Looking for Someone to Talk To : Pierce College Regular Struggles to Make Contact

Chris Honicky sat in the middle of Pierce College and watched Wednesday as the world passed him by.

He was in a wheelchair. A sign hanging on the chair asked passers-by to stop and chat and not be scared off by the fact that Honicky talks by pointing with his nose to letters of the alphabet.

As he has done most school days for the past 15 years, Honicky had laboriously maneuvered himself onto the Woodland Hills campus looking for someone to talk to. And as usual, most of the students hurrying along the school’s central mall seemed to pass him by.

Honicky, 38, has cerebral palsy, which prevents him from walking or talking normally. But that’s all the central nervous system disorder does, Honicky points out.

“I can think and reason normally, just like you,” reads the wheelchair sign--painted on the flip side of a worn piece of Masonite that contains the painted alphabet. ‘ ‘Please don’t be afraid of me .”

Those who looked the other way when they passed Honicky seemed to be, however.

“Some may be frightened because he looks different,” said Kitty Bean, a liberal arts major who stopped Wednesday for the first time to talk with Honicky. “I’ve seen him every day, but I never took the time to stop until now. I’ll take time again.”

Anthropology student Priscilla Murillo said she stops and picks up Honicky’s alphabet board every day.

“I read his horoscope to him,” she said. “We talk about what’s going on in the world. He just wants to be a part of life. He’s lonely. He’s not stupid. A lot of people figure he can’t communicate, but he can.”

Honicky has taken psychology and sociology courses during his years at Pierce. Officials said he was an appointed student senator two years ago, representing the special services department.

A student helped him communicate when he pecked out comments during student government meeting debates, recalled Judy Ponsor, assistant dean of student services.

Officials say Honicky has become a campus fixture who may contribute more to school life than anyone expects.

By appealing daily to students to loosen up, slow down and talk, “Chris is a reminder that physically handicapped people can contribute,” said Art Hernandez, dean of students.

But only a handful of Pierce’s 18,000 students take time to talk to Honicky, said Leslee Cook, chief counselor for the college’s 266 disabled students--including 61 who attend classes in wheelchairs.

“Those with a caring heart take the time to talk to Chris,” she said. “This is his only opportunity not to feel like he’s in jail. He’s got a mind and intelligence. He’s just trapped in his body.”

Although campus grounds administrators tried last month to persuade Honicky to relocate away from the center of the mall and out of the way of service vehicles that travel down it, Honicky was unmoved.

It’s tougher for students to ignore him when he is in the middle of things, he said.

“I’m a fighter,” he said, slowly spelling out the words with his nose. “Only a few people take time now.”

Honicky is driven to school and pushed to the mall by student David Moss, an accounting major who struck up a conversation with him three years ago.

“It takes me 10 minutes extra, while it would take him hours to come by bus. He’d have to ride to the end of the line and then turn around to avoid having to cross the street out here,” Moss said. “It’s a balance of efforts. It’s the right thing to do.”

Moss will transfer next year to Cal State Northridge. But Honicky won’t be going along.

“I’ve been there,” Honicky explained. “People are too busy to stop and talk at CSUN.” Those who talk with him learn that Honicky, who is financially independent from his family, collected aluminum cans and made wake-up phone calls to supplement his income until the state threatened to deduct his earnings from his $500-a-month Supplemental Security Income.

Life Concerns

They learn that he worries about the values of youths today and about nuclear arms, and that he likes soft rock music, UCLA football and basketball, attending Christian Science church services and food without sugar in it.

“And he likes blondes,” said Mark McIntosh, a volunteer at the Crippled Children’s Society-run Rancho del Valle in Canoga Park, where Honicky sometimes attends Friday night socials.

When the Reseda apartment where he had lived nearly 15 years was recently burglarized twice, Honicky moved to a more secure building in Sepulveda. He has not yet been able to replace a stolen TV set.

But instead of a new television, he’d prefer visitors, Honicky said.

“I’d like to meet people who really care,” he slowly spelled out--ending with an exclamation point.