Before Walter reached kindergarten, teachers began removing him from class. He was aggressive at school — throwing things, biting, running away — behaviors that grew after a turbulent home life: his father abused his mother and cycled through jail, and when Walter was 5 his mother was left paralyzed after a car crash. A therapeutic day care urged a high-security school that locked its doors; his mother agreed, preferring the school’s containment to the danger of him bolting into traffic.
Walter was placed at River Bend Education Center, a public program for students labeled EBD — emotional or behavioral disorders. In federal special education language the category is called emotional disturbance. Unlike most other special-education categories, EBD doesn’t require a medical or psychological diagnosis. Its criteria are broad and subjective, including things like “an inability to build or maintain satisfactory interpersonal relationships” or “a pervasive feeling of unhappiness.” Practically, many students labeled EBD are those teachers and administrators have decided are too disruptive for regular classrooms.
That label often sticks. It followed Walter through K–12, separating him from general education peers. By the time he reached Central Senior High School in St. Paul, most of his classes were with other students labeled EBD. On the fourth floor, in a windowless corner classroom, veteran teacher Jesse Kwakenat — Mr. K — runs a room where snacks and relationships are used to coax students into learning. His students, almost all students of color, have known one another for years.
Supporters of separate classrooms stress individualized instruction by trained teachers. Critics say clustering students together can insulate others and limit those students’ opportunities to learn both academically and socially. Kwakenat says the point of special education under the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) is the “least restrictive environment” — ideally mainstreaming students back into regular classes when possible. Instead, he sees most of his students rarely exiting special education.
Nationally, more than 15% of students qualify for special education — about 8 million kids — and roughly 4% of them (around 300,000) are labeled with emotional disturbance. Research from the National Council on Disability and the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights finds students with EBD are more likely to be incarcerated later and less likely to sustain stable employment as adults. The EBD category is also disproportionately populated by students from low-income families and by students of color.
Students like Walter often internalize being labeled “bad.” He said he had been taught to fight back, to protect himself and family, and that teachers had branded him as a troublemaker from early on. That identity — “about being a behavior problem,” as sociologist Rachel Fish put it — shapes how kids see themselves and how schools respond to them. In grade school, Walter was put into locked, padded rooms; by middle school, punishments became suspensions. By 11th grade he had earned only about half the credits he needed to graduate.
Kwakenat worries that separating students to manage behavior deprives them of the chance to learn better behaviors from non-labeled peers. “Why would you want to be the only person changing?” Walter asked. Peer influence and the classroom environment matter; if a student is “othered” from the earliest grades, it becomes difficult to change that trajectory later.
Many educators and specialists who work with EBD students say behavior is often a way to communicate unaddressed needs. Teachers and school psychologists repeatedly connected EBD labels with trauma — family violence, instability, and other adverse childhood experiences — suggesting many students might better be understood through a trauma-informed lens. One school psychologist said EBD could be likened to PTSD for some students.
The category EBD is also shaped by bias. Experts noted that who gets which label can depend on appearances and perceptions. Braden Schmitt, a school psychologist, said white students often land in categories like Other Health Impairment (which covers ADHD) or autism, while Black and brown children are more frequently labeled EBD. Historian Keith Mayes argues that education systems have long pathologized Black behavior, and IDEA, though intended to guarantee education access, also codified mechanisms that sort and remove Black and brown students from regular classrooms.
Labeling carries long-term consequences. For Walter, arriving at Central felt different: he was in a larger public high school known for academic and extracurricular opportunities, but most of his classes were still with EBD peers. Kwakenat described Walter as brilliant, yet Walter’s record of suspensions and missing credits made graduation difficult. After a gym fight in his senior year that led to suspension — and after he turned 18 — Kwakenat believed Walter would be better served at Journeys Secondary School, a St. Paul public school for students labeled EBD that supports students up to age 22. Journeys shifts the focus from credits to life skills: finding housing, managing money, securing and keeping a job for 90 days.
Walter resisted at first; he wanted to graduate with his Central classmates and stay near his friends and teacher. But increased turmoil at home, including his sister’s arrest, motivated him to try Journeys. Attendance there was inconsistent: the program allowed independence and Walter later found a job as a personal care attendant that often took priority over attending. Journeys’ case manager noted that students often get steady work quickly, which can pull them away from school participation.
Despite the detours, Walter walked across the stage at Central’s 2025 graduation ceremony. He still must complete the Journeys checklist to receive his diploma. He visits Kwakenat’s classroom occasionally and speaks about wanting college, but balancing schoolwork with a job and adult responsibilities is hard.
Systemic pressures complicate efforts to improve outcomes. The COVID-19 pandemic worsened attendance, achievement and mental-health struggles, and the number of students qualifying for special education has been rising since. There is an ongoing shortage of special education teachers, and policy shifts pushing more state control over education could deepen disparities. Critics also say federal research into education best practices has been undercut by cuts to research funding.
Experts and teachers broadly agree the federal definition of emotional disturbance is outdated and too subjective. They argue the law’s “least restrictive environment” refers to instructional focus, not a particular physical setting. Some districts have tried mainstreaming EBD students back into general classes; efforts have sometimes faltered when poorly implemented, leading to chaotic classrooms and pushback from families and teachers. Still, some districts and nonprofits are pursuing alternatives: using Medicaid to fund therapy and family supports, providing wraparound services aimed at reintegrating students labeled EBD into mainstream education.
Kwakenat, after more than 15 years teaching at Central, knows many of his students leave school into a “dangerous world.” He hopes for systemic change, but recognizes that overhaul is unlikely soon. Walter, now living with his longtime girlfriend who is studying nursing, credits Kwakenat with helping steer him toward a better path. “Without Kwakenat,” Walter said, “I wouldn’t be who I am today or what path I’m trying to be on. I’m better than I was before, but I’m not where I want to be.”