Jimmy Williams rushed into the post office that day with a sheaf of press releases in his hand. He had to spread the word: He was taking another shot at public office.

        Mr. Williams, who has a slight mental disability, eventually lost his bid for Covington City Commission. But that trip last year proved fateful for another reason: While at the post office, he reached out to a woman in despair.

        Her name is Betty Jo Mize. Years ago, she and Mr. Williams had met through a softball program. Getting reacquainted with this “sunny man,” as she calls him, changed her life.

Jimmy Williams has drawn Betty Jo Mize into his whirlwind of activities. (Patrick Reddy photo) | ZOOM |

        “At the time, nobody knew it, but I was really thinking about suicide,” she said recently, sitting in a Newport restaurant with Mr. Williams. “In fact, when I took him up to see my apartment, he made me promise not to jump off the balcony.”

        “She acted kind of funny, and I was concerned,” Mr. Williams recalled. “I told her, "Hon, you have a better life than that. That's not you. I'm here. You call me. You talk to me.”'

        “We talked at least once a night,” Ms. Mize said.

        “Three or four times a night,” said Mr. Williams.

        Today, the two are frequently together, and Mr. Williams, 41, has drawn Ms. Mize into his whirlwind of activities. Although he calls himself a “slow learner” and lives with his parents in Latonia, he has never let his challenges keep him from getting involved.

        He attends political picnics and meetings of Democratic clubs. He's an honorary judge at this year's Goetta Fest and a fixture at the annual African-American Heritage Festival in Covington. As a write-in candidate for city commission, he even participated in a pre-election debate.

        To an unusual extent, Mr. Williams has asserted himself in the world of the non-disabled, thanks in part to years of mentoring by the late Gus Sheehan, a longtime state senator from Northern Kentucky.

        “I don't let my IQ get to me,” Mr. Williams said. “When I started this politics 25 years ago, it was something I wanted to do. It was something I was good at.”

        Now Ms. Mize is following his example.

        She recently became the sergeant-at-arms of the Kenton County Democrat Club. The position is mostly ceremonial, but the club's constitution called for it, and Mr. Williams is a stickler for details. With an okay from the club president, Ms. Mize got the job.

        “I said, "Are you sure?'” she recalled. “I don't think I'm ready for this, but if you think I can do it....”

        “I was working very closely with B.J.,” Mr. Williams said. “I thought sergeant-at-arms was something she could do.”
       

Part of society

        Ms. Mize's transformation from self-loathing to self respect illustrates the importance of social ties, particularly among the developmentally disabled.

        For most people, informal support networks abound; they depend on friends, relatives and colleagues in many ways. Such connections aren't so common among the disabled.

        This explains the current push for “citizen advocacy” — what one expert calls the final frontier in disability services.

        Citizen advocacy programs put disabled people in touch with potential friends, instead of just assigning them professional caseworkers.

        “It's tremendously important,” says Tom Eamoe, executive director of The Arc of Hamilton County.

        “Being isolated in an apartment is better than being isolated on a 400-bed ward in a terrible institution, but it's still isolation.

        “How awful would it be if the only person who ever came to see you had to be paid to do it?”

        The Arc is seeking funding to start a citizen advocacy program in Cincinnati.

        Northern Kentucky's version, run by a non-profit group called Citizen Advocacy, has been in place for 21 years. It has 20 advocates and about 300 disabled people who would like one, said Executive Director Judy DeSalvo.

        While the advocates help their “proteges” with some needs, such as applying for insurance, a favorite activity seems to be simply hanging out, Ms. DeSalvo said.

        The benefits are mutual. The non-disabled person gets to see a friend's spirit unfold, and the disabled individual gets to see more of the world.

        When treated as equals, people even seem to become less disabled, Mr. Eamoe said.

        “Folks value themselves so much more, and thus work harder at being able to take care of themselves, to be independent and be healthy,” he said.
       

Left all alone

        Betty Jo Mize knows all about it.

        Born with club feet and no heels, she has had numerous surgeries to relieve arthritis and improve her gait. She also has learning disabilities, she said, though she now reads at a high-school level.

        She dropped out of school to take care of her diabetic mother, who died when Ms. Mize was 21. Her father was dead, so she depended on family friends and half-siblings. When they moved to Colorado, she found herself alone.

        “I have my own apartment. I pay my own bills, but it's lonelier than heck up there, because it's just me, myself and I, and we're not that good of company,” said Ms. Mize, 38.

        Enter the gregarious Jimmy Williams.

        The couple now go shopping and attend meetings together. They used to travel by bus, but Ms. Mize, who has a driver's license, recently purchased a used car.

        They comprise a sort of Political Action Committee for the disabled.

        Both would like to see more disabled individuals — well, even one would do — on the executive committees of Northern Kentucky's political parties.

        “If they want our votes, they have to start talking to us, or at least give us a chance,” said Mr. Williams, a part-time janitor.

        “We don't have a lot of money, big paychecks like (developer) Bill Butler and all them, but we get the job done.”

        Mr. Williams reads the newspaper every day and has a command of current events that often surprises his acquaintances.

        With such a friend, Ms. Mize could hardly shirk her duty as a citizen. Last November, she voted for the first time in eight years.

        Hearing this, Mr. Williams' eyes twinkled. “That long?” he asked.

        Ms. Mize laughed.

        “I know I'll get a lecture later,” she said happily.

       For information on becoming friends with a disabled person, contact Citizen Advocacy at 859-491-3344.

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