My name is Arianna. I'm a disabled girl with spastic-dystonic tetraplegia. I'm 21 years old. I just finished high school, and now I'm studying at university. I want to tell you about my school years—because for us young people, going to school is an adventure these days, especially for those of us with disabilities.
Kindergarten
My adventure began in kindergarten, where my family and I worked hard to find a school that could give me what I needed: support teachers and educators with courage and real commitment—people willing to meet the challenge of teaching a child with serious motor difficulties.
Elementary School
Elementary school was trickier. Support teachers kept changing, classes shifted, and the personal assistants came and went. Some of them refused to "work" with a disabled child.
Eventually, though, we built a real team. From that point on, the atmosphere at school got better. Work became easier.
The school bought me a computer with special software to help me write, but it didn't work well. I couldn't control my movements precisely enough. The only safe and effective way for me to write—then and now—is through dictation to someone else: a teacher, my mom, classmates, or an educator.
Middle School
Luckily, the principal at middle school was the same one from elementary, so we started off on the right foot. Here too we tried to build a working team, though it was difficult. Some teachers accepted support positions only for a paycheck and job points. They didn't teach well. In my case, they didn't stimulate my curiosity or believe in what I could do. When we set learning goals for me, they saw them as a waste of time—pointless effort. So they gave me only the bare minimum.
My mother and my medical team fought back hard against this, until a new support teacher arrived and things improved significantly. But we had to keep watch; otherwise people would slack off and we'd be back where we started.
From this point on, we accepted that no computer device would work for me at school. We settled on dictation. At home and at my rehabilitation center, though, we kept trying different tools—we wanted to find something that would give me more independence.
Finally middle school ended, and I moved to high school (with the usual people who didn't believe in me).
High School
High school was harder. After my first year in Sicily—where I got the MOST support, not just academically but as a human being (a real team of classroom teachers, support teachers, personal assistants, and genuinely special classmates)—I moved back to Milan. That's when problems started. Not because of the school itself, but because the government's education policies had changed.
We faced a tough situation: fewer hours of support, fewer personal assistants. So I had to rely on help from my classmates and classroom teachers (who, fortunately, were very willing).
Since I'm not independent, I always need someone beside me. The person helping me had a practical role: arranging books and notebooks so I could read, feeding me, writing down notes, underlining text, and when needed, wiping my nose, drying my mouth, or helping me drink.
Because support hours were cut, one teacher created what we called the "ARIANNA HELP GROUP." Classmates took turns staying with me—even when both teachers and the assistant were in the classroom. They never left me alone. And here's what mattered: if I or my classmate didn't feel like following the lesson, we'd tell the teacher I needed to step out, and we'd leave.
I left class with my support teacher only to go deeper into a topic I'd missed, to catch up if I'd been absent, or to take tests. For oral exams, I usually stayed in class with someone who could interpret what I was saying, because my speech (dysarthric) isn't very clear.
We finally reached the end of high school. We'd hit all the goals we'd set—and I'd say we did it well. Beyond my diploma, teachers helped me enter some literary contests, which I won.
All in all, my school experience was positive, except for a few moments when we couldn't find common ground between what was best for me and what didn't work. But we always found a way through those crises—even if we had to fight about it. My friendships with classmates had their ups and downs too. You can't be liked by everyone, but I was happy with them.
I know it's not easy to be a support teacher. But if you choose that path, you have to do it with your heart—not just because you need a job. Otherwise you get the opposite effect: the student feels worse, and their work suffers.
In my view, anyone who supports a disabled person—whether a student or an adult—needs certain qualities. I could list them all, but one matters most to me: SENSITIVITY.
For me, real integration means feeling good with others, being accepted for who we are—flaws and strengths together. I wish society would see us as a resource, not a burden.
If I may, I'd like to offer some advice: families and schools must work together for the student's sake, and never give up. And institutions must not stand in the way of true inclusion for disabled students.
Arianna Giuliano, 2013