Before Walter reached kindergarten, he was already being removed from classrooms. Growing up in Minneapolis in a household marked by violence and instability—his father abused his mother and cycled through jail, and when Walter was five his mother, Crystal Deramus, became a paraplegic after a car crash—he began acting out: tantrums, biting, fleeing school. A therapeutic day care urged placement in a locked, high-security setting, and Walter was sent to River Bend Education Center, a public program for students labeled EBD (emotional or behavioral disorders).
In Minnesota, EBD denotes students who need special education support because of emotional or behavioral challenges rather than learning or developmental disabilities; federally the category is called emotional disturbance. Unlike many disability labels, EBD does not require a medical or psychological diagnosis. Federal criteria are broad and subjective, listing signs such as difficulty forming satisfactory interpersonal relationships or a pervasive unhappiness. In practice, the designation often falls on children whom teachers and administrators view as too disruptive for regular classrooms.
Once the label is attached, it is difficult to shake. It can follow a child from kindergarten through high school, separating them from peers and narrowing academic and social opportunities. Walter, now 19, spent most of his school years in separate EBD classrooms. In high school he spent time in a fourth-floor classroom at Central Senior High led by veteran special educator Jesse Kwakenat—Mr. K—who works with students who require special services for a significant portion of the day. Kwakenat relies on consistent routines and relationship-building—even small rituals like tossing snack bags to get the day going—and many students in his room have known one another for years. That familiarity creates safety, but it can also limit students’ success outside that setting.
Proponents of separate classrooms argue that specially trained teachers can tailor instruction to individual needs. Critics counter that segregated settings “other” students, isolating them from general education peers and stunting social and academic growth. While the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) endorses the “least restrictive environment” (LRE), which in theory should prioritize eventual reintegration, many students labeled EBD rarely exit special education. Federal data show these students are more likely to be placed in separate schools and are disproportionately from low-income families and communities of color.
Nationwide, more than 15 percent of students receive special education services—about 8 million children—and roughly 4 percent of those, around 300,000 students, are labeled with emotional disturbance. Reports from bodies such as the National Council on Disability and the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights find that young people with this label face higher rates of incarceration and lower prospects for economic self-sufficiency as adults.
Walter described how the label reshaped his sense of self: he came to see himself as “a bad kid.” Educators and researchers warn that when children are repeatedly told their behavior is unacceptable, they internalize those judgments. Walter’s early interventions included locked and padded rooms; by middle school, misbehavior often led to suspension or being sent home. By the end of 11th grade he had earned just over half the credits needed to graduate, largely because frequent suspensions—often for fighting—kept him out of class.
Teachers like Kwakenat argue that many behaviors are forms of communication and that students labeled EBD frequently have histories of trauma. School psychologists describe the category as capturing children reacting to adverse experiences—behaviors that can be survival responses in unsafe environments. Race and bias also influence who receives which labels: some specialists note that white students are more often placed in categories framed as medical or developmental, like autism or other health impairments, while Black and Latino students are disproportionately identified as EBD. Labels tied to observable behavior can carry less perceived legitimacy and greater stigma, effectively codifying patterns of racial separation in schools.
For many students, segregated placements also shift the finish line. During his senior year, after a suspension for involvement in a fight, Walter’s pathway to a diploma at Central unraveled. School staff recommended Journeys Secondary School, a St. Paul public program for students labeled EBD that supports learners until age 22. Journeys emphasizes life skills over traditional credit accumulation: students progress by demonstrating competencies—understanding banking, securing housing, maintaining employment for a set period—rather than by finishing a standard set of coursework.
Walter hesitated to leave Central, where he had friends and trusted teachers. Family stressors, including his sister’s arrest, eventually pushed him to try Journeys. Attendance there is flexible, and many students who begin engaged drift toward work; that pattern repeated for Walter. He became harder to reach at Journeys and less focused on schoolwork, though he still intends to complete the program’s checklist and earn his diploma.
When reporters followed Walter’s story, they expected him to graduate with Central’s class of 2025. He did walk at the school’s June 2025 ceremony, but he will not receive his diploma until he finishes Journeys’ requirements. He continues to visit Mr. K’s classroom; his brother remains at Central, and Walter works as a personal care attendant while living with his longtime girlfriend, a nearby nursing student. He credits Kwakenat with guiding him toward a more hopeful path.
Broader forces complicate efforts to change the system. Since the COVID-19 pandemic, student attendance, achievement, and mental health have declined and more students have qualified for special education. Children of color remain overrepresented in behaviorally defined categories like EBD, many districts face shortages of special education teachers, and policy shifts toward greater state control or cuts to education research risk widening disparities and slowing the development of evidence-based practices.
Advocates stress that LRE should be about instructional focus—providing supports that enable students to learn alongside peers when possible—not simply physical placement in a particular room or building. Critics contend the federal definition of emotional disturbance is outdated and overly subjective. Attempts to mainstream students labeled EBD have had mixed results; in one St. Paul initiative during the Obama era, mainstreaming efforts faded when teachers and families reported classrooms became chaotic under the approach as implemented.
Some districts and nonprofit partners are experimenting with “wraparound” supports—therapy, family services and other interventions often funded through Medicaid—to help students labeled EBD reintegrate into general education. But large-scale reform remains elusive. Nearing his 16th year at Central, Kwakenat worries his students confront a difficult world and doubts a sweeping overhaul is imminent.
Walter is surviving. He says he’s improved but not yet where he wants to be, and he remains determined to finish school. He believes that without Mr. K’s steady support, he would not be on his current path.