The Problem with "Special Needs" Prom

My daughter, who has Down syndrome, is headed to a special needs prom, and I find this deeply problematic.

As a freshman in high school, my daughter participates in a life skills program designed for students with intellectual and multiple disabilities. This program, located on a high school campus with about 2,500 other students, is a segregated space for students like her. It wasn't our first choice. After years of being fully included with her general education peers, the struggle for equal access and opportunities became too stressful, and we reluctantly opted for the life skills program.

While the program itself is excellent and offers a supportive environment, it exists within a system that inherently separates students with disabilities. My daughter now attends school with less stress and is part of a community that embraces her as she is. Her teacher views her as fully human, capable, and an asset to the class and school. Yet, she still longs to be a meaningful member of the broader school community.

The life skills program strives to integrate its students into the wider school environment. They collaborate with willing general education teachers, arrange activities with sports teams and athletes, and have a weekly club dedicated to fostering friendships between students in the life skills program and their non-disabled peers.

This club, which I'll call Friendship Club, is composed of non-disabled students who want to connect with the life skills students. They have weekly lunch hangouts, peer support at various school activities, and an end-of-year Friendship Club Prom. In theory, this promotes inclusion, friendship, and belonging.

These lunches and dances are necessary as they bridge the gap between young people without disabilities and those they might otherwise never encounter. Given our society's history of segregating disabled individuals, such opportunities can serve as a catalyst for a more inclusive world. However, I worry that the current setup might be causing more harm than good.

The issue lies in the foundation of programs like the Friendship Club. Disability history shows us the consistent, intentional mistreatment of disabled individuals, a mindset that lingers even as overt forms of discrimination have diminished. This ableist perspective—that disability is inferior and non-disabled people are superior—permeates our culture. Despite laws protecting the rights of disabled people, the narrative of "greater" versus "lesser" people persists.

When schools lack effective inclusive practices and segregate students with disabilities into separate programs, they inadvertently signal that these students are not truly part of the community. This mindset sets up the students in Friendship Club for failure in forming meaningful friendships. It's challenging to achieve mutual respect when one person is a volunteer and the other is seen as a project. Moreover, volunteers often receive praise, extra credit, volunteer hours, or accolades for their involvement, which can reinforce a savior complex.

Many students in Friendship Club genuinely want to help and have a heart for disability advocacy. I understand their intentions; I was that person in high school too. However, until we confront and dismantle ableism, our good intentions may perpetuate the problem, which is why "special needs" proms are problematic.

If students in the life skills program were seen as integral members of the school community, wouldn't they be expected to attend the regular prom? And if they need additional support, wouldn't members of Friendship Club be ideal for providing that support, facilitating true inclusion?

I know these opinions might be unpopular, but consider replacing disabled students with any other marginalized group—based on sexual orientation, religion, race, or gender. Would the story still sit well with you?

My daughter is not a service project for someone's college application.

She is not volunteer hours.

She is not a checklist item for a resume.

She is not just a friend at lunch on Tuesdays.

She is not your kindness project.

To reduce her to this is patronizing and exploitative.

My daughter is human. She is as human as you and me. Her need for support in spaces often designed without her in mind, or to make her fail, is profoundly human. Like all of us, she wants to be seen, known, and loved by genuine friends and to belong to a community. She yearns for friendship beyond Tuesday lunches. We can and must do better.