A Lifetime of Exclusion Led Me to Create My Organization

When I first walked into my first-grade classroom, I was thrilled to discover there were only five students instead of the thirty I had the previous year in public school. I was now in special education, and at first I liked it. Whenever my parents talked about sending me back to regular classes, I resisted. I did not want to return to the large classroom environment where I had struggled.

That was how I felt for most of elementary school. By fifth grade, however, I began to understand what special education really meant. “Special” also meant being separated from students without disabilities. My classes had very few girls, leaving me feeling even more isolated, and the academic expectations were often below my ability. While this was less noticeable in the lower grades, it became more apparent as I got older and many of the higher-functioning students moved into general education.

My fifth-grade teacher had previously taught first grade, and whenever she assigned work that I felt was well below my grade level, I refused to do it. If she read us books that seemed too childish, I would simply leave the classroom.

The following year, I was preparing to enter middle school. By then, my mother had become determined to place me in regular education. This time I did not object, especially after she told me she was looking at small private schools.

It was a long shot. Although I had a high IQ, I was still autistic. I struggled with social skills, communication, sensory sensitivities, and needed things to be a certain way. My behavior also presented challenges. If people mistreated me, I sometimes reacted by hitting them. I kicked classmates’ jackets across the playground until they became dirty and sometimes kicked backpacks until they came unzipped. I also avoided using the urinals because the smell overwhelmed my senses. As a result, several schools refused to accept me.

That summer, my mother visited both special education schools and private schools. She refused to give up on finding an inclusive environment. When we visited a liberal private school in Culver City called Westside Prep, they accepted me. That was where I began middle school.

Walking into Westside Prep was a culture shock—but a wonderful one. For the first time, my classmates resembled the students I had always seen in movies and television. There were both boys and girls, and the school emphasized academics. We even studied Latin.

My mother constantly reminded me that I had to be on my best behavior. I knew that if I repeated the behaviors that had gotten me into trouble before, I would be sent back to special education. That fear motivated me to change. I stopped hitting people. Instead of kicking classmates’ belongings, I limited myself to kicking empty bottles lying around campus. When I became frustrated with bullies or teachers who would not listen to me, I sometimes yelled, but even that became rare after I received a one-on-one aide during the second semester who was better than the one I had the previous semester who would always go off and do his own thing.

Unfortunately, Westside Prep closed after sixth grade because of bankruptcy. Once again, my mother searched for another school. Despite the progress I had made, school after school rejected my application. After nine schools turned me down, it became clear that returning to special education might be our only option.

Once again, I refused.

After experiencing an inclusive school environment, I could not imagine going back to being separated from my peers.

Instead, I attended my neighborhood public school. Adjusting to classes of thirty students was difficult, but what made it far worse was the constant bullying, overwhelming noise, and, at times, abusive treatment from staff. My mother believed I needed to leave and return to special education, but I still refused. I had read about African American students during the Civil Rights Movement who endured tremendous hardship simply to attend integrated schools. Although my circumstances were different, I understood the importance of inclusion and believed it was worth enduring hardship rather than accepting segregation.

Throughout my life, I worked hard to modify my behavior so I could remain in mainstream environments. I learned to follow difficult teachers’ directions and complete assignments even when I disagreed with them. What I refused to do was accept bullying simply because it made life easier for adults.

After leaving that public school, I attended another small private school. Although the academics were not particularly strong, I enjoyed being there. Two months later, however, I was bullied in homeroom. When I tried to leave the classroom and the teacher physically prevented me from doing so, I reacted by kicking her until she let me leave. That incident led to my expulsion.

Several more schools followed. One specialized in students with behavioral challenges, where I was relentlessly bullied. Another mainstream school accepted me but eventually expelled me because my teachers found my behavior difficult to manage. After spending time at home, I was finally placed in a supportive public school with understanding teachers and friendly classmates. Unfortunately, I only attended for a few weeks before graduating.

