Dear Clemente, what do you remember about those Sundays in your childhood when we took you with us to Faith and Light gatherings? Several times a year, we'd spend the day together as a community. Your mother and I never thought to ask your opinion about it. Honestly, we assumed that Faith and Light would be a place where you could learn and grow. We never talked about it directly, and this is my chance to ask you now, for the first time: what was it like for you on those days? What do you remember? Which moments felt good, and which ones didn't?
I don't remember much from when I was really small. Now everyone I run into from the different communities says, "Oh, how you've grown! I remember you when you were tiny." Well, let me tell you: I don't remember most of you. My earliest real memories of Faith and Light go back to when I was old enough to kick a soccer ball. The first thing I remember is the little houses at San Valentino—I'd spend the whole time outside, on the field, playing goalkeeper with Emanuele Manfucci. We were always getting locked out, standing around for hours waiting for someone to let us back in. Once we got inside, I found myself in this place filled with special people, as if they had superpowers. There was Monicona, who'd always make you smile with her big hugs. There was Gerry, who seemed angry all the time but really just wanted to play. There was Corrado—if you gave him the ball, good luck getting it back; he'd take forever deciding who to pass it to. And then there was Danielino, always walking, never still, always seeming anxious, but then he'd come over and give you this huge hug like he was saying, "Don't worry, I'm okay, don't be scared for me." So I experienced Faith and Light—and I still do—as a place where you get to be with people who, in their own way, make you feel good. A lot of people say we do so much for them. To those people, I'd say the opposite: those kids have done more for me than I could ever do for them.
When did you start thinking of Faith and Light as something you could choose not to come to? Did you keep coming just out of habit, or was there something that kept you connected to the community? Or did you feel obligated to help?
I started thinking I could leave when my older brother Tommaso left. But I never actually did, even though sometimes I thought about it. Then I'd remember all the moments we'd shared, and I'd think that leaving would be like leaving home—how could I do that? I couldn't imagine it. So here I am, nineteen years later, still at Faith and Light, and I haven't gotten tired of it yet. I don't think I will.
Do you think your time in Faith and Light has shaped how you relate to people who are struggling? When did you first become aware that the community gave you a different way of looking at things than what your school friends or classmates saw?
Yes, it's definitely helped me a lot in relating to people facing difficulties. But I think it's helped me even more in relating to people in general—not just people with disabilities. In the end, we're all the same. Why should I relate to someone differently just because of who they are? I only figured that out recently, when my daily routines started putting me in contact with lots of different people—kids, teenagers, adults. Whoever I've had to deal with, I've used what those guys taught me.
Now that you're an adult in Faith and Light, do you feel that your role in the community has changed? Do you sense that your presence now comes with more responsibility toward the friends, families, and young people there? Or do you still come with the idea that you simply take what the gathering offers?
Until last year, I didn't feel much responsibility, because there was always someone more experienced around to set the right example and fix any mistakes I made. For almost a year now, I'm the one setting the example. I'm doing everything I can to make sure things go well and everyone's okay. I definitely have more responsibility now—if something goes wrong, I feel like it's on me. But I believe you do your best, and then whatever happens, happens. The important thing is that you tried.
Do you find it natural to talk about your Faith and Light experience with friends who don't know about it? Have you ever thought to invite someone?
I don't usually go around telling people about Faith and Light. I only mention it if it comes up naturally in conversation. I end up talking about it with teachers and students because every year I sell calendars and Easter eggs at school for the community.
I remember one moment when I thought Faith and Light had truly shaped you. You invited a friend with a disability to your eighteenth birthday party. I watched you introduce him to your classmates, saying, "This is a really close friend of mine." I admired you. At eighteen, I'm not sure I would have had the same confidence and independence of judgment to make such a direct introduction, without worrying what others might think.
I live by a simple philosophy: be yourself, do only what makes you happy, and don't worry at all about what other people think. If it bothers them, that's their problem. What matters is that you're happy. So at my eighteenth, I just did what came naturally. Besides, it's normal to introduce a friend to other friends. It doesn't matter if they have a disability or anything else. We're all the same.
Francesco and Clemente Bertolini, Rome—Kimata