UNLV graduate earns his degree despite disorder

Kimberley McGee

Tuesday, Dec. 19, 2000 | 8:44 a.m.

It's not about what Anthony Crudale can't do, it's about what he can.

Diagnosed early with the neurological disorder autism, the 23-year-old Anthony graduated from UNLV Sunday with a bachelor of arts degree, a rare feat for a person with autism.

June Groden, director of the Groden Center in Providence, R.I., said Anthony's graduation is a triumph for an autistic and will become more common as more children are diagnosed early with the disorder.

Simply put, autism affects the communication area of the brain. Children tend to show symptoms from a young age, and by 3 are usually not able to communicate well verbally and tend to focus on repetitive motions.

For Anthony, the signs were that he cried when he was held, and he focused on the wheels of Matchbox cars.

An autistic person's brain shows large deficits in the area of communication. Without communication, the ability to learn language and interact with others is broken down and the autistic child becomes isolated in his or her own world.

"It is very hard for them to understand the words, so they block it out," Groden said.

Groden, who has studied autism for 30 years, first encountered Anthony when Anthony became the first autistic child to enroll in the center in 1979 at 18 months old. She has worked with him over the years.

"He has to work harder to understand because of the autism," Groden said. "Anthony is able to overcome obstacles and is very disciplined, and that's what has gotten him to this point."

That and the relentlessness of his mother, Donna Martinez, who knew when her son was 6 weeks old that something was not quite right with her baby boy.

"I knew we had to do something for him," she said. "If it wasn't for the early diagnosis he wouldn't be graduating, or be as highly functional (as he is)."

Crudale has studied in mainstream classes since the first grade. In that respect he is among his peers at UNLV.

Then there are the tell-tale differences. He doesn't look people in the eye easily. He answers questions from strangers with a stilted "yes" or "no" and a faint smile. His clear blue eyes flash with curiosity at someone new who is patient enough to speak with him. He majored in art and is a marathoner who runs 26 miles in two hours and 20 seconds with the Las Vegas Track Team.

Groden said the early diagnosis of the disorder helped Crudale overcome the debilitating effects of autism so that he could lead a somewhat normal life.

"We don't know the cause (of) autism, but we think maybe getting (diagnosed) early can effect brain structure," Groden said.

Crudale learned to look people in the eye, understand words and the objects they were associated with and to verbalize his needs -- hunger, pain, love.

"We do know early intervention makes a difference," Groden said. "As in Anthony's case."

Crudale was born on March 3, 1977, in Rhode Island with no apparent handicap.

His mother hung his baby photo -- his big blue eyes focused to the right of the camera and little fists clenched -- on the wall amid other photos of her tight-knit Italian family.

Things seemed fine for a few months.

Then Martinez noticed her son didn't cry to be fed. She would peer into his crib where he was wide awake and waiting. But not for her.

He didn't cuddle. He didn't like to be held.

She waited for Anthony to grow and achieve the milestones of infancy that her other two sons had. At 9 weeks he should roll to his side from his back. At 3 to 4 months he should reach out to his mother or objects. At 5 to 6 months he should be trying to bear the weight of his head on his tiny shoulders and forearms -- a prelude to crawling.

The pediatrician found Anthony had food allergies, something that Martinez would later learn is common with autistic children.

After six months of medication Anthony did not improve. He had yet to speak and his tantrums were disrupting the household.

"My two older boys, they were just toddlers, and they were basically neglected because of all that was going on with Anthony," Martinez said. "Everyone was supportive but I spent all my time trying to reach him."

She would look at the baby in the photo on the wall and will her son to be that boy who she dreamed would have a bright future.

After threatening the doctor with bodily harm, who said she spoiled Anthony and was an overprotective mother, the pediatrician spent an afternoon with the boy.

Finally, he saw what Martinez did and asked her if she had ever heard of autism.

She hadn't, but would spend everyday from that moment on surrounded by its complications -- and triumphs.

