Beyond the Buddy System: Token Inclusion is Abelism with a Mask

The buddy system gets framed as feel-good inclusion. It shows up in photos, newsletters, and morning announcements—evidence that a school “cares.”

But when the support stops at optics, when relationships aren’t real, and when the student with a disability is used to showcase someone else’s kindness, it’s not inclusion at all.

It’s ableism with a mask—well-meaning on the surface, but deeply rooted in inequality, pity, and control.

Friendship isn’t a favor.

Students with disabilities don’t exist to teach other kids empathy. They’re not props for character development.

When peer support is treated like a temporary act of charity—rather than a foundation for authentic belonging—it reduces students with disabilities to objects of pity. And it trains their peers to see them as less-than, even as they’re told they’re doing a “good thing.”

Tokenism is easy. True inclusion takes intention.

Token inclusion is:

  • One hour a week with a buddy

  • No follow-up, no training, no relationships outside the assigned time

  • A disabled student always cast as the “helper” or the “shadow”

  • No adult modeling of what reciprocal friendship looks like

Social inclusion is:

  • Ongoing, integrated peer partnerships that grow over time

  • Adults actively fostering social connection before, during, and after school

  • Opportunities for shared experiences, joy, and mutual contribution

  • A student with a disability being seen as a friend, not a project

The buddy system is not inherently bad. But it’s not inherently good, either.

Like any tool, its impact depends on how it’s used.

Done right, buddy systems can be powerful bridges. But only when:

  • Students receive coaching and modeling—not just a title

  • Participation is voluntary and mutual, not performative

  • The goal is sustained connection, not social credit

  • Adults hold space for vulnerability, boundaries, and real friendship

Ask the real questions.

Don’t ask: Do we have a buddy program?

Ask:

  • Are students with disabilities forming real, sustained friendships here?

  • Are they invited to birthday parties? Group texts? Playdates?

  • Do they have someone to sit with at lunch without adult prompting?

  • Do they feel chosen, not just assigned?

Inclusion isn’t just about physical presence. It’s about being known, wanted, and missed when you’re not there.

Let’s raise the bar.

Inclusion means more than access. It means belonging.

It’s time we stop handing out gold stars for sugar-packet kindness and start doing the deeper, slower, more sacred work of building schools and communities where every student is seen as a peer, a partner, and a person worthy of friendship.

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What Inclusion Actually Looks Like: A Guide to Spotting the Real Thing