For high school, my mother wanted me to stay at one school for all four years. I wanted to attend a school where I would feel accepted after everything I had experienced. Instead, I was enrolled in my neighborhood high school because of its academic reputation and the support services it offered.

The academics proved to be excellent in several classes, and the support services were valuable. Socially, however, I never felt that I belonged. I was frequently ostracized. Although I appreciated the school’s support, I could never escape the feeling that I was there primarily because of my disability rather than because I truly fit in.

Getting into college had always been one of my biggest goals. I knew I had the academic ability, but I worried that my disability would prevent me from succeeding. When I received my acceptance letter from Loyola Marymount University, I was overjoyed.

College became the first truly healthy educational environment I had ever experienced. My classmates were kind, mature, and intellectually curious. I developed genuine friendships, regularly met friends for lunch, and even became president of the school’s Sierra Club and another student organization that I founded and that was dedicated to exploring Southern California’s museums, historic sites, and cultural attractions.

Yet something still bothered me.

By then, I was an adult. I realized I would never have the opportunity to experience the kind of friendships with peers during childhood and adolescence that many people take for granted.

For several years after college, I focused on maintaining friendships with my college friends. Eventually, though, many of them got married, started families, and moved into new stages of life. I realized my own path would likely be different.

Around that time, I discovered several small boutiques near my home where the employees were friendly and welcoming. If business was slow and management had no objections, I would spend time talking with them. The staff represented a wide range of ages, including some teenagers. They reminded me of the kind, respectful classmates I had always wished I had known while growing up. We talked about school, work, and life, and I occasionally helped them with school assignments. Those conversations gave me a sense of belonging that I had long been missing.

Still, outside those familiar settings, misunderstandings occurred. On one cruise, I was having a friendly conversation with a teenage girl when her father abruptly told me to stop talking to her. On another occasion, while chatting with friends at the beach, lifeguards threatened to call the police.

Those experiences, together with the exclusion I had faced throughout my life, inspired me to create Friend in Need.

My vision was to build an organization that would create safe, structured, and supervised opportunities for young people to volunteer one-on-one with adults who have developmental disabilities. The program would include background checks, parental consent, training, and ongoing supervision to ensure that everyone involved felt safe and supported. My goal was to provide meaningful friendships while helping young people develop compassion and understanding.

I first presented the idea in a graduate school nonprofit course, but I did not seriously pursue it until a few years later. Encouraged by one of my former teachers, I reached out to several college friends involved in social justice organizations. They appreciated the concept but were too busy with their own careers and commitments to become involved.

For another decade, I focused on my own life and the friendships I had built. Eventually, many of the stores where I spent time closed, and I realized once again how few inclusive social opportunities existed for adults with developmental disabilities.

Some people suggested that I simply join organizations exclusively for adults with disabilities. To me, however, that felt like returning to special education. Society has made tremendous progress toward including children with disabilities in mainstream settings, but many adults who grew up before inclusion became widespread have spent much of their lives separated from the broader community. I wanted Friend in Need to help change that.

Through Polishing the Professional and the encouragement of several friends, I began developing the organization more seriously. Not everyone agreed with every aspect of my vision. Some believed the organization should serve only adults because they worried about legal issues or social expectations. I understood those concerns, but I also believed that meaningful, well-supervised intergenerational volunteer relationships could be both safe and beneficial. Friend in Need would maintain clear boundaries and zero tolerance for any conduct that is bound to be harmful to either the youth volunteers or to the vulnerable adults.

The exclusion I experienced throughout my life still hurts. Yet I also believe those experiences gave me a purpose. They inspired me to create Friend in Need with the hope that future generations of people with developmental disabilities will experience greater acceptance, genuine friendship, and true inclusion. If my organization succeeds, it will not only enrich the lives of adults with developmental disabilities but also teach young people compassion that they can carry with them for the rest of their lives.