When Giacomo was born on a day in March 1972, he weighed only 4 pounds 10 ounces. He was placed in an incubator, and the clinic's pediatrician immediately informed his father that his son would not be like other children — he would be a special child, a child with Down syndrome.
Rocco's first response was shock. He had never heard the term before, had no idea what it meant. Then came disbelief. Without telling anyone, he asked a family friend who was a pediatrician to come see the baby in person — to prove the first diagnosis wrong, to reassure him. She came, confirmed what had already been said, and plunged Rocco into profound sorrow. But in that same moment, she altered the course of Giacomo's life and that of his parents. A few days later, when Palmira also learned the truth, this doctor offered essential clarifications, the information they needed, and something more: the first guidance on what to do to raise this unknown child well. The guidance was simple but absolute and uncompromising. Giacomo needed all the continuous care that such a tiny boy required. But — and this was crucial — they had to be with him as if he were a normal child, like any other. That was the direction Palmira remembered receiving: the heart of everything.
With that commandment firmly lodged in their minds and hearts, the Fusillo family's new life as three began. There were certainly hard days and inconsolable tears, moments of utter sadness. There were days when Rocco supported Palmira, and days when Palmira encouraged Rocco. But fundamentally, after those first weeks, Giacomo's parents say together: "we rolled up our sleeves to get everything done right." They made sure he ate when he didn't want to, that he gained weight, that he smiled and walked like every other child. In the first year, the pediatrician's nearly weekly visits — attentive and affectionate — mattered. And like any normal child, Giacomo shouldn't be spoiled too much, protected too much, or indulged at every turn. "In that," Palmira remembers, "I was better at it. And when we fought, it was because he would spoil him. Every time we went out, he'd buy Giacomo a little gift. When he came home from work in the evening, there was always a surprise for Giacomo, who would run toward him with joy." Rocco admits it humbly: "I felt I never gave him enough. I loved him too much." But this taught Giacomo to want everything, to have too much. So Palmira took matters into her own hands. One day, when Giacomo was reaching for toys in the tobacconist's shop and whining once too often, he got a well-deserved slap. The ladies in the shop were scandalized. But Giacomo understood, once and for all, that you can't have everything, that things must be earned. His father came around too, and he redirected his love. He became Giacomo's "master craftsman." From earliest childhood, Giacomo imitated and helped Rocco with countless small projects — with wood, nails, glue, hammer, pliers, wire. He learned to execute simple but precise operations, developing manual skill, attention to detail, and a genuine appreciation for practical work. His friends know and value these qualities in him.
At two and a half, Giacomo was enrolled in a Montessori preschool. Though his mother was a homemaker, the family decided he needed to spend part of his day among other children.
He was a rambunctious child — "a bit too rambunctious," Palmira admits. But the teachers, all skilled and warm, welcomed him without difficulty. He already knew how to use the toilet and got along well with his classmates.
He went on to public elementary school, where with the help of an excellent resource teacher, he learned to read, write, and do simple arithmetic.
More than that: like many children his age, Giacomo attended swimming classes for three years. He prepared for his First Communion with the parish catechism group. Starting at age two, he took language and speech classes for varying periods. According to his parents, he made the most progress with a private speech therapist who worked with genuine passion.
When he entered middle school — around age ten, coinciding with a serious car accident that befell Rocco — Giacomo's excessive restlessness began to ease. He remained cheerful and lively, but was no longer "a devil" as he'd been in elementary school. Middle school brought the first misunderstandings with some teachers and greater learning challenges, but it also continued to offer him a chance for friendship. Giacomo was liked by all his classmates, who still remember him. "When they see him on the street, they kiss and hug him," Palmira says, "while I don't even recognize them because they've changed so much." After middle school — which included a repeated year — Giacomo attended a regional shorthand and typing course for two years. "In that class," his parents recall, "there were some rough types — restless seventeen-year-olds ready to be rude and steal necklaces. I was worried for Giacomo, but I sent him anyway. I'd try to talk to his classmates when we dropped him off and picked him up, trying to make them like me so they'd accept Giacomo too, so they'd respect my son." In those two years, he learned to type decently — 38 words per minute. Though, Palmira laughs, "he didn't learn a word of English."
Then there was the scout group, which gave him the experience of outings, activities, and team games. And then Fede e Luce with all its friendships, meetings, parties, camping trips...
"And so," his mother concludes, "Giacomo has never been alone, and he's not alone now. If he's no longer a devil, he's still a whirlwind. He always wants to be doing something — he comes up with a new scheme every minute." At home, his room is full of little bundles in personal bags — a secret archive of notebooks, phone books, large ledgers, and folders. He expertly handles a stereo, TV, and VCR. A computer — less expertly. But above all, now as always, Giacomo is among people.
"He's hardly ever home," Palmira assures me. Looking at how carefully and scrupulously clean the lovely house is kept, and at the terrace full of flowers, you understand that Palmira has her hands full in other ways too.
Giacomo works two mornings a week at the offices of Ombre e Luci. He helps his godmother with shopping, runs errands for his aunt who lives downstairs, goes up to the rooftop terrace where he plays rock music on keyboard, guitar, and small organ with his godfather. As a musician, he has a style all his own: a big white shirt, a belt, a band around his forehead, and words written everywhere. This costume is entirely his creation because, as his mother says, "I tell him all the time: if you're going to do these things, you have to figure it out yourself. I don't have time."
And then on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons there's the workshop, where Giacomo throws himself into his work with great enthusiasm, making full use of his skills as artist and craftsman.
By this point in our conversation, Giacomo — who has been present throughout, interjecting comments and occasionally disappearing into his own private projects — suddenly rises, kisses and hugs and crushes the modest, bewildered interviewer, fellow traveler in Thursday's workshop adventures!
- Maria Teresa Mazzarotto, 1992