Louis Paparozzi (“Lou”) was not just a devoted father and a donor to our organization; he was a cherished member of our community. His unwavering support and kindness have significantly impacted our organization and the lives of those we serve.
A Legacy of Generosity and Commitment
Lou’s journey with Jay Nolan Community Services (JNCS) began when he moved his family from New Jersey to California, seeking better opportunities for his son, David. David thrived in a home of his own with support provided by his dedicated Circle of Support and JNCS staff. Lou’s decision to move across the country was driven by his love for David and his commitment to ensuring his son had the best possible life.
A Lifetime of Service
Lou had a distinguished public service career over his lifetime. Beginning as a child welfare caseworker in the 1970s, Lou eventually served as the Executive Director of the Arc of Monmouth and the Director of Monmouth County’s Department of Human Services.
You can learn more about Lou and his accomplishments in his official obituary. His dedication to service has touched the lives of countless families in New Jersey and beyond.
He also donated generously to Jay Nolan Community Services. His donations helped us expand our services and support more individuals and families. His contributions also helped fund numerous programs and initiatives, making a lasting difference in the community.
To honor his generosity, Jay Nolan recognized Lou at the 2023 annual Board Luncheon.
An Involved and Dedicated Member of the Jay Nolan Community
Last year, Lou volunteered to film a helpful video for Jay Nolan to teach other potential donors how to donate through an IRA. Lou also volunteered to share his journey with our agency in a short documentary that was filmed for PBS. He was always willing to share his experience and advocate for individuals with disabilities and their families.
Remembering Lou:
“Lou was one of those special amazing people, that once you cross paths with him your life is better for it. His dedication to his son, to Jay Nolan, and to the neurodiverse community is nothing short of inspiring! His gentle manner, infectious smile, and keen intellect made spending time with him a tremendous joy. Not only was Lou a wonderful father, but he was an outstanding advocate and dedicated donor. His willingness to share his knowledge and insights, as well as his commitment to financial support, helped make Jay Nolan a better organization.”
– Edward Amey, CEO of Jay Nolan Community Services
“ Lou was really an amazing man. I was impressed by Lou’s desire to help others. Whenever a parent was going through something Lou had already experienced all it took was a word and he was more than happy to provide guidance and support to help others over ground he had already traveled. I can’t remember how many people he helped navigate conservatorships, Social Security issues, even navigating the regional center.”
-Joe Mendoza, JNCS Supervisor
“A hero is born among a hundred, a wise man is found among a thousand men, but an accomplished one might not be found even among a hundred thousand men. When it comes to Lou, he was not only a hero but also one of the wisest men I’ve ever met. That makes him one in a million.
I met Lou, David, and Sue during a very difficult time in my life. I had lost my own mother a few years prior, and finding them was nothing short of a miracle. I remember the warm feeling I had when I stepped into their home for the first time. It was like coming home after feeling like I didn’t have much of a family left. I often joked in later years about how “homely” I looked, unsure why they would hire me looking as I did. But Lou and Sue always laughed it off, telling me it didn’t matter because they saw who I was beyond that, which always brought a smile to my face. That was a testament to who they were as people. They always saw the best in people, never passed judgment, or looked down on anyone. I have quite literally used the phrase “the perfect people” because that’s what they were to me.
Lou was not just a friend but, in many ways, a father to me. I can’t think of a time when I didn’t consult Lou before making major decisions in my life because I knew his wisdom would lead me down the right path. He was amazing in that way. No matter what I asked him, he always told me exactly what I needed to hear, but always in a way where I never felt judged. He was special in that way. He always made me feel at ease, no matter the situation.
I always described Lou as a long-winded type of guy; he’d tell and repeat the same old stories every time. But I could tell, with every breath, that each story meant something special to him. Because it wasn’t just a story; every word was filled with pride and love. Over the years, I grew to expect to hear those stories, whether it was at a circle meeting, around a meal we shared, or during the many holidays I spent with him over the last ten years. It’s such a little thing, but I’ll miss that. In those ten years, Lou and I would have beautiful evenings with David, where we’d have listening parties of new music I would find to show him. He would graciously indulge me, even though I knew he would never listen to it again, although I did manage to turn him on to something new now and again. As he would say, “Troy, I’m too old, I like what I like.” But even then, Lou was always learning something new.
Music was one of Lou’s many passions. I remember getting early iterations of his radio show, where he would give a short lesson on music of the early 50s and 60s—Chuck Berry, The King, Aretha Franklin, Ella Fitzgerald, and more. Every Paparozzi event had music ringing from the halls like a private symphony. With his son Erik on guitar and Lou’s voice sliding off riffs and chords, it always made me feel special to be part of those moments. Memories like that will glow in my mind for the rest of my life. I’ve always been musical, having played in concert and symphonic band as a kid, which was one of the first things we bonded over when I met him. In later years, when I expressed wanting to learn piano and guitar, he and Erik were my biggest supporters. Lou even went as far as buying my first keyboard to take lessons on. Both Lou and Sue always encouraged me to follow my passions and do what made me happy.
I carry his words and wisdom with me, as he was a hero in my story, just as I know he was in others. Heroes are often celebrated for their grand deeds, but Lou’s heroism was in the everyday kindness, wisdom, and love he shared with those around him. He taught me that true heroism is found in the simple, profound acts of humanity. I’ll miss him—my friend, confidant, and father. Lou was, and always will be, a hero in the truest sense.”
