Luigi Vittorio is married, the father of an eighteen-month-old daughter, a worker at a group home, and an animator in a parish group that includes disabled people and volunteers. One day he fires off an indignant message to an Internet discussion forum about an advertisement sponsored by the ANFFAS Association. Milena lives in Forlì. She works as an office administrator and is the mother of nine-year-old Giorgia and fifteen-month-old Francesca. Francesca has Down syndrome and was born with a cleft palate and lip. Milena, herself an avid Internet user, responds to Luigi's message. And so begins an exchange between two strangers: a mother full of rage and fear, and the indignant social worker. The conversation doesn't end after that first contact. Milena needs to "talk, cry, shout, hate." Luigi Vittorio needs to understand, to bear witness, to walk alongside her.
«I was so angry with God, and now I don't know…»
«I was so angry with God, and now I don't know…»
From January to May 1998, their correspondence continues. Milena and Vittorio take turns telling each other about their daughters, their families, their work. They trade thoughts on politics, books they've read, films and singers. They tackle social questions: drugs, AIDS, abortion. And of course, they talk about little Francesca—her birth, her medical challenges, her future. Milena tells her story, reflects, speaks her anger, smiles. Luigi listens, shares his own thoughts, and sometimes sends something special: a writer's testimony, another person's reflection, a particular prayer, a poem. As their conversation deepens, they find themselves talking about hope, faith, God. «I was so angry with God, and now I don't know…»
The book closes with two letters Milena writes to her daughter. The first, written at Francesca's birth, overflows with love and sorrow, fear and life force. The second, written in June 1998, describes Milena's rediscovery of Francesca and her "hidden world"—a new, mature love that transforms her and allows her to welcome everything about her child, including "what you will or won't be able to do." Two letters from an ordinary mother, not a writer or psychologist or particularly religious person. Two beautiful letters, in my view, that document a journey we should all be able to make.
T.C., 1999
The Author Reflects
On the site Pianetadown, we found a post by the author from January 2006, which we reprint here.
I wanted to explain briefly what lay behind the birth of this book (which happened almost by accident): the need to communicate, the need to share, and finally the need to make others understand.
The need to communicate today is much stronger than people realize, because we live in a frenzied society where contact with others is shallow, where there's little time to build relationships and, especially, to deepen our knowledge of one another and forge real friendships. This might seem like a paradox in our "chatty" age of phones, but Internet as a new technology helps us greatly—it helps us rediscover writing as a tool for communication. I'm convinced that writing allows for much deeper understanding between people. You have time to think, to analyze, to ask yourself questions, to write with care instead of just scribbling away. It's a "easy" medium that allows people who struggle with face-to-face contact—perhaps from shyness—to meet others, even if only virtually. Of course it has real limits: the biggest is that you can't look into someone's eyes. But in my case, it was a lifesaver, because I found it easier to open up to a stranger. Luigi Vittorio became like my diary, a mirror that talked back to me.
The need to share ran deep inside me—alive, pulsing, painful. I was lucky to meet Luigi Vittorio on the Internet. He listened. He walked with me, with tenacity and gentleness, through the process of accepting my daughter Francesca's disability.
The need to make others understand—to share my experience with them—that's what finally pushed me to publish part of my life, even though I'm shy and withdrawn by nature. This book stirred emotions. I saw that in the messages of solidarity and affection I received over the years, so I think I reached my goal, at least in part.
It wasn't easy for me to expose myself, with all my weakness and resistance. But I'm convinced that by being vulnerable first, I could help other "special" mothers to look inside themselves and to learn to love their children not for what they can give you, but for who they are. And Francesca is, quite simply, Francesca.
When I say the goal was reached in part, I mean the road ahead in the world of disability is still long and difficult. Things are improving somewhat because of the "visibility" there is today. Our children are no longer hidden away at home or in institutions—they're beginning to be part of this society. But we still don't invest in their future. Unfortunately, for many organizations and facilities, these young people are just a business. No one cares about their feelings, their dignity, their infinite potential. That's why their visibility matters. They might scare people who don't know them—that's normal. But when you get to know them, when you look them in the eye, the fear goes away. You start calling them by name, seeing them as individuals. You realize they have something to give you too. They aren't disabled, period. They're something much bigger, something unique and real. You see that they're people with their own strengths, weaknesses, and individuality—just like anyone else.
Don't be afraid of them. Get to know them. Look past appearances. Meet their eyes. And as one mother told me, remember those eyes, that face when you're pushing their wheelchair. I know there are many volunteers who understood this long ago. Luigi Vittorio is one of them. Because of him and because of others who believed in the Casa Blu project, a group home for young people with severe disabilities opened in Rome years ago. Casa Salvatore should be opening soon. A small dream became real projects. And the story continues.