Forty eyes fixed straight on you. A high-tech smartboard you've never seen before behind your back. Ten hours a week for nine months with these small strangers, all of them hungry for something you can't yet name.
The collision with teaching is brutal—a second first day of school you never forget. The day you begin to learn what no one prepared you for: what to do behind a desk and how to do it. Not once and for all (if only!), but hour by hour, subject by subject (in my case, Italian, history, and geography); class by class (children arrive at middle school and adolescents leave); above all, student by student, family by family, problem by problem, talent by talent. A dizzying maze where you search desperately for landmarks: competent colleagues, understandable ministry guidelines, and not much else.
I started five years ago, though, and I've been lucky. I've had an extraordinary teacher: Fede e Luce. A quiet one—it took me a while to recognize her hand in decisions and strategies I thought were pure instinct. A teacher on many levels. First, for students with disabilities. I've had up to three in the same class. Students who can't sit still, silent, for more than ten minutes; who are crawling around the classroom by the final hour; who cannot possibly follow the grammar or history lesson you've planned for that day. What do you do? Obviously, you're not in a small community home anymore. The world around you is far more hostile. Yet remembering all those circles you organized, the Sunday afternoons of games, the vacation mornings waking up next to Pippi, Minni, Simona, and so many others—that helps enormously. Activities must be calibrated to their needs and built from their tastes, their strengths. Not always; that would be impossible. But often! And so, as I learned at my old school in Monterotondo (eSpazia), I've made room for workshops, hands-on work, group projects, things they can help create: drawing, writing, building, playing instruments, singing, telling jokes, playing volleyball, gardening, inventing, dressing up, dancing, storytelling. All of this, of course, within the limits of space, resources, and time that are and always will be insufficient.
Which brings us to the second level where Fede e Luce was a teacher ahead of its time, perfectly aligned with current ministry guidelines. Building on students' abilities, interests, and strengths—this isn't only the path for students with disabilities. It's the path to teaching itself. Unless you want school to be flat, tedious, and sometimes painful. When a community works, everyone feels welcomed and everyone has space to express themselves and take risks. The essential condition is mutual attention. Getting to know a class is like navigating a map of a city you've never visited. For me, someone with no sense of direction, it takes long, patient time and deep observation that constantly moves from detail to the bigger picture. Often, it's the details that make all the difference. Small clues that help you find your way. A student's request might hide in a grammatical error buried in an essay or in a shout during recess chaos. Their passions, desires, struggles aren't always easy to spot, but when you find them and keep them as landmarks in mind, the map becomes familiar and you move through the classroom with ease—not like a bewildered tourist.
It's another thing entirely to encourage them to be attentive and kind to one another. It's hard for us adults, always rushing, so attached to our certainties—imagine adolescents. They're at an age where they're the center of the world, and they often admire values far removed from solidarity and mutual respect. Here, students with disabilities are exceptional teachers. Their presence in class, if handled well (a big if!), lets the others live out daily what genuine, attentive relationships look like. I remember Andrea's joy when Olivia—who, because of her stammer and a mild developmental delay, had refused to speak in front of the whole class—decided in eighth grade to perform beside him as Perpetua in our adaptation. He'd convinced her when none of us adults could.
Against these successes are long lists of spectacular flops and tragic mistakes. And there are days when patience runs out and you yell at someone you shouldn't, or you brush off a student who wants to talk because you have a report to finish. Doubt and a sense of inadequacy are loyal companions to any teacher. But you learn quickly—especially if you've spent time with Fede e Luce—that you don't have to be perfect to matter.
Finally, there's Nicla: the last level, the most precious. A friend and mother of Fede e Luce, a middle school Italian teacher, who was just beginning to taste the joys of retirement after forty years in front of a classroom when I was living my second first day of school. Faced with my bewilderment, she didn't hesitate: "I'm coming to class with you," she said. "I know the students. We'll do a beautiful project just for them. You'll see—with two of us it's so much easier!" She never let go after that. She followed me outside Rome, into all my most difficult classes, always with a new project in her pocket, and at the school gate, over a well-deserved coffee, the same unfailing comment: "What nice kids. Really a lovely group. You'll see—we're going to do great things."