The Hidden Hierarchy of Acceptance: A Hard Truth about Teens and Tolerance

I work with some incredible teens. They are young people who embrace wholeheartedly the ideals of tolerance and inclusion. But some are also heavily influenced by cancel culture, and believe erroneously that a safe space is one free from annoyance or offense. The result is a volatile cocktail that champions some of the most vulnerable members of our society, marginalizes some of the most privileged, and eventually ostracizes those it misunderstands.

Our capacity for tolerance often has more to do with who someone is than what they do. Donald Trump routinely illustrates this truth. For example, when Trump shared an AI-generated image of himself as the Pope, reactions split predictably. Some saw humor and thought nothing of it; others viewed it as disrespectful, even offensive.

In reality, most people’s response had less to do with the image itself and more to do with their feelings about him. Our judgment of the behavior is often shaped—if not determined—by our judgment of the person behind it. The more love we have for someone, the closer they are to our inner circle, the more connected we feel to them, the more unoffendable we are. As a dear friend of mine once said, you know you have found your people when you are free to be yourself, "warts and all." We see this dynamic play out among teens. Students who are already socially secure can push boundaries, joke inappropriately, and take risks with little consequence—sometimes even reinforcing their place in the group. Others, believing they are insiders, may mirror those same behaviors, only to find it gets them soundly rejected.

Behavior isn’t judged on its own, but through the lens of belonging. And for students who struggle to read that lens—who don’t easily recognize where the lines shift or why—the consequences can be especially severe. We've all seen the heart warming stories of neurotypical teens who embrace their same aged peer with special needs and make them feel included and even honored. Who doesn't cheer for the prom queen with Down syndrome or the bench-warmer who makes the final basket of the season? One of my favorite students of all time was a 16 year old with Down syndrome. One day he was sitting in a circle of chairs with the other teens at lunch when the boy next to him walked away to retrieve something. Upon his return, Haneef thought it would be super funny to quickly sneak his upturned hand into the boy's chair and grab his butt as it fell onto the seat. This set off an almost physics-defying reaction as Wyatt reversed momentum and hurled himself in the opposite direction to escape the grasp. Neef sat bewildered by the collective gasp that filled the room. Haneef's mother was mortified, but he got a pass because he truly didn't know any better. His differences were obvious. No one could be offended by his pure heart. I seriously doubt Neef came up with that idea on his own. He learned it from somewhere. Probably in a different circle of kids who did find it hysterical when the popular boy pulled the identical prank. More subtle special needs don't afford kids the same level of tolerance Haneef enjoyed. Some conditions are marked by the most obnoxious behaviors—complete lack of impulse control; a little dopamine hit with every button pushed or boundary breached; the ability to differentiate right from wrong, but an inability to understand the nuances of a social order where almost nothing is black and white. Instead, right and wrong dance along a gray continuum, depending on who you are with and where you are with them. These kids often appear typical functioning, but their behaviors are punctuated at every turn by a serious lack of good judgement. They try to be the class clown, but are received as a disruptive jackass. In their attempt to be cool and edgy and accepted, they become more and more annoying until all tolerance for them is exhausted. And the in-crowd that they thought they were making inroads with, suddenly turns on them. At this point, the laundry list of inappropriate things they have done, which in isolation or at the time didn't seem significant enough to report, suddenly catches up to them. They get cancelled by the people they thought they could trust to be their friends. But those were never friends. Ideals like tolerance and inclusion afforded them some temporary acceptance, but it ultimately made the sting of rejection so much worse. I've watched this scene play out twice in two years. Young men whose special needs were less obvious, ejected for saying and doing some truly ridiculous, inappropriate things, but things that no one saw as problematic enough to report when they happened. Instead, the peers they came to trust as friends, let their offenses stack up and unleashed them all at once causing an avalanche that not only took them out, but buried me as well. Parents, often without a full understanding of the context, the history, or even the facts, step in with certainty. Acting on assumptions, hearsay, and a sense of moral urgency, they demand protection for their children—from those they’ve already decided are the problem. In the process, young people who are desperate to belong are recast as threats, while those doing the excluding are affirmed as virtuous.

And so the lines blur. The student who struggled to navigate social boundaries becomes “the bully,” while the socially secure sit comfortably in their approval, convinced they’ve done the right thing by pushing him out. We celebrate the removal without ever examining the process. And it leaves a difficult question hanging in the air: Who, exactly, is in need of protection—and from whom? Who is actually the bully here? Two weeks ago, I stood on the sidewalk just outside the front doors delivering the news to the latest victim, who had definitely shown some serious bad judgement. At first he thought we could go in and talk it out and everyone would understand, but as we headed toward the glass doors, he could see his accusers standing on the other side, looking out, watching the drama unfold, and I think he realized something. For three years, he had pushed buttons and said and done things that were inappropriate.  He was obnoxious and annoying, loud and disruptive.  His diagnoses allowed him to know the difference between right and wrong, but somehow knowing didn’t always equate to doing.  Yet, every time he was corrected, he was able to improve each offensive behavior.  In his mind, he was among friends – friends who he could just be himself around and they would understand and it would be OK.  But now it wasn’t OK.  And as he looked through those doors, he realized he wasn’t one of the group.  He was still an outsider.  He had made a few friends, but to most, he was more of a problem than a person.  And so he stopped and said, “I’ll just go.”  He knew that he had said and done things to justify what I was forced to do, but I'm not sure he will ever understand why he can't just fit in like everyone else.

I don’t place the burden of this on our teens. They are still learning, still forming, still operating within the boundaries we set and model. The real accountability lies with the adults who respond quickly, often without full understanding, and whose certainty can outpace their curiosity. My colleagues and I have watched this unfold more than once, and we are still searching for the right response. I have advocated for these students, stood in uncomfortable spaces for them, and come dangerously close to losing a 35-year career in the process—perhaps I still might. But if that happens, I will leave without regret, knowing that I chose to care for every student entrusted to me—not just the easy ones.