When I think of Mariangela, my first memories are of her as an aunt. Garden scenes at her house—me playing, alone or with my brothers. Nanni must have been very small; Manolo hadn't arrived yet.
Sometimes we asked what was wrong with Chicca. I don't remember the exact words of the answers—delivered sometimes briskly, sometimes with tenderness—but what I grasped was that Chicca was simply the way she was, and that was enough for me. Visiting the aunts and uncles meant hunting for turtles in the hidden corners of the garden, watching the cat Mussi come and go (Uncle Paolo would tell stories about his adventures and fights with other cats), and sometimes it meant a ride on the Lambretta with Uncle Paolo—the height of fun and adventure, for me and, it seemed, for him too.
I remember one night when I was sleeping over at her house, maybe seven or eight years old. I wet the bed at night and had to be put in a diaper, something I was ashamed of. But with my aunt I felt at ease. She had a practical, decisive way about her—nothing cutesy, but welcoming and protective all the same.
In 1976, when I was almost sixteen, Mariangela invited me to my first Fede e Luce camp, at Alfedena. I was uncertain, didn't know what to expect or if I even wanted to go. I'd been to a few F&L gatherings at Villa Patrizi and marched in the torchlit pilgrimage to Rome, but a whole camp, days and days… anyway, I said yes in the end and went.
Alfedena swept me into a new way of living—a new way of seeing myself, my life, my relationships with others. I'm sure the main reason was the trust and responsibility that Mariangela gave to me, Francesca, Pietro, and the other friends around our age.
Each of us, paired with another friend, was responsible for one of the young guests—day and night, in all the activities. I wonder if I would ever have had the same capacity to trust teenagers like that. Suddenly, in those days, I discovered how to see the young people completely differently—not just their disabilities, but their personalities, their abilities, their resources. We could have fun together, play, argue, rejoice, sit close in silence, and realize, bit by bit, how connected we were becoming—to them and to their families.
And for me, and I think for most of us, there was a sudden leap in growth, in maturity, in confidence, in awareness. Being welcomed into the group with real responsibility meant learning other essential things too—lessons tied to Mariangela's direct, no-nonsense style. In those days I learned everything about washing dishes, cleaning kitchens and bathrooms, making up for a backlog I didn't even know I had, picking up a skill that has stayed with me ever since.
In later years, I remember her explaining the path she had started with Chicca—teaching her new abilities and possibilities, especially in walking and eating on her own. And I have two vivid images of when she told me about Chicca's illness and how little time she had left: once at a camp at Alfedena, during an outing; another time at a summer dinner in the garden at home. I was alone with her and Uncle Paolo, treated in their special way—simple, affectionate, direct, as an equal—when another uncle, Beppi, a doctor, arrived to give us news of how the disease was progressing.
Later I went on with my life. Among all the gifts I received, I felt I carried forward those from my relationship with Mariangela and my time in Fede e Luce. I saw her and Uncle Paolo less often as the years went on. But I began asking my parents more about their story and the stories of their families—maybe to know my roots better. And through their words—and through reading a family correspondence—I could see Mariangela in new ways, almost as if viewing her whole life's journey from beginning to end: the richness she encountered, the suffering, her capacity to make that suffering a foundation for generating new life, for herself and for so many others.
The image I want to end with is from Mariangela's funeral Mass—the gathering of so many people, and especially friends and relatives from my generation, with whom I had shared those important steps of growing up in the camps and communities of Fede e Luce in the late seventies and early eighties. When we found each other, when we said goodbye, the strongest thing we had to say to one another was how much our relationship with Mariangela had been a 'constitutive' part of our lives. As if we had all arrived that morning already tuned to that same awareness. A constitutive part, I understand now, that has generated and will continue to generate other life, and then through that, other life again, and again.
Giuseppe Bertolini, 2014