I'll admit it: the first time I heard someone mention vending, I was lost. The term meant nothing to me. But the priest explaining it had just arrived from the Cottolengo in Turin, and he was describing how vending machines—coffee dispensers, to be specific—had become the foundation of a social enterprise that employs young people with autism. This was Rome, 2018, at a seminar organized by Redattore Sociale to teach journalists how to write about disability with care. That priest, now in his early forties, is don Andrea Bonsignori. He co-authored The Courage to Be Equal: The Differently Automatic Enterprise of Chicco Cotto (Terra Santa Editions, 2020) with Marco Ferrando—an account of the very project he was describing that day. The book tells how a cooperativa called Chicco Cotto came to run and maintain a network of vending machines distributing coffee, drinks, and snacks. Bonsignori helped found this social enterprise and watched it grow until it caught the attention of the market itself, spreading its innovations to much larger organizations.
Bonsignori, known primarily for this venture, trained as a pedagogue with a special interest in inclusive education. He spends most of his days as director of the Cottolengo's private school in Turin. He also serves as an advisor to the Italian Autism Foundation and is a passionate fan of rugby, football, and music—you'd need another book just to catalog his interests. He seems to deflect praise: the real credit, he says, belongs to Providence, of which he is merely a laborer. Providence runs through his family's DNA—the Cottolengo tradition—and he shows no sign of resting on past achievements. With each new project, he aims to build "one small corner of a world that is, even a little bit, more just." The underlying conviction is simple: working together as equals—disabled and non-disabled alike—in sports, school, and work genuinely benefits everyone.
The evidence is there in the GiuCo '97 sports association, whose integrated teams compete in official championships with a balanced mix of players with and without disabilities. The coach, whose judgment is final, discovers that reaching the goal requires different tactics, that playing time goes to those who train properly, and that a foul can sometimes draw a smile—because it means you're being treated like a normal opponent. It's there in the school itself, which has built a strong reputation for welcoming and integrating children of different abilities, health conditions, and social and cultural backgrounds—no small thing for a private religious school. And it's there in the work-study program tied to the vending machines, which extends the school's commitment to students with disabilities into employment. These three sectors don't operate in isolation. Each contributes, in its own way, to the growth of the handicapped person and of the community they belong to. The foundation's work, too, promoting knowledge, research, and education about autism, plays its part.
The vending machine wasn't Bonsignori's first idea for meaningful work. He'd considered goldsmithing, assembly work, mechanical tasks—anything requiring order, precision, and repetition; traits often found in people with autism. Then one day, looking at a table of free coffee and biscuits in the school's break room (which some were taking advantage of a bit too liberally), the idea struck: install vending machines. But the distributors didn't think a "school for handicapped children" was a viable location. So Bonsignori decided: "If they won't give us machines, we'll get them ourselves. We'll find them, bring them in, and run them." This was 2015. A major sponsor stepped in, persuading a distributor to provide two machines—the first of many to follow.
Giuseppe, an autistic boy who had been at the school since age six, was the first to get involved. His family saw it as a chance to break routine, though they weren't sure what the future would hold. Others like him soon joined. Over the next two years, the enterprise grew, found its footing, became self-sustaining without donations, developed a serious and viable business plan, and even began to worry the competition. Truly equal.
Equality and dignity also mean doing the job well—maintaining the highest quality of service without compromise. The machine itself is perfect for pushing excellence because it's "neutral and silent": customers choose one machine or another based on the quality of the coffee or snacks, not because a disabled person restocked it. This shift in perspective is crucial to Chicco Cotto's philosophy and has made it a genuine player in the market. The work is so well done that at one point, someone asked where the handicapped employees were—they'd been promised they would fill the machines. Only then did they realize the workers were there all along, invisible because they looked like "normal employees."
In Italy, employing people with disabilities—especially those with intellectual disabilities—leaves much to be desired. Law 68 of 1999 mandates hiring; companies that fail to employ sufficient numbers must pay a fine. It's widely known that many prefer to pay the penalty rather than hire a disabled worker. This often triggers the paralyzing question: "What would I have them do?" I still remember my shock years ago when, asking for directions at a municipal office, an employee shouted at a colleague sitting at an "Information" window (clearly with some difficulties, but doing the job): "Information is over here! Can't you see he's handicapped?" What dignity in that? Perhaps it was an isolated incident. But I know others who, doing modest tasks, genuinely contribute to their offices' functioning. As Bonsignori says: "It would be beautiful if disability too had a normalized path to dignity and work. Of course it's utopian. But only great ideals drive us forward. And if society won't be welcoming… well, we'll just put vending machines everywhere." With Chicco Cotto, a step forward was taken. The vending machine invasion has begun. As with the most innovative enterprises, the larger ones have taken notice and acquired them. It happened here too. Perhaps, we hope, like leaven in dough—because now their invaluable know-how trains disabled employees who can be integrated into that normalized path Bonsignori envisions.
Employing people with disabilities as ordinary workers is far from taken for granted. The impression lingers that the right to work is really a favor, one that only reinforces the distance between disabled and non-disabled. Bonsignori shares many reflections with us readers that open our eyes to what seeking a genuine shift in perspective on disability entails—what an enterprise willing to take risks brings to light: "Should we see it as a burden on society or as a key to improving it?" He notes the obstacles and resistance, even from unexpected quarters—families, institutions, even those spiritually close but sometimes narrow in outlook. He acknowledges the inevitable complexities in relationships with those involved in the project, whether as employees or volunteers. But what all are asked to do transcends mere inclusion. Inclusion isn't enough. It must be "normal"—and it demands sacrifice, compromise, and great rewards. The language of inclusion, "bringing someone inside," sounds like a favor, an exception. Better, he suggests, to think about "reshaping society to be more open"—through acts of "extraordinary ordinariness." The social enterprise, mediating between profit and common good, may be one such path.
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