I never dared hope that Maria Francesca would feed herself. I never even imagined it.
At twelve years old, she needed to be spoon-fed, her head tilted back on my arm, and swallowing was a struggle. Then one day, with the help, skill, and patience of a foreign educator, the "miracle" happened. From that moment on, I stopped believing that we parents alone could educate our children.
Pablo arrived at his first camp at eight years old speaking only "mama" and "papa." It was his first time away from family. The unfamiliar setting, young counselors with little experience but overflowing energy, the countryside, a guitar, songs... which of these stirred something in Pablo? In two weeks he learned to pronounce several words. Everyone was amazed. When he came home, his parents were speechless.
Nella is forty years old. She cannot read or write. She comes from a poor family, one marked by hardship. She has spent most of her life at home. "When will you teach me to write?"
Two teacher friends decided to help her. Little by little, Nella is learning. She reads and writes a few words now. She is proud of herself. She feels valued. For perhaps the first time in her life, she has found an answer to a longing she didn't even know she had. In a few months, when someone asks Nella "How old are you?" she will no longer answer "Two!" with that smile that lights up her whole face.
I have met many children, young people, and adults with disabilities—some with profound limitations.
I am always struck by how rarely we help them discover what they can do. It is true that many of them, especially the older ones, never had anyone guide their education with proper training and skill. But isn't it also because we place too much weight on parents, who—without meaning to—pass their own fears, anxieties, and disappointments onto their beloved children? Does our desperate wish to see them improve not sometimes prevent us from letting them go?
And isn't it also because, when they are placed in school alongside children without disabilities, a child with difficulties feels "incapable" from the start—precisely because others look at him with more or less conscious superiority?
We have all felt that same thing. We have all struggled with a task while everyone around us did it easily.
It must be terribly hard to believe in yourself when you always feel like the one at the bottom of the class. Some students know this well. When they never receive praise, never get a passing grade, teachers repeat over and over: "He has no willpower!" as if they do not understand that motivation comes from success, not from endless failure.
So what can we do? I am convinced that much is possible—at school, yes, but also in other moments: in free time, on outings, during vacations. All of us can act more effectively with them, taking on some of the heavy burden that parents, often tired and discouraged, carry alone. How?
- Start by asking them for help—a favor, a service—according to their ability, of course. Often, a genuine word of thanks sparks the desire to try again, to do better.
- Rely on their memory, which in some is remarkable. "Remind me that I need to buy bread—how would I manage without you?" Phrases like these give importance. They confirm that their presence matters. So often they are told the opposite.
- Help them practice, every chance you get—at home, outside, whether friends or family—at small steps toward independence and self-reliance: getting dressed, in the kitchen, in the bathroom, on the street, on the bus. Instead of always choosing for them, ask their opinion. Always. Then point out what they did well, even when the mistakes are obvious.
- Keep them close while you work, even work that takes effort and attention. Explain how you do it, why you do it. Use any simple task: "Hand me that tool. Get the low pan for me. Hold this part tight..."
- Give them—or ask others to give them—a task that makes them aware they can do something well, that they matter to someone. In such moments, you will sometimes be struck by the dignity and seriousness with which they take on their responsibility.
I try to live by these things with the young people with disabilities I work with. I owe them much. They have taught me that they need to be valued and respected for who they are, and that they wish to be helped to give their best. But they have also taught me—more than once—to welcome others with warmth and generosity. They help me release the anxieties they sense in me without my saying a word. They help me let go of resentment and dislike. They teach me forgiveness and peace. Do these gifts seem small to you? Do they seem to matter little?
- Mariangela Bertolini, 1993
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