Daniela is a charming woman of 28, dark-haired and curly, with a radiant smile. She welcomes me warmly despite my usual lateness, and invites me into the home she has shared with her husband Vito for nearly a year now.
Daniela was born with spastic paresis in her legs and struggles to walk. Outside—on slippery pavement, or when climbing stairs—she uses a cane or, better still, takes a friend's arm. Inside her own home, she moves about easily, knowing exactly where to steady herself.
She leads me to the kitchen and offers me a delicious cake she has baked for the occasion. As we eat, I ask about her work, and with a smile, she begins her story.
She attended school through fifth grade at a special certified school.
She could not continue to middle school—the teachers would not accept her—but her strong character kept her going. Staying home, she helped her mother with housework and in the family shop while continuing to study on her own and with help from friends.
A few years later, a social worker from Rho, the town near Milan where she lives, invited her to a vocational training program for people with handicaps. The course included people with different disabilities and different abilities. Everyone did what they could; Daniela read, worked with wood, and learned mathematics. During this program, the possibility of placing her in a private company was explored.
After a trial period, on July 27, 1983, she was hired with a regular contract at FILA, a marker-manufacturing company in Pero, about six kilometers from Rho. Since then, she wakes at six every morning, takes the bus or gets a ride from Vito, and is ready at her machine by 7:55, when the first bell rings. At 8 o'clock sharp, when the second bell sounds, she begins work. No tardiness is tolerated; the shift supervisor is strict.
Soon after being hired, she earned her middle school diploma by attending evening classes.
Daniela tried to explain how her machine works, and when I struggled to understand, she even drew me a diagram. Essentially, she loads pen bodies, caps, ink, and tips into hoppers, checks that all the mechanisms function properly, and the machine produces complete markers. It sounds simple enough, but problems abound. If a pad is missing, the machine sprays ink everywhere—and if you are nearby, you end up colored from head to toe. The machine can jam; a cap or tip can slip. Daniela patiently sets things right at exactly the right moment.
Daniela has mastered her machine. When other colleagues need it to work, they ask her how she gets it running so smoothly.
The machine produces anywhere from two or three thousand to eight thousand markers a day. Daniela stands all day and moves constantly around the machine, which is excellent for the muscles in her legs. She could not stand still all day—her muscles would stiffen and she would lose the ability to walk. The machine has safety systems with photocells that stop it when someone approaches a dangerous zone.
Daniela tells me all this willingly, and it is clear she is proud of her work. She explains that she does not work just for the paycheck, but because she loves what she does.
She mentions the occasional downside, yet even these she speaks of with a smile. She works facing a wall, her back to her colleagues, and like everywhere else where production matters, she cannot speak to anyone during work hours. She has a five-minute break for coffee and a pastry, which feels too short, so she nibbles the pastry while working. Some friction arises with certain colleagues who are not always willing to accept her and sometimes mock her, even harshly, failing to understand that she is no different from them except that she walks with more difficulty.
But Daniela has learned to accept this too. She grows sad for a moment as she tells me, but then begins speaking of her kinder colleagues, the ones who care for her, with whom she spends her lunch hour pleasantly.
- Lucia Cesarini, 1991