Breaking down barriers disabled people face
‘Being different is nothing to be sorry about’: Dallas nonprofit’s awareness program fosters compassion and conversations
DALLAS — Michael Susens is 25, a strong and serious-looking young man who likes model trains and video games. He has his own YouTube channel and hopes someday to make a living reviewing and playing video games.
Meanwhile, he is eager to let people know who else he is.
“I have Asperger’s syndrome,” he said at a recent community open house for To Be Like Me, a Dallas-based nonprofit with a mission to break down barriers that disabled people face. “I can be socially awkward. Sometimes someone with autism will have poor social skills. I, for one, do not like loud noises at all. I use headphones.”
He stood in front of a room designed to look like the inside of an airplane. Minutes earlier, To Be Like Me founder and executive director Hollis Owens played the role of the flight attendant.
She walked up and down the narrow aisle, loudly — to be heard over a recording of a crying baby — reminding “passengers” to be sure to buckle their seatbelts and put their luggage in the overhead bins, and thanking them for choosing Fly Kind Airlines because, “We know you have a choice.”
After a few minutes of giving instructions, she asked, “Where are we going?”
Nobody knew the answer, although when the session began, she had told them: Chicago.
“This is a sensory processing challenge,” said Owens, who lives in Richardson. “Sometimes, sights and sounds are too much. This is what many people go through every day. Maybe you’ve seen them holding their hands over their ears, or rocking back and forth. These are signs of being overstimulated.”
Susens knew the chaotic flight simulation would have been uncomfortable for him, so he waited outside until Owens gestured him in. He walked to the front of the room, paused for a moment and then asked, “How was that experience?”
“Overwhelming,” someone answered.
“Good word,” he said. Then he asked, “When I came into this room, did you think I had autism?”
Some participants shook their heads; others quietly said no. (Not surprising, Owens said later, as 75 percent of disabilities are invisible.)
Susens is one of 25 LEADers (Leaders in Education and Advocacy for Disabilities) at To Be Like Me, representing 10 disabilities or differences: autism and sensory processing, mental health challenges, deaf or hard of hearing, speech and communication challenges, chromosome differences, mobility impairments, vision impairments, learning differences, limb differences and invisible disabilities.
Some are former patients of Owens, a physical therapist. For years, they and other patients with disabilities or differences would tell her of obstacles they faced in restaurants, at school, in airplanes and doctors’ offices.
That led to starting To Be Like Me, which invites schoolchildren to come to its two facilities on twice-weekly field trips and learn what it means To Be Like Susens. Or To Be Like Blake Lindsay of Plano, who has been blind since he was a baby. Or To Be Like TJ Smelko of Richardson, whose cochlear implants opened a world of music to him. Or To Be Like Jonathan Rizzo, 15, of Richardson, who is in a wheelchair.
When COVID-19 shut everything down, the organization went virtual, reaching more than 2,000 students and teachers across the country.
“You never know what someone is going through or what they have been through,” Owens said. “It’s always important to be kind.”
Although everyone can learn from the To Be Like Me experience, fourth- and fifth-graders “are great ages for empathy,” she said. “It’s our hope that students learn about how to be a good friend and includer, someone who spreads kindness and compassion. Getting to know people with differences and disabilities gives them an opportunity to hear their stories.”
The effects of the field trips linger, she said. Thirty days after their students’ experience, 95 percent of teachers reported seeing positive changes in such areas as kindness, group efforts, increased attention, positivity, behavior and taking responsibility.
At the July open house, Lindsay, 58, told those gathered that his blindness hasn’t stopped him from marrying, from working as a broadcaster and banker, from becoming a motivational speaker or from enjoying the outdoors.
“I have a good time showing people they don’t need to feel sorry for us,” he said.
He shared the session with Smelko, 35, who has a YouTube channel called TJ’s Sign Language Cafe. “Being different is nothing to be sorry about,” he told the visitors. “I’m happy with my life.”
At the open house, Lauren Taylor, 45, of Denton, who works at the University of North Texas and uses a wheelchair, encouraged her audience to “ask before helping us.”
“Because there are few things we can do for ourselves, we like to do them for ourselves,” she said.