We pass them on the street, at school, in our neighborhoods, at church, in shops, at work. We don't recognize them. The outward signs of their disabilities are, at first glance, nearly invisible.
It is estimated that in our society, people with mild disabilities or slight intellectual delays make up about six percent of the population.
We rarely speak of them. Silence, it seems, helps us keep their struggles at a distance—or hidden altogether.
Even their parents struggle to put words to it: how their child, who seems "almost normal," disrupts family life, tests their patience, exhausts them with constant anxiety, disappoints with repeated failures.
They love him as much as—or more than—their other children. They want to clear the path ahead, find the right solutions, make sure he is "all right," that he doesn't torment himself, that he doesn't withdraw.
Everything seems minor. Yet—as mothers and fathers know all too well—everything is so difficult, so inexplicable, so confusing, so unpredictable.
A mother told me: "You know, sometimes I wish Paolo's disability were more severe. Then everyone would understand there are things he simply can't do. And maybe then someone would care about him, would seek him out, would invite him somewhere. As it is, he's always alone, disappointed, discouraged. They blame me for spoiling him. Maybe they're right."
And a father: "Everyone tells me I should let my daughter Carolina go out by herself. I know her better than they do. God knows how much I wish she could fend for herself... with everything that's out there."
We have to face a hard truth: it's easy to accept that a blind person cannot see, that a deaf person cannot hear, that a person with cerebral palsy walks or speaks with difficulty. It's far harder to welcome with generosity and patience someone who simply struggles a bit—with processing information slowly, learning, playing freely, joking, keeping pace, speaking, managing ordinary simple tasks. These difficulties don't inspire tenderness, respect, or consideration. More often, they provoke irritation, the urge to shout.
And so we very often turn away. We abandon someone who needs our welcome more than bread itself, simply to be "all right."
Like everyone else—perhaps more than most—our friends with mild disabilities need to find safe places. They need people attentive to their hidden struggles, people who show genuine confidence in what they can offer and do. Nothing more. People who help them grow, develop the abilities they have, without asking for anything beyond their reach. People who understand their desires and help them discover what they can actually achieve, never promising what lies outside their grasp.
Are we not those people—all of us who meet them on the street, at school, in our neighborhoods, at church, in shops, at work? Perhaps, if we think about it, we'll find it easier to recognize them, to welcome them, and to make sure they're never alone.
- Mariangela Bertolini, 1998
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