About two years ago, responding to requests from both friends and parents, my group began an unusual experiment that would change many of our habits. Two young people with disabilities started coming to my house every other day to learn how to hold a needle. My sister, who is a seamstress, took charge of the teaching. The difficulties were many, but we soon realized that with patience and by starting from their actual struggles, we could draw out unexpected abilities. We decided to expand the experiment with a mother's help, using a public space.
Our neighborhood elementary school has a Mobil School building that was barely used. On behalf of the group, I applied to both the school council and the district to use it on Saturdays. After getting approval and navigating various obstacles, the bell finally rang for us on Saturday, November 29, 1986.
During the week I work as an office employee at a large company. On Saturdays, I become an embroidery teacher. My sister teaches knitting, sewing, and embroidery.
We started with mornings only: 8:30 to 12:30. None of our students had fixed schedules. Everyone could arrive when they could and leave when tired, but all had to show up faithfully.
The first months taught us their rhythm. We thought the students would prefer knitting, but embroidery won out. We set up small projects and, based on each person's tendencies, chose which stitches to teach. Franca and Maria Teresa prefer stem stitch. Antonella does best with cross stitch. Roberto is excellent at cross stitch and is working on a beautiful tapestry. Paola manages half-stitch well. And so on.
Given how well those first months went, we decided to open afternoons too, from 2:30 to 4:30. Since we're part of the school structure, we follow the school calendar. For my students, school vacations are not a joy—only a loss of time together.
When September came, we decided to tackle more ambitious projects right away. By now, those who've been with us from the start are skilled at their work. We choose designs and colors together, then try adding variations to the stitches already learned. The day flies by, much to the students' disappointment—they would never want it to end.
Both morning and afternoon, about 20 to 25 of us gather: students, parents, and young and adult friends. Even adults not from Fede e Luce have joined this strange school and stayed enthusiastic. The atmosphere is indescribable. It is gentle and calm. We feel very united, even though we speak little or only softly. Someone brings tea, someone else coffee for everyone. We pray midmorning—just one prayer, but intense and always connected to something happening in our group.
We teachers are very strict about the quality of the work. There should be no signs showing who made what. The students understand this and accept redoing the same piece many times without complaint. Our adult friends are less patient when corrected.
We've also learned that the work serves as physical therapy. The friend who works alongside Michela, who is spastic, knows that in helping her with her tapestry, she must make her use both arms. If the needle is above the fabric, Michela must use her left arm to pull the thread. If it's below, her right arm must do the work.
We may have to close soon. We hope someone will understand how important this strange school has become for these young people.
During the week, in our free time, my sister and I design the projects to be made. But we have a serious problem. The Mobil School is slated for demolition because it doesn't meet current safety standards. The school director, who has never visited us, refuses to bring it up to code. The district has no alternative facilities to offer. Right now we fund ourselves. The cost of renting the room, cleaning, overtime for the custodian, and materials isn't trivial—but it doesn't frighten us. We only hope that someone will realize how important this strange school has become for our students.
— Lia Antonioli, 1988