Let's start with opening. Here's the definition from Treccani's online dictionary: "[...] with reference to public spaces and businesses, it indicates both the concrete fact of opening doors for the flow of the public or customers, and the beginning of sales activity or other [services]."
Now consider the rehabilitation day center. A public facility run by the local health authority together with the cooperative that wins the contract and hires the staff needed to carry out various activities. The center operates during the day for people with mental health difficulties. The various workshops offered inside aim to help them integrate—or reintegrate—into society and live as independently and regularly as possible.
For two and a half years, I've worked in one of these rehabilitation day centers, in Torre Maura, Rome. The upheaval of the past month has both touched and not touched the center. Because it has the status of a medical facility, it must remain open. The health authority staff and operators must guarantee its accessibility. But the users who came before the epidemic has dropped sharply. In several workshop areas, people have stopped coming altogether.
Given this situation, two main thoughts emerge.
The first. It makes sense to me that the center cannot close. It's a place that carries real weight—weight the society recognizes and, even in exceptional circumstances, insists must stay open. Society is right to think about what might happen to certain "groups" of people in a moment like this. I believe that sincerely. And just as sincerely, I know I'm fooling myself.
Our society connects us much more with concepts of closure and boundary. Territorial boundaries, condominium boundaries, bureaucratic ones—right down to the mental walls we carry everywhere. Yet I keep going to the center.
Comments from the first hour: "Lucky you, at least you get out." "Good, it breaks up your day." "Come on, you still get paid."
Comments from the second hour: "Really, though?" "That's not right." "Take all the precautions you can."
Meanwhile, I'm going through newspaper articles with my colleague—looking at media coverage, people's reactions—all of it in a rational, peaceful way. By 11:30, I'm taking my temperature. All this talking and...
The second. My colleagues and I have to go to a workplace where there are almost no users anymore—except two workshops. So I find myself in an empty room, sitting at a computer next to my colleague. We try everything we can think of to stay in touch with them. We call, we message on WhatsApp, we share photos on Google Photos, we use WeSchool, email, our website. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes they ignore us.
Here's the thing: everything we do in this empty room, we could do just as well from home. It would be remote work. If we do it from the center's room, it counts as work and we're paid. If we did it from home, it wouldn't be recognized as work. No payment.
Comments from the first and second hour again: "Common sense has nothing to do with reality."
The circle corrupts itself this way:
(1) Stay home as much as you can.
(2) Unless you have to work in person.
(3) We'll offer you remote work, since the users aren't here anymore.
(4) But your job requires contact with users.
(5) So the health authority doesn't recognize remote work.
In all of this, something emerges—and probably not just for me. I have loved my work. More than once. The words "work" and "love" don't belong in the same sentence, much less the same line. Yet it happened to me too. My mother used to say, even back then: "You walk ahead and the work chases after you."
So I think of them—calling them "users" sounds wrong, so I think of them as pazzarelli, as the locals say. I picture G. standing in the doorway, waiting for the warmth of my look to be welcomed and held. I picture C. sleepy, eyes crusty, dragging his lips into a polite smile. I picture D. always reaching out his hand to shake, even when his brows are furrowed. I picture another G., frantic about being late, with a hair color only youth dares to try. I picture D. silent, as if afraid to disturb even with his breathing, yet always so sharp. I picture M. eager to show his kindness with as many coffees and water bottles as he can offer. I picture another M., whose mind moves so fast and chaotic that it reminds me how slow I am.
I picture the others. There are many. But to say how much they have changed part of my life would take more space than this, and this is already finished.
For two and a half years, I've worked in a rehabilitation day center in Torre Maura, Rome. It's a public facility run by the local health authority together with the cooperative that wins the contract and hires the staff for various activities. The center opens during the day for people with mental health difficulties. The workshops inside aim to help them integrate—or reintegrate—into society and live as independently and regularly as possible.
The upheaval of the past month has both touched and not touched the center. Because it has medical facility status, it must stay open. The health authority staff and operators must guarantee access. But attendance has dropped sharply—especially in certain workshops, where absences are now consistent.
Two main thoughts emerge from this situation.
The first.
It makes sense to me that the center cannot close. It's a place that carries real weight—weight society recognizes and, even in exceptional circumstances, insists must stay open. Society is right to think about what might happen to certain "groups" of people in a moment like this. I believe that sincerely. And just as sincerely, I know I'm fooling myself. Our society connects us much more with concepts of closure and boundary. Territorial ones, condominium ones, bureaucratic ones—all the way down to the mental walls we carry everywhere. Yet I keep going to the center.
Comments from the first hour: "Lucky you, at least you get out." "Good, it breaks up your day." "Come on, you still get paid."
Comments from the second hour: "Really, though?" "That's not right." "Take all the precautions you can."
Meanwhile, I'm going through newspaper articles with my colleague—looking at media coverage, people's reactions—all of it in a rational, peaceful way. By 11:30, I'm taking my temperature. All this talking and...
The second.
My colleagues and I have to go to a workplace where there are almost no users anymore—except two workshops. So I find myself in an empty room, sitting at a computer next to my colleague. We try everything we can think of to stay in touch with them. We call, we message on WhatsApp, we share photos on Google Photos, we use WeSchool, email, our website, and so on. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes they ignore us.
Here's the thing: everything we do in this empty room, we could do just as well from home. It would be remote work. If we do it from the center's room, it counts as work and we're paid. If we did it from home, it wouldn't be recognized as work. So much for the paycheck. Comments from the first and second hour again.
"Common sense has nothing to do with reality." The circle corrupts itself like this: (1) Stay home as much as you can, (2) unless you have to work in person, (3) we'll offer you remote work, since the users aren't here anymore, (4) but your job requires contact with users, and therefore (5) the health authority doesn't recognize remote work.
In all of this, something emerges—probably not just for me. I have loved my work. Yet it happened to me too that my mother, even back then, would say to me: "You walk ahead and the work chases after you." So I think of them—calling them "users" sounds wrong, so I think of them as pazzarelli. I picture G. standing in the doorway, waiting for the warmth of my look to be welcomed and held. I picture C. sleepy, eyes crusty, dragging his lips into a polite smile. I picture D. always reaching out his hand to shake, even when his brows are furrowed. I picture another G., frantic about being late, with a hair color only youth dares to try. I picture D. silent, as if afraid to disturb even with his breathing, yet always so sharp. I picture M. eager to show his kindness with as many coffees and water bottles as he can offer. I picture another M., whose mind moves so fast and chaotic that it reminds me how slow I am. I picture the others. There are many. But to say how much they have changed part of my life would need more space than this, and this is already finished.