Before Walter even reached kindergarten, teachers were kicking him out of class. At home in Minneapolis, his life was turbulent: his father beat his mother and was in and out of jail, and when Walter was 5 his mother, Crystal Deramus, was left a paraplegic after a car crash. By kindergarten Walter was acting out — throwing tantrums, biting, running away from school — and a therapeutic day care recommended a locked, high-security school for him. He was sent to River Bend Education Center, a public school for students labeled EBD (emotional or behavioral disorders).
In Minnesota, EBD is the label used for students who need special education not because of learning or developmental disability but because they struggle with emotions or behaviors; at the federal level it’s called emotional disturbance. Unlike many other special education categories, EBD does not require a medical or psychological diagnosis. Its federal criteria are subjective and include items like “an inability to build or maintain satisfactory interpersonal relationships” and “a pervasive feeling of unhappiness.” Often, students labeled EBD are those teachers and administrators have deemed too disruptive to remain in regular classrooms.
Once assigned, the label is hard to shake. It often follows students through K–12, separating them from peers and limiting opportunities. Walter, now 19, spent most of his schooling in separate classrooms for EBD students. In high school he was in a classroom on Central Senior High School’s fourth floor taught by veteran special education teacher Jesse Kwakenat — Mr. K — who works with students who need special services more than half their school day. Kwakenat uses structure and trust-building — even tossing snack bags to get students started — and many of his students have known one another for years. But that cohesion can be double-edged: while they feel safe together, most of them don’t do well academically or behaviorally outside his room.
Supporters of separate classrooms say specially trained teachers can provide individualized instruction. Critics argue separate settings “other” students and stunt progress by isolating them from general education peers. Kwakenat says special education should focus on the “least restrictive environment” (LRE) and on helping students eventually exit special education — but in practice, many EBD students rarely exit. Federal data show students labeled EBD are more likely to be educated in separate schools and are disproportionately from low-income families of color.
Nationwide, more than 15% of students qualify for special education — about 8 million children — and roughly 4% of those (around 300,000 students) are labeled with emotional disturbance. Research from the National Council on Disability and the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights finds students with the EBD label are more likely to be incarcerated and less likely to be able to support themselves as adults.
Walter described how the label shaped his identity: “I was a bad kid.” Teachers and sociologists say children internalize such judgments; being told you’re bad becomes part of who you are. For Walter, early interventions included locked and padded rooms; by middle school, misbehavior often resulted in suspensions and sending him home. By the end of 11th grade he had earned just over half the credits needed to graduate because of frequent suspensions, usually for fighting.
Kwakenat and other educators argue much student behavior is a form of communication and that many EBD-labeled students have histories of trauma. School psychologists and teachers said the category often captures children reacting to adverse experiences — what some called “PTSD by another name.” Students raised in environments where they must protect themselves can be seen as acting out when they’re communicating fear or survival strategies.
Race and bias shape who receives which labels. Braden Schmitt, a school psychologist, and scholars like Rachel Fish and historian Keith Mayes point out that white students are often coded into categories like Other Health Impairment or autism, while Black and brown students are disproportionately identified as EBD. Fish notes some disabilities carry higher perceived legitimacy because they’re framed as medical or genetic; behavior-based labels are viewed differently and can be stigmatizing. Mayes argues that special education has, in effect, codified longstanding racial sorting by removing students of color from regular classrooms.
For students like Walter, separate placements can also reset the finish line. In his senior year, after a suspension for hurting another student in a fight, Kwakenat realized Walter couldn’t graduate on time with his cohort. The recommendation was Journeys Secondary School, a St. Paul public program for students labeled EBD that supports students until age 22. Journeys focuses on life skills rather than traditional credits; students follow a checklist demonstrating competencies like understanding credit cards, finding housing, and maintaining employment for 90 days.
Walter hesitated to leave Central, where he had friends and trusted teachers. But after family stressors — including his sister’s arrest — he decided to try Journeys. Attendance there is flexible; many students who start strong find jobs and let work take over, which happened to Walter. At Journeys he was harder to reach and less engaged in schoolwork, though he still wants to complete the checklist and earn his diploma.
When reporting Walter’s story, the writer expected him to graduate with Central’s class of 2025. He did walk the stage at the Central ceremony in June 2025, but he won’t receive his diploma until he completes Journeys’ requirements. He continues to visit Kwakenat’s classroom; his brother attends Central, and Walter works as a personal care attendant while living with his longtime girlfriend, a nursing student nearby. He credits Kwakenat with helping him toward a better path.
Beyond individual stories, systemic pressures complicate change. Since the COVID-19 pandemic, student attendance, achievement and mental health have worsened and the number qualifying for special education has risen. Children of color remain overrepresented in special education categories like EBD, and many states face shortages of special education teachers. Policy shifts proposing more state control over education risk exacerbating disparities, and federal cuts to education research have hindered development of best practices.
Advocates and educators emphasize that LRE in IDEA refers to educational focus, not merely physical placement: special education should prioritize teaching and support. Critics say the federal EBD definition is outdated and too subjective. Attempts at “mainstreaming” EBD students have had mixed results; in St. Paul, a mainstreaming effort during the Obama administration decreased when teachers and parents said classrooms became too chaotic under the way it was implemented.
Some districts and nonprofits are experimenting with “wraparound” services funded through Medicaid — therapy, family supports, and other resources — to help students labeled EBD return to mainstream classes. But large-scale reform remains elusive. Kwakenat, wrapping up his 16th year at Central, worries his students will face a “dangerous world” and doubts a systemic overhaul is imminent.
Walter is getting by. He says he’s better than before but not where he wants to be, and he remains determined to finish his schooling. Without Kwakenat, Walter says, “I wouldn’t be who I am today or what path I’m trying to be on.”