– Troy Hodge-Scales, JNCS Direct Support Professional
“Lou was a man who put himself into the work that needed to be done. He was a man with a moral compass and an engine that moved him to act upon where that compass pointed. He’d volunteer or join groups and become very active in them. He’d fundraise and go to meetings and do more than most so that the end goals of his convictions met purpose and resolution. Lou was a man who believed in kindness, in love, in empathy, in family. Lou was a tall man, as a consequence he had a habit of leaning down to listen to you, turn his ear towards you or to stare you directly in the eye as you spoke. I cannot recall a time he ever spoke judgmentally towards an opinion you shared with him, he’d merely probe more, ask more questions. At times he’d say ‘huh, I’d never thought of that or looked at it that way, that’s interesting.” Whether he had been persuaded to your line of thinking or not didn’t matter, he let you speak your piece and you knew that you were heard.
I give you all of that preamble to tell you this, amazing thing, about my friend, Lou. Lou did not discard people. As a man who stood firmly on, and acted on, and gave of himself, his time and money towards the things he believed. He wouldn’t continuously challenge you on your beliefs if they ran contradictory to his own. He was a kind man, a man who believed in the spirit of helping others, especially those less fortunate, those less blessed or able. Just people in general who needed a helping hand. Lou wasn’t a man who had hatred in his heart. He didn’t hold a grudge. He’d simply continue on in his path, the one that told him it was more important to care than to argue, to do rather than to despair. And so although you may have been diametrically opposed to him and his goals, even though you pursued policies and candidates who would bring harm to others and those he continuously championed for, even policies and politicians who would hurt you yourself, he would not dismiss you. He’d find a different way to connect to you. And if he found he could not, then he wouldn’t treat you as any less of a person deserving of love and friendship. He’d still smile at you, he’d still share a drink or a moment with you. Because he believed so deeply in people. He often referred to himself and his wife Sue as the original hippies, before it became a fashionable trend.
I had deeply candid conversations with Lou throughout our friendship. Even more blunt and direct ones near the very end of his life. I asked him questions that you might think improper or too direct. But I loved the man, and I wanted him to have every opportunity to say the things he needed to or wanted to say. And he gave me the gift of being as equally bold and forward in his responses. He told me his views on life in general; and on his own. And he allowed me to share my views on his, from my viewpoint. I was blessed to be able to tell my friend that his was a life to envy. That his was a life of effort and doing, and love; rich in all the ways that matter. That I knew he was a good father simply by seeing how his son Erik interacted with him. In the way he would step away from a conversation to smile at his son David and blow him a kiss and tell him he loved him. Lou’s affection was palpable, he effortlessly gravitated people to his orbit by mere dint of who he was. In his illnesses, and in his final days, members of his family and friends traveled across the country to be with him, to care for him. And to hold his hand in his final moments. He said to me that he had no regrets in this life. That he played it honestly and the best he could. That he was leaving peacefully knowing he had done all he could for his children and felt they were ready for his passing. Some of his final words to me were that “(he) would always rather be an optimist, than a pessimist.”
You could sense an aura of care and warmth in him and his smile, his handshake and presence. Lou told me several stories of his life, of his family, his childhood and young adult years. He was the first born and eldest of five children. His father was an Italian Immigrant and World War 2 veteran, blue collar. A gravel worker grinding away doing back breaking work. His mother a home maker, Italian, always worried if Lou was eating well. He told me of his first big purchase, a guitar and his father, ever aware of the price to maintain a family, asking him “that’s great, can we eat it?” He told me of going to college and meeting his lifelong love, Sue and their courtship. They met at a progressive anti-Vietnam war meeting and became friends. Sue was a member of a more dangerous and radical organization and when Lou commented on it, she said, “hey, there’s other ways to protest.” He told me how they graduated expecting the world to come beating down their door, to lavish them with job opportunities. And their naiveté and shock when it didn’t. He told me about walking through rough neighborhoods as a child services worker and the excruciatingly difficult conversations he had to have and things he had to see. How he worked his way up to County Administrator of Monmouth County. He told me of the worry and strain of having a child with a disability and worrying constantly about his two sons, disability or no. I can see how those experiences in his life and his family made him acutely aware of how much we, as humans, need one another. And so that’s what he directed his life towards.
I will miss my conversations with Lou. I will miss sending him news articles and having texts back and forth about the shock of them or expletive filled rants about the direction of the world. We had it all solved, we knew what the right path was, if only people would listen to us. I will miss eating with Lou. He never allowed me to pay so I’d have to excuse myself in a ruse that I needed the bathroom, when really I needed to intercept the waiter and bill. I will miss prodding him on the quality of a place’s pizza or bagels and sending him restaurants we had to try on our next outings together. We spoke of everything under the sun, from politics, to love and romance, movies and television, food and music. I will miss his deep knowledge of the roots of rock and roll and whenever I see or hear Elvis, I will think of Lou. Whenever I eat Italian food I will think of Lou and his aversion to most everything else, especially seafood.
There are no words that hold the depth of gravity and profundity to describe to you what I felt about Lou. The English language is too poor to express it. None of the words I have at my disposal could encompass the soul illuminating thoughts I have for my friend. I wish that words were more precious than they are. I wish we were more circumspect with the words we choose to use. If words were more precious you’d know that I walked through laser protected tunnels, past armed marine guards, to a vault door that needed two keys turned simultaneously, solved a wizard’s riddle and slayed a minotaur before opening the vault to pull out the words necessary, and so rarely used in society, to describe him. If words were more dear, more unprecedented in their use, you’d know, and gasp, when I told you that my friend, Lou Paparozzi, was a great man. I wish that words were more fiercely and jealously held so that you would know that I am not merely telling you something on par with saying a burger is great or that a movie was great, but something profoundly deeper. That I loved my friend. That he was a GREAT man, and that I miss him, greatly.”
-Robert Lara, JNCS Direct Support Professional
