathematics, and the Catholic school I attended didn’t have the resources or services to support my learning needs. I was asked to leave and attend the local public school where they had support services for students with specific learning disabilities. At the time, I really didn’t understand the impact of those words until I realized one thing: I was unwanted by the school. I didn’t belong. Rejection. Rejection is hard enough to encounter as an adult; as a child, it’s even harder to bear.
From then on, I decided to take school day by day, and because of this I was exposed to a variety of different teaching styles and strategies. Some of these strategies included small group instruction, pre-teaching, books on tape, readers for tests and quizzes, dictation of written work, extended time, and copies of guided notes. I would use most of these strategies throughout my educational journey. At the time, I didn’t realize how effective these were for my learning; the strategies were truly gifts that afforded me academic success, one step at time.
One particular example comes to mind when I was learning how to spell in fourth grade. I remember one of my teachers saying, “Jenny, I am not going to spell this word out for you. You need to use the dictionary and look it up yourself.” Well, to any other child that would seem like an obvious solution, but I did not learn like the other children. To me, the dictionary was the complete opposite of a tool. It felt like the words got lost in the woods, and I had to try to help them out without a flashlight or a map. Despite the fact that I was not a skilled word scout, I did master the ability to memorize the physical descriptions of the dictionary. I can vividly recall how that 1,000-page red book felt and how it smelled when I ruffled through the pages. Anything beyond explaining the physical appearance of the book involved serious effort and time. When given a word to find, I was only able to identify the first letter of the word I was trying to spell. The rest was like a foreign concept to me. The extensiveness of the English vernacular is remarkable—the number of words listed within the “D” section alone was close to 10,000. My identification of only the first letter in the word would not be enough to identify the rest of the spelling. As a result, I was forced to come up with alternative ways to learn how to spell and write out words. I began to select words that I knew how to spell already or to locate the smaller words that were within a bigger word. Most of these tricks need to be developed because I was never able to learn phonics. So instead, I did what I was learning to do—the next best thing—adapt.
Finding Support, Strategies, and a New Path Forward
Since every teacher had different teaching styles and organizations in their classrooms, I would have to adapt to what type of teacher they were. First, which was most important to me, I had to determine their willingness to adust to different styles of teaching: Would they offer a copy of the notes? Would they provide visuals? Would they repeat directions? Would they offer step-by-step directions? I felt with each teacher I had to adapt to their ways of teaching and ask for these strategies when they were not provided. This caused me to find my voice. My attention to these details supported my success as I continued on my educational journey.
By the time junior high rolled around, I began to finally accept my unique learning situation and celebrated my own successes, however small they may have been. I began to set certain goals for myself that were realistic and attainable for my specific academic abilities. While many kids expected A’s on their assignments, I strove for C’s. I acknowledged what I excelled at and continued to work on the areas I struggled with. Some of these accomplishments were harder to congratulate myself on when my struggles seemed to overshadow them. For example, I can recall the year I took the ACT. As a high school student at the time, I was eligible to take the exam. While some of my classmates celebrated their scores, I was left stunned and utterly embarrassed as I found out I received the same score as an astronaut monkey: 13. I was transported back to the emotions and pain I felt after being moved to another school because I was “unteachable” as a small child. I always tried to move past defining myself as unwanted, but now I was also stuck seeing myself as a number—a number that forced my counselors to encourage me to work at the mall instead of pursuing a career in education, a number that not only discouraged me but remarkably pushed me to further define myself instead of letting outside factors define me. I realized that I needed to take another path in order to continue my education.
This new path included my attending a junior college instead of immediately throwing myself into a four-year university. As I started at the junior college, I had to take some remedial classes even before the 100-level courses. Whereas some students would have been offended by the suggestion of taking these classes, I took it as an opportunity to truly learn and prepare for the challenging classes ahead. I accomplished this one assignment at a time, one class at a time, and one success at a time. I also reminded myself that I needed to set the same type of realistic goals for myself that I had previously set in high school. As I moved through my classes, I saw progress. I saw and began to understand what it was like to be a learner, actually learning the material. For the first time, I read my own chapter book that was required in the English class. I wrote my first essay using dictation. I re-read material and was able to write summaries about what I read, and I was using larger vocabulary in my conversations and writing. I was able to sit in an entire class and not be overwhelmed or frustrated. I actually participated in class verbally and with written work. And I was able to engage in small group instruction. I was learning and keeping up with my peers.
While at Joliet Junior College, I decided that I wanted to be a teacher. I wanted to be there for the learners who have a similar academic struggle, and teach them the strategies, show them understanding, and inspire them. For this reason, I went on to attend Illinois State University to major in special education. The classes were so informative, as if they were about my own educational journey. I thoroughly enjoyed learning about why I learn the way I do and other ways to incorporate inclusive practices into the classroom. I became excited, obsessed even, to learn about how teachers can allow all students to be an integral part of classroom learning. Learning about these concepts and strategies reminded me of the hours I would spend on homework. But when I looked back on these many moments, I realized that applying these practices and strategies actually paid off in a positive way in my life. And I realized, too, that I had something that some of the professors couldn’t explain from their research. I had something that couldn’t be taught. I lived it, and I could connect with the learners more than my peers could. For the first time in my educational career, I had an advantage. I was getting A’s in my classes and finally being recognized for my hard work.
