At sixteen, I met Maria at the parish youth center. She was with my catechism teacher Carla, who was twenty-five and had an unusual face. "This is Maria," Carla said, smiling. "She's just recovered from facial surgery." That was the beginning of a friendship between a sheltered girl from Milan and a young woman who had seen far less shelter in her life than I had.
What was your childhood like?
Peaceful. My family had six members: Mom, Dad, and us four girls—Lia, Anna, Maria, and Chiara. Actually, there were five of us. The first, Mercedes, died at three months from a sudden gastritis. Dad was an accountant, and Mom, who had a degree in philosophy (unusual for her time), chose not to teach so she could devote herself to me. Only one salary came into the house for six people, so life was hard. Everything I needed cost money—there were no public benefits then. I went to a school for children with motor disabilities, and that's when I realized I was different. Kids with disabilities were pushed to the margins, along with their families. My parents showed tremendous courage. They supported me in school and took me everywhere, indifferent to people's stares and sometimes unkind judgments. When they joined Fede e Luce, they worked there in many ways. They didn't hide me, the way some parents did. Those were times when disability was seen as shameful, even a sin. That's why my mother cried so much.
You've always worked and supported yourself.
School wasn't for me. After middle school, I enrolled in the Cova vocational school in Milan, where we learned to paint on ceramics and porcelain—my passion. But finding work in that field was hard. I started in a workshop, but I wasn't insured and the pay was terrible, though I did learn the craft. To get real employment, I had to look elsewhere. After registering with the job placement office, I was hired by a pharmaceutical company to package medicines. I worked well and hard, but the company laid me off anyway—they preferred to pay fines rather than hire people with disabilities. Through the Association for the Disabled, I was hired again. It wasn't the work I dreamed of, but I was grateful to be employed and earning a real wage.
For a time, you had a love.
In middle school, I met Massimo, a spastic young man. He came from a wealthy family but lacked the most important thing: family love. His mother died young, and his father never accepted him. The father barely knew him—his mother put him to bed before the father came home from work and got him up after he'd left. Massimo had a sister, too, but she always saw him as a burden. I had a beautiful love story with him. I brought him to activities, organized vacations, found opportunities for him to participate with our friends. But to his family, I was just another disabled person, another weight. And Massimo didn't know how to push back—or didn't want to. When his father died, his sister put him in an institution. I tried to visit, but they wouldn't let me in. It hurt deeply. Only much later did I understand it couldn't have worked. Today I'm at peace. I have family I can count on and friends who make me feel loved and wanted.
Your passion for ceramics?
At the school for children with motor disabilities, I was lucky to take a ceramics course. There was a special teacher with a beautiful workshop, and that's where I discovered painting. I kept going back with my sister Lia, who learned to paint too so she could help me. Painting on porcelain is a wonderful hobby—I still do it now. Despite my hands, I've done shows and taught others to paint.
You live alone now. What satisfies you, and what's hard?
For years I lived with my parents. My sisters went their own ways: Lia became an art teacher and has a daughter who works on museum accessibility; Anna became a journalist; Chiara studied psychology and entered a convent. When Dad died, I stayed with Mom for another ten years—she lived to be one hundred! The last eight years she was completely bedridden but sharp as ever. With Lia's help, and support from Chiara and various caregivers, we kept her at home as she wanted. It was demanding, but I'm glad we did it. Living close to Lia, I learned something new every day, and step by step those lessons brought me to independence, to living well on my own. Now I can handle so much. I'm busy with Fede e Luce, the Cooperativa Olivo, my parish, and my porcelain. I'm at peace with myself and satisfied.
What would you say to young people today?
I'd ask them to welcome people with disabilities, to stop fearing them and leaving them out. Anyone can be born different or find themselves disabled. We're people like everyone else—maybe just more sensitive because we've suffered in ways others often make harder. Our society worships appearance, success, having more and more. It never asks us to simply be. A person with disability wants to be welcomed and understood, to have friends, to be accepted as they are, and to get support. If you touch their heart, their smile will be full of joy.