One day Martinez took Anthony to the park to swing because he liked to rock, and she needed to get out of the house. As they swung silently, he looked up for one moment and smiled at his mother for the first time.

It was a breakthrough.

"He would laugh and look at me so I started to say, Look at Mommy, Anthony. Look at Mommy,' " Martinez said.

Every once in a while he would.

"It took about until he was 10 to really see a difference with all the work we were doing with the Groden Center," Martinez said.

Anthony went on to high school, and worked twice as hard as his peers to graduate with his classmates and friends in 1995.

He even attended his senior prom. A photo of him, in a black tuxedo, and his date, in a white gown, sits on his dresser in the family's Southwest Las Vegas home.

A photo of his father, who passed away from cancer seven years ago, is posed opposite on a night stand.

Anthony has said that his father watches over him.

"There are things beyond this Earth that have gotten us as far as we are now," Martinez said.

Martinez, who recently married, said that her son can do anything once he is trained.

She worries and waits for a chance for him to be an independent member of society.

So does he.

Jack Smith, a mentor and friend to Anthony who also has 25 years of experience working with disabled children and teenagers, talks with Anthony about his future, his worries -- and girls.

"He's really quite amazing. He's more of an exception, really, and quite an accomplished young guy," Smith said.

Now that he has graduated, Smith said Anthony is concerned about getting a job, what his schedule will be like, what he will do next with his life. He wants to make his own choices independent from his mother.

"Just like anyone graduating college," Smith said.

Anthony is also looking to the future, and wonders if he will share it with someone special.

"He wants to find someone just like anyone else does," Smith said. "In his words, he said that would be important, and that means it is really important."

The friends also work on Anthony's social skills -- how to shake hands, talk to a woman -- that are small but important daily interactions that can enhance a relationship, and therefore Anthony's well being.

"It's just a simple thing that you wouldn't think of in a million years and they are pretty important," Smith said. "It opens up possibilities."

Anthony's personality and capabilities have garnered the attention of those outside his family.

Anita Stockbauer, director of UNLV's Disability Resource Center, provided academic support for Anthony while he attended mainstream college courses.

"His social skills went off the charts from the first day he came in to the time he left," Stockbauer said. "He learned fast."

The center also benefited from its relationship with Anthony.

"I'd see him beaming after a race or before a race. He'd share how much he improved his time," Stockbauer said. "Just to watch that joy. It's rare that someone with his disability would bond with us and show such emotion."

During a recent interview, Crudale listened intently, head slightly bent down and away from the conversation, while his mother recounted the hard times she, their family and Anthony went through.

He corrects her when she is incorrect about his running time, the number of awards he has won, and even the date that he contracted chicken pox.

Asked what date sticks in his mind and he takes a moment to smile and look down.

"March 31, 1995," he said. "I was accepted to UNLV."

It was his first move toward independence from his mother.

That year Anthony relocated to Las Vegas from Rhode Island to live with his uncle, Michael DiMuccio, in Las Vegas.

Over the years DiMuccio had treated his nephew as he would any other boy -- boosting him onto his shoulders to put the basketball through the hoop and letting him be bat boy on the little league team, even if he couldn't play.

"I think he's normal, even though a lot of people don't think he is," DiMuccio said. "He has a zip in him. Give Anthony a chance at anything and he'll show he is capable."

Anthony draws intricate designs with chalk in soft colors that blend from blue to pink to red.

"I can express myself," he said of his art.

The themes of his drawings revolve around running. In one untitled piece, a pack of runners ascend from a fiery canyon to a blue sky where one runner, Anthony, glides across the clouds, alone.

In another, a mountain lion overlooks a garden of pink flowers nestled in a green-pastured paradise.

"A mountain lion is not only king but also beyond every other animal," Anthony said of his abstract self-portrait. "It's an interpretation of the world by me."

As the interview ended, Anthony wanted to make one thing clear.

"I am an independent person."

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