After I graduated with my bachelor’s degree, I worked for five years as an inclusion specialist in junior high in the K-12 school system. I then transferred to a high school multi-needs position where I stayed for 10 years, creating and developing programs and curriculum in the areas of reading and mathematics. While at the high school, I finished my Master’s in Educational Leadership, thinking that one day I might want to run a school. As life proceeded, I had five children, became part-time at the high school, and taught as an adjunct faculty member at a local college where I was teaching future teachers in a class called “The Exceptional Learner.” While I thoroughly enjoyed teaching at the high school and never really saw myself teaching in higher education, I instantly fell in love with teaching future teachers. I loved the class. I loved the students. I loved the thought of impacting the future of many students to come. As life happened, another opportunity presented itself: I was asked to work full-time at Lewis University, and so I left my high school position.
After taking the position at Lewis University, in order to remain as a full-time employee, I was informed that I would need to get a Ph.D. At this time, I also had five children ranging from five months to seven years. How was I to work full time, be a wife, and raise five children, and embark on the highest degree you can earn in a subject area? Well, that journey again began—now at the University of Illinois-Chicago—with one class at a time. I never really considered how long it would take me to complete the entire degree. Instead, I thought about how much I could take away from each of the courses. I believe this mindset helped me to be grounded and realistic. I can vividly remember people stopping to ask me what I was always working on as I took advantage of the small windows of time presented between my children’s plethora of activities.
During these hectic moments, I had time to reflect upon my own values. I strongly believe that there is a plan for each and every one of us. God has laid out this plan from the very beginning, fully aware of what we can do, will do, and how we will do it. I continued to put my trust and faith in God all throughout this journey. I have always taken the path less traveled, not to be an awe-inspiring trailblazer, but because this is the path that works for me, the same plan that God always knew was right for me.
For the five years during my doctoral program, my day would begin with studying from 4:30 to about 6:30 AM. I would go for a run, wake up the kids, and get them ready for their day.
The oldest four of my five would go to school all day, five days a week, while my youngest would go for only half days. I would take advantage of every free moment by sneaking in some extra study time while naps were going on or the kids were at their activities. I would work full days on Tuesdays and Thursdays, even teaching in the evening. On Wednesdays I would work all day and take my doctoral classes in the evening. After class, I would stay in Chicago until the library closed, and then I would head home. Saturdays and Sundays would be days of heading back to the city, meeting with my tutors, and sometimes even meeting my instructors to finish studying or working on my projects.
I had many positive experiences in my graduate courses, especially the teachers that went above and beyond teaching me—pre-teaching me material, reviewing concepts in different ways, providing copies of notes or additional problems to do so I would understand the material. I even had professors who would meet me on Saturdays and Sundays to review drafts of chapters and writing samples. They would also provide me with additional material to read to grasp certain concepts further. Most importantly, they treated me with respect and were as enthusiastic to teach me as I was to learn. They looked at me more as a person who was eager to learn more about the field, not as a disabled person. I experienced a truly open door policy, a policy that not only benefitted me greatly but made me realize what education was supposed to be.
But there were instances when I was questioned because of my accommodations. I recall a special education professor asking me, “What do you mean you need extra time on the test, a copy of the notes, and extra office hour time?” She taught about students with disabilities, but she had never actually had a student at this level who exemplified the characteristics about which she taught. She was utterly taken back about how I was able to be in a doctoral program with a learning disability. This was disheartening. I remember thinking, How can someone talk about something that they’re considered an expert on when they’re not practicing it in their own setting? To her question, I responded, “I am that kid you are going to accommodate in your class. I am that kid you teach us about. Now it’s your turn to practice what you preach.” As I walked out of class that day, I was determined to challenge her beliefs and show her what I was capable of. My determination paid off, as I received the highest grade in the class for that semester. Along with my outstanding grade, I also ended up receiving a personal apology from my professor. These doubts from my professors inspired me to look deeper into higher education faculty members’ perceptions of disabilities. These concerns drove me to find ways to prove them wrong within my own dissertation. These doubts allowed me to become the teacher I always dreamed I could be.
From Student to Teacher to “Dr. Buss”
On the day I defended my dissertation, my emotions were high, and my level of anxiety was nearly out of control. I gave the children a kiss as they got on the bus, and said, “Today is the day mommy will become Dr. Buss.” Later, as I walked into the room to defend my dissertation, I thanked God again for this amazing journey and the opportunity to learn and to further my education. After almost two hours of defending my dissertation, through the many questions from the committee and the audience, I walked out of the room for them to deliberate. I hugged my husband and fell into his arms, exhausted. I recall saying over and over again, “I gave it everything. I did the best I could. Please, let this be done.” The door opened, and my committee chair looked right at me, and said, “Congratulations, Dr. Buss.” My heart swelled up into my throat, and for the first time in a very long time, I had nothing to say. I began to cry. Hugs were exchanged and applause could be heard while I entered the room again to sign the papers. After our short celebration inside, my husband and I went to Starbucks to get some food and to reward myself with my favorite Starbucks order. I ordered my usual, and when the barista asked me for a name, I looked right at him with the biggest smile on my face as I responded, “Dr. Buss!”
So, what did I actually end up doing? Well, I have been teaching for 25 years in special education. Nearly half of my career was spent in the K-12 system, and the last 15 years in higher education teaching future teachers. I earned my Master’s in Educational Leadership from Aurora University and my bachelor’s degree from Illinois State University in special education. I earned my Ph.D. from the University of Illinois-Chicago in special education focusing on the success of students with learning disabilities in higher education and programing design for all students in inclusive settings.
The words Dr. Buss mean so much more to me than just knowing a lot about special education. It means that anything is possible if we follow the path God has planned for us, no matter the difficulty. Coming from someone who went from L.D. to Ph.D., the challenge is sometimes the opportunity. You just have to recognize it.
Buss, J. (2022) Journeys to Purpose, The Discover Stories Project. Chapter: The Challenge is Sometimes the Opportunity, Lewis University Romeoville, Illinois.
