The proposed antibullying statute before the Legislature has caused me to reflect on my years as a special-education paraprofessional in the Crosby-Ironton school district. As part of my job, I accompanied students who had disabilities to class, modified their assignments, and supervised them in the lunchroom and at recess. One might think I also would have had to intervene when the children I supervised were picked on in school. But in the three years I worked as a paraprofessional, I never witnessed a single incident of bullying toward them.

It would be tempting to credit small-town values. After all, these children had been riding the bus with their classmates since kindergarten. That they were known probably helped them be accepted.

But the supportive atmosphere in Crosby-Ironton wasn't the norm everywhere in the small towns of north-central Minnesota. I saw this firsthand when I accompanied Eric and the Crosby-Ironton basketball team to an away game. Eric, who has Down syndrome, was a team manager. His main job was to bring the players water bottles during timeouts.

As the Crosby-Ironton team entered the gym, a member of the host team pointed out the "retard mascot." I'd been lulled by the acceptance that usually surrounded Eric. The sneer was unexpected, and it stung. But I wasn't the only one offended: A Crosby-Ironton team member made a beeline for the jeering player. I don't know what words were exchanged, but at the end of the game, as both teams exchanged "good game" hand-slaps in single-file formation, the initially disrespectful player gave Eric an enthusiastic, and genuine, "high five." Eric hugged him back.

That good-natured Eric was a valued member of the team — not just some token "mascot" — was brought home later that spring. Eric's parents planned an 18th birthday party for him and invited the team, unaware that the school's "sweetheart dance" was scheduled for the same night. Postponing the party was not an option, as Eric is obsessive about keeping to a schedule. So, the young men on the basketball team did what good friends do: They skipped the dance so they could gather around Eric and sing to him as he blew out the candles on his cake.

Eric's presence among them clearly helped his classmates deepen their own humanity. They were better people for having known Eric. But I'm afraid Eric's story is exceptional: Not all students with disabilities can count on such acceptance. In fact, students with disabilities aren't even protected from bullying under Minnesota's current antiharassment statute for schools.

I don't have any illusion that simply passing the Safe Schools for All legislation will magically stop bullying in Minnesota classrooms. But the legislation sets a standard. And by specifically listing disability along with other attributes, such as sex, race, religion, sexual orientation and physical characteristics, the legislation makes plain that, when it comes to bullying, absolutely no exceptions should ever be tolerated.

Eric's story establishes that a bully-free school is an attainable vision. The Safe Schools legislation introduces the possibility that the way Eric and his friends treated each other, and changed the attitude of at least one bully, can indeed become the norm.

George Byron Griffiths is a photographer based in the Twin Cities. For the past 15 years, Griffiths has photographed three young people from Crosby-Ironton, Minn., who have disabilities.