The average speed dating events would showcase a full-on romance bonanza to set the mood—a table for two, love songs playing in the background, and obvious efforts to appear casual from shy and nervous participants.
But this is no ordinary speed dating event. Instead of witnessing a pool of guys all decked in their best ‘date wear,’ what greets me are four square white clothes each painted with superhero insignias—Spiderman, Batman, Superman, and The Incredibles— all lined up along the Social Sciences Building foyer’s floor.
Behind the playful atmosphere and the energy charged in every inescapable request, it’s plain to see from the poignant expressions on these kids’ eyes that they’re all looking forward to an afternoon of happily ever after.
Meet and greet
It’s safe to say that we’ve all been consumed with our own fairytales. But when a friend invited me to sign up for Ateneo Special Education Society’s (Speed) speed dating event, I only had the faintest idea of what I was about to get myself into.
Then the participants start coming in. From afar, they look like regular children, yet their presence exudes something inexplicably different.
I did my homework before spending a few hours with kids with autism. Most of the participating kids have Down’s syndrome, autism, and cerebral palsy. Though there are similarities—all three are basically congenital and psychological disorders—dealing with the kids who have them gravely vary.
One little boy with prominent Down’s syndrome features approaches me and shows me his tattered ID with a faded photo. The name on it reads “Rodolfo” but I learn that everyone calls him “Bing.” He utters a mix of incoherent and made-up words. I figure that the best way to approach him is to treat him like a normal guy. What I get is a huge smile and a big hug.
Superhero dreams
As I sit in a circle to talk to the group of boys, I feel my anxieties and school-related problems slowly dissipating. The boy sitting beside me, the one with dark skin and missing front teeth, smiles shyly.
James, though clearly the eldest of the group at 29, has the mind of a six-year-old. His gaze is almost disconcerting. I start creating mental pictures of what it would be like without the ability to form abstract ideas and speak in whole sentences. The supposed idiosyncrasies I’ve always had—nail biting due to nervousness, hair-pulling when stressed—suddenly seem like trivial matters, shameful even, when I remember thinking them to be odd mannerisms.
My daydreaming ends as we face our first activity: to transform each kid into a superhero using the provided art materials. A box of broken crayons, some yards of string, and a few pieces of cardboard; these were the makings of our makeshift superhero manufacturer.
I ask James what he wants to draw as his superhero logo. Struggling to speak, he looks at me shyly. I point to the spider sketch, aiming to just find his choice by elimination. While he vaguely nodded, I wonder if he can understand.
Channeling my rusty crafts skills, I struggle to create a paper sword and wrist cuffs. Meanwhile, Bing, the boy who hugged me earlier, begins to dance in the middle of the foyer, with his white fedora hat and a cardboard Z on his chest. He grabs the hand of an unsuspecting participant and dances with her. Everybody looks up from their half-done capes and masks to watch.
Speed Dating project head Aly Tan and promos head Irene May Cruz can’t help but pinpoint Bing as the undeniable stand-out. “He’s really lively and really sweet—whenever he sees you, he’ll immediately give you a hug,” says Aly.
Let’s make this (night) last forever
A cape is the last item on our make-me-a-superhero list. On a white cloth, I guide James’ hand to trace the outline of the Superman logo. He feverishly fills it with color, even though there’s little yellow paint on the sponge. It’s no Mona Lisa, but his enthusiasm and determination, I’m certain, will make Da Vinci proud. I hang the logo around his neck and put a glittery mask over his eyes.
The enthusiasm isn’t just exclusive to the kids. “I didn’t expect that these guys are so fun to be with. Playing with them is just like playing with my younger brother,” says participant Louie Macalino. “Seeing them happy with their costumes, eager to win against other kids is a moment that is something extraordinary.”
To conclude our “date,” the heroes present their cheers. While our boys manage to put up a decent fighting cheer, a group of little girls win the prize, thanks to their flowery headdresses. When James is announced as the winner for best superhero cape, I was almost gushed with joy. So that’s what a mother’s pride feels like.
Everybody’s special
Given their condition, however, not all kids are as sociable and easy to handle as Bing. “Sometimes you have to be extra happy so you don’t get discouraged to speak,” says Aly.
“It’s contagious, like they don’t have any problems in life,” says May, however, while accurately imitating Bing’s funny expressions. “They’re always happy.”
Louie, on the other hand, sees this activity as transcendental to other forms of traditional charity. “This event doesn’t even require your talent. It demands you as a person who is willing to share your time to give attention to these kids,” he says. “People can give all the money they want but they can’t give their time.”
It was indeed an extraordinary Saturday, one not spent in the company of friends or catching the flick of the week.
Today’s festivities were tiring, and my hands are tainted with paint; every bit of it was anti-adult, but my brief stint in Neverland reunited me with memories of my youthful exploits, and rekindled my affection towards (in all ways) special children. The pumpkin carriage certainly didn’t whisk me off, but I’m more than pleased to just witness bite-sized versions of a happily-ever-after.
Today, my knight in shining armor would just have to wait.
