Want to support a good cause and buy delicious treats for your pup? Look no further than Finley’s Barkery, a Minnesota-based bakery which makes dog treats and is staffed by adults on the autism spectrum.
Finley’s Barkery, which opened less than a year ago in March 2016, is the brainchild of two special education teachers, Angie Gamades and Kyle Gallus, who founded the bakery as a way of providing meaningful employment for adults on the autism spectrum.
“As two special education teachers with many years of combined experience, we saw a need for meaningful work opportunities for adults with disabilities ages 21 and older,” Gamades told The Mighty. “Statistics show that 80 to 90 percent of adults with autism and other intellectual disabilities are unemployed or underemployed. We wanted to change that! We strived to provide a strength-based and meaningful work opportunity for our employees where they are able to learn and practice functional work skills in the community.”
The barkery currently employs six people on the spectrum. Gamades and Gallus work with each employee to find their strengths and assign roles based on that. Five employees work in the kitchen making treats and packaging them for sale, while another employee works from home, a more sensory-sensitive environment, labeling items.
Currently, Finley’s Barkery is fundraising for a “Bark Truck,” which would allow its employees to hand deliver treats and interact with customers (and their dogs!). Beyond delivering treats in person, Finley’s Barkery also ships treats out nationwide.
“They are such hard working, motivated and dedicated employees,” said Gamades, who recommends more companies hire adults with autism and other learning disabilities. “They are proud of their work and accomplishments and thrive when given an opportunity to grow and learn. They also have many strengths that often go untapped.”
The alarm goes off right when it’s supposed to. I hit the snooze one time, then it’s time to get up. I complete my morning routine. It’s the easiest part of my day. Always the same, never changes. It gives me comfort. Take care of my dog, then take care of myself. Check the weather first, then get ready. Meds. Don’t forget those. Double-check my backpack. Check the stove, check the locks, check the lights, check them again. I know they’re just obsessive thoughts, but I have to satisfy them. Finally time to go. Right on time.
The sensory onslaught starts as soon as I walk out the door. On this day, the wind whips, the rain pounds, and the thunder roars. I head to the car where I sit for a minute and gather my focus before I put the car in reverse. The nerves have already shown up for the day and I haven’t even left the parking lot. It takes every ounce of focus to get to Chick-fil-A. It is Friday, which means I treat myself to breakfast out. I spit out my order at the drive-through. My phone’s already buzzing for work. By the time I get to the window, I’ve lost my words. I fumble for my debit card. She asks how I am. I can’t respond. She asks if everything is OK. I nod my head. Inside, I’m apologizing profusely. It’s not unusual for me to lose my words. They get scrambled in my head and I can’t get them out of my mouth. It never gets any easier to get out of the situation despite how often it occurs. I finish my drive to work replaying what just happened.
By the time I get to work, I have to shut the door to my office for a few minutes. I grab a chew toy out of my fidget box and spin in my chair. I could do that all day. Instead, I check my to-do list and update it using my blue pen. It’s the last of its kind and won’t last much longer. What will I write with when it runs out? It’s an anxious thought. I’m learning about those in therapy. What am I supposed to do next? Look for evidence that supports it, then look for evidence against it and come up with a new thought. It’s loud in the office. The lights and the computer buzz. I try to push the noises aside and find my focus. It’s hard today. I don’t know why. Did I do something wrong? Another anxious thought. What’s first on my list? I get started preparing for an upcoming opponent (I get paid to watch basketball for a living.)
I have a question but I really don’t want to talk to anyone. What if I mess it up? I have to ask, though. I prepare the conversation in my head: what will I say, what might they say in return, what’s my response. Oh yeah. Don’t forget to look up. I don’t have to look at his eyes, just pretend. Try to focus on something behind his face. It will make him think I’m looking at him, which I’m supposed to do but just can’t. I can’t look and listen at the same time. It hurts. No unexpected behaviors when I leave my office. That means no snapping, no flapping, no rocking. Just walk down the hall, follow the script then walk back. Say a quick prayer that no one stops me. If they do, just say, “Good morning.”
I grab a bouncy ball and head down the hall. I make it unscathed, though my heart rate would tell you otherwise. The door’s closed. Do I open it, knock, or turn around? Which one is right? Nothing comes easy. I elect to knock and he motions for me to come in… I think. “Good morning… I’m good. How are you?… I have a question…” Come on E. Spit it out. You can do it. I manage to ask my question. He responds with a multi-step answer. Shoot. I can never remember multiple steps. He keeps going. Focus E. First, then, after. He’s finished. “Thanks.” I repeat it to myself as I walk back towards my office. I cross my fingers that no one says anything or needs anything as I walk down the hall. It doesn’t work.
“Hey E. Can you come here?” Uh oh. Unexpected event. “What’s up?” I respond. That seems to be a standard response illustrating my desire to listen. I use it often in the office. I think it’s safe. I guess I’m not really sure. She just has a quick question. I can help. It feels good to help. She likes to use smelly lotion. I guess she likes it. I don’t. Focus E. Fix it and leave. “You’re welcome.” I continue down the hall. I make it back to my office after what seems like an eternity. My heart is racing. It will slow down eventually. How did that go? I made it. I got the information I needed, although I’m not sure I remember all of it. The conversations replay in my head. Did I do it right? Did I make them uncomfortable? Did I rock or did I stand still? I’ll never know.
I’m exhausted. It’s not even lunchtime. I grab my chew toy and get back to work. It’s going to be a long day.
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Bryan, a man on the autism spectrum, shares what he wishes he’d said to his childhood teachers in a letter on his Facebook page, Asperger’s Syndrome Awareness: Bryan’s Advocacy.
There is a single scene at the very end of an episode of “NCIS,” which I have been thinking about a lot lately. The episode is called “Hit and Run.” When I saw the scene, I was in tears because of how much I could relate to the character of Abby, a forensic scientist on the show.
In this scene, Abby is sitting on the floor in the office, feeling pretty upset. Her colleague Gibbs comes over to her and asks what’s going on. She finally admits she’s trying to figure out how to be OK with not being enough good. Gibbs responds that she’s not counting the hit and runs — the good kind. This is when you do something nice for someone now, and you’re not always around to see the impact it has later.
He eventually ends the scene saying, “The things you do mean something to people.”
I feel like Abby so often, especially as an advocate on the autism spectrum. I constantly feel as though I’m not enough good. Like I just can’t keep up and do enough for others. And Gibbs’ response is so true.
This is why it’s so important to let people know when they’ve helped you. Just say, “Hey, remember when you did or said this? It really made a difference!” Maybe someone let you go ahead of them in line at the grocery store. Or perhaps they let you know you dropped something important. It could be a stranger, or it could be someone you know. Whoever it is, and however they helped, it matters.
Those kinds of stories I get from people every once in a while really keep me going. When I’m having a tough time, they let me know I’ve made an impact as an autism advocate. The stories remind me about those “hit and runs,” which can be really easy to forget about, if I’m even aware of them in the first place. They remind me that, like Gibbs said, the things I do mean something to people.
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