I was invited to a special performance. The actors were either older women (who carried their years well), carefree little girls, or young adults of both sexes—all made fragile by a handicap more or less visible.
I have to tell you right away: I was spellbound. I couldn't believe my eyes. I've seen many performances "like this" before, but I'd never encountered improvised actors so completely unrecognizable. When a king took the throne, I had to struggle to identify a young man I knew well. I had always seen him painfully shy, unable to get through a single sentence without stopping himself. And there he was—regal, serene, proclaiming his lines. Could that really be him?
Then a motorized throne rolled onto the stage, lavishly decorated, carrying a bejeweled queen complete with a diadem and an almost defiant face in her conquered majesty. I had to work to recognize it as a wheelchair. Who could believe it was really her? Yet every scene had been set with care, interpreted by people who moved with ease, dressed thoughtfully and tastefully, singing, dancing, playing their parts as both actors and attendants.
What struck me most was not just the attention and care with which the roles had been chosen and assigned. It was the composure of the actors—disabled and nondisabled alike—united by a pride in being there, right there, playing that role.
I marveled inwardly at the skill of the directors, the hair and makeup artists, the seamstresses, the prop masters. And I couldn't help but acknowledge the effort and patience such a result demanded: every person was an important character, conscious of that importance. What pedagogical art stood behind this success? What empathy had been lived out together over months? What respect had been shown to each one?
I was making my way to the exit as applause thundered through the theater when I heard my name called loudly by four people I hadn't recognized immediately in the dim light—handshakes, kisses, embraces, the joy of reunion. "What are you doing here?" Perhaps because their attendant was outside, I was surprised to see them so autonomous, so free to express themselves, so proud to be there as ordinary spectators.
I looked at them, deeply moved, thinking back on their long journey of growth, their difficult emergence from their families, their struggles with belonging. The hard moments each had faced.
I could hardly recognize them either from how I'd left them years before. They, too, had found directors, educators, and companions who, with care and attention, with dedication and respect, had made them not just actors, but people. Real people.
In my heart I asked: how many disabled people will find a group home as right for them as these four were fortunate to find?
Mariangela Bertolini, 2011