Disability and Classical Education
Seeing disability as a vocation can reframe our approach to classical education
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In modern classical education, there is a lingering shadow. Sometimes, it is an accusation by critics, sometimes it is the position of classical educators themselves. That shadow is the idea that classical education is really not fit for people with certain disabilities. If classical education is rigorous, and about the Great Books, is it only for “great minds?” That was certainly the case in the past, and everyone who teaches in a classical school has encountered this attitude (from without or within). But the reality of our schools, especially classical charters, is that students with a wide array of ability and disability will come through our doors, and we need to teach them too. In Disability and Classical Education, Dr. Amy Richards presents a model for how we should approach the question of disability in classical schools in a way that is both honoring to the disabled individual, and faithful to the vision of classical learning. This classical model of disability is defined by telic attention - an attention to the telos of the child, and understanding disability itself as a strange vocation which challenges our own notions of control.
Richards argues that disability is not a problem to be solved by a special department, but a reality that “demands that we attend to particularity.” Her book is a philosophical and practical reorientation, essential reading for any educator—even those in schools with no “seriously” disabled students. She begins by diagnosing the modern educational landscape, which is dominated by what she terms the “cult of normalcy.” She traces how, in the modern era, we swapped the ancient idea of a telos—the end towards which we are all oriented—for the statistical concept of the “average.” We cling to this “cult of normalcy,” Richards argues, as a “protective shield” against our own vulnerability, using it to maintain the delusion that we are “properly autonomous, self-sufficient beings.” This cult of normalcy is at the root of the two dominant models of disability today - the medical and the social. In the medical model, disability is a problem with the person that can be cured or mitigated with some sort of treatment. In the social model, disability is a problem with the environment that can be solved or mitigated with environmental changes like ramps and elevators. The two models together are more or less at play in our world in different places, but merge in modern disability law in schools. IDEA and ADA accommodations like extra time on tests and blank graphic organizers represent the social model, whereas specialized instruction like social skills classes or dyslexia instruction represent the medical model. In all cases, the default is to approach disabled students with an eye toward reducing or eliminating the impact of the disability. This is not to say that Richards would, or that we should, oppose these accommodations and modifications. Many of these actions are right and good, but need to come from the right understanding of disability if they are to truly serve the student.
To counter the problems inherent in the medical and social models, Richards introduces the vital concept of “strange vocation.” Drawing on St. Augustine’s City of God, she reframes disability from an “investigative mystery” or divine error into a distinct calling. She cites Augustine’s treatment of “monstrous births,” noting that God “knows how to weave the beauty of the whole out of the similarity and diversity of its parts.” In this light, a disability is not a deviation from the plan; it is part of the “Great Economy” of God’s providence. A “strange vocation” is a calling to a mode of being that stands out from the norm, yet through this strangeness, the person becomes a “blessing rather than a burden.” Her use of Wendell Berry’s concept of the Great Economy is also important, but we can define simply it as God’s great plan for humanity collectively and individually.
This reframing demands a shift in pedagogy. Richards contrasts the “industrial model” of education, which views students instrumentally as future workers, with what she calls “telic attention.” Telic attention is not merely a “nicer” way of looking at students; it is the only accurate way to view a human being. It is attention to the other as the kind of thing it is, which is defined by its telos. Such attention aligns perfectly with the ideas of Mortimer Adler, who famously argued that the best education is like cream—all students deserve it, though some may drink a pitcher and others only a sip. If Adler is right about the rich cream of the classical tradition, and if the Roman author Quintilian, who Richards quotes toward the end of the book, is right that reasoning is as natural as “flying to birds,” then the classical classroom must be a place where every bird is invited to fly, regardless of their altitude. This approach to disability requires educators to view every child with difference in mind - some are more like others, but each student in our classrooms demands telic attention, and deserves something just a little bit different from the child sitting next to her, diagnosed disability or not.
As wonderful and transformative as the book is, Disability and Classical Education is not without its limitations. There is a noticeable gap regarding the disabled experience itself. Richards speaks about the “strange vocation” with profound respect, but she does not explore in depth how disabled people themselves perceive this vocation or how they come to terms with their own suffering. While she acknowledges that feelings can be complicated for disabled people, the nondisabled reader will likely be wondering how often the “strange vocation” feels like a gift from the inside. This omission does not harm the work, precisely because the book is not written for the disabled, but for the teacher. Its primary goal is to reshape the pedagogy of the educator, not the psychology of the student.
Disability and Classical Education is an essential addition to our modern classical education revival because it forces us to confront the truth that we “cannot love an abstraction.” By welcoming the strange vocation of disability, we do not just help the disabled student; we save the soul of the school. Richards urges administrators to move from “sanitized medical records” to “unfolding biographies,” transforming the school from a factory of normal humans to a garden of diverse souls. For any educator weary of the cult of normalcy, or exhausted by endless 504 plans, IEP meetings, and accommodation trackers, this book is a necessary guide back to the human.
Luke Ayers is an administrator at a classical charter school in North Texas, where he lives with his wife and two daughters. A graduate of Trinity University in San Antonio where he majored in Economics and minored in Latin, he has taught both subjects. He is a recipient of the Intercollegiate Studies Institute’s Top 20 Under 30 alumni award for 2024, and is a lover of all aspects of the Western tradition. He is currently pursuing a graduate degree in Classical Education at the University of Dallas.