My name is Francesca. I'm twenty-one, studying to become a neuro-psychomotor therapist for children. My brother Sergio is only eighteen months older than me, and he is mentally handicapped. We grew up together, playing and laughing through all the ordinary days of early childhood.
As a small child in kindergarten, I didn't know that Sergio wasn't like the other kids.
Then, gradually, I began to notice. Sergio moved differently from the children at school, in the playground, in games. He didn't play soccer. His movements were slow. His games were simpler, always the same ones. But he was deeply kind—never quarrelsome, always ready to lend me his toy car if mine was broken, to make me smile when I cried.
He taught me to understand, truly understand, the gift that a handicapped person gives you through the help you give them to grow
In third grade, I wrote in a school essay: "When I grow up, I want to be a doctor for sick children." That wish hasn't changed. What I want most is to help children in difficulty—to help them grow, to move well, to live. I think my brother has shaped this path in me, especially by teaching me to understand, truly understand, the gift that a handicapped person gives you through the help you give them to grow and flourish. Every gesture Sergio makes, every movement, every intention, every action—they speak to me. Sometimes his soul shines with joy. Sometimes it struggles.Sergio is grown now. He's taller than I am, and though I envy his long legs, I know he needs my gentleness more than ever—my tender, patient words to calm the dark and sometimes obsessive thoughts that surface in his mind.
I'm studying so that one day I can do all this well, with real skill, for everyone. As for Sergio, I know he'll be happy if I can give him the certainty—through my love—that he is my dear brother, "irreplaceable," just as he was in our childhood games.
by Francesca, 1985
===FINE===