Director’s Statement

Approximately 1 in 36 children in the U.S. is diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD). Many individuals on the spectrum face communication challenges, and some – like Paul Avila’s son, Pauly – are nonverbal. For autistic individuals, traditional forms of connection can sometimes fall short.

I don’t have autism myself, but disability and nontraditional communication have shaped my life. As a child, I was diagnosed with learning disabilities and language-based disorders. I experienced speech delays and spent my early school years minimally verbal, struggling to keep up in class and connect with peers. Eventually, I enrolled in a specialized school where I was encouraged to lean into my strengths – starting with drawing and writing to express myself, which eventually grew into filmmaking and music. These mediums became my voice when spoken language wasn’t enough. Some of my most meaningful moments were making short films throughout middle and high school and seeing my peers enjoy them – laughing at jokes and appreciating my perspective. It gave me confidence in my voice and showed me the power of personal expression, even if it was through unconventional means.

I know how fortunate I was to have that kind of support. Not everyone gets the chance to discover or develop their strengths, especially through nontraditional forms of expression in the education system. It was a real privilege to have access to that kind of environment – and one that isn’t always accessible. That’s why encountering Paul and his nonprofit on Facebook one day felt so significant to me. Inspired by his son Pauly, who was born blind with nonverbal autism, Paul sees music as a universal language—one that’s helped him connect deeply with Pauly as well as bring the Skid Row community together through music-based events. I attended their biggest event of the year held in Gladys Park and was struck by how joyful and alive the space felt despite the harsh realities of Skid Row. Music blasted, people danced, live performers took the stage—everyone came together because of music. That spirit came to life again when I visited Paul and Pauly at their home. I spent the day with them, careful not to disrupt their routine. Paul wasn’t exaggerating when he said their home is filled with music all day—it was present in everything they did. They played records, danced, sat together at the piano, and kept the radio on throughout the day. At the end of the day, Pauly reached for each of us. We took turns holding his hand, and in that silent exchange, he took us in – through touch, through presence, through feeling.

Being in that space reminded me of what I learned in school: the value of nontraditional forms of communication, and the power of encouraging people to express themselves in ways that align with their strengths. I believe that in a world increasingly highlighting and embracing neurodiversity in media, experiences like Pauly’s – ones that rely on nontraditional forms of communication—are still too often underrepresented. I hope that by sharing my own experiences that led me here, and by showing both the public and private sides of Paul and Pauly’s life – their events for the Skid Row community and their quieter moments at home – this story can encourage greater understanding and help make space for a wide range of neurodiverse stories in media.