The Year I Was Cast as the Nativity Cave

Almost twenty-five years have passed since my fourth-grade Christmas play, and the world has changed. We disabled children were still poor handicapped creatures to be pitied. Not everyone saw it that way, but my teacher was firmly convinced that we were unfortunate beings never to be given false hopes—quite the opposite, we needed to be taught the hard truth of the world around us. My teacher felt obligated to teach me a lesson above all others: my place in the world. Behind the scenes. Living vicariously through the lives of others. She never missed a chance to remind me, especially after I revealed in an October 1996 essay that I wanted to compete in the Olympics when I grew up. She called my parents in urgently to explain that I had no awareness of my limitations and advised them to have me see a psychologist. But they didn't take the bait. The perfect opportunity came at the Christmas pageant, when she assigned the roles. We waited in suspense, each of us imagining ourselves as the Archangel Gabriel, the Virgin Mary, or one of the shepherds. I had always dreamed of having a part like my classmates, of sharing the stage. When it was my turn to receive my script, I opened it and discovered that this year I would be the Grotta di Betlemme—the Cave of Bethlehem. I didn't understand what kind of role that was. I asked why she had given me that part, and my teacher said, with perfect simplicity: "That way you'll be sitting down and no one will see you." My spastic tetraparesis had to remain hidden. It was something to be ashamed of, a kind of manufacturing defect that mustn't offend the eyes of the audience. I think she must have spent considerable time hunting for a play that included such a role. Everyone else had beautiful stage costumes. Mine was made from creche paper glued to my body like a thick blanket. I was ten years old, but I still remember the humiliation. After that experience, I made myself a promise: I would never again bend to anyone's judgment. That pageant left a wound in me that only time would heal. My victories in sports and in life proved that I was right to insist I was the protagonist of my own story. Yet I found myself returning again and again to one question: why was my disability so frightening to her? It took me years to understand. Understanding isn't the same as justifying, but it helps you see what happened in its proper place, in proportion to everything else. She was a woman born after the war, educated in a system of special classrooms and children wearing dunce caps, in a society where social climbing was the main goal—even if you'd been part of 1968. When I started first grade in 1992, Italy had just passed Law 104—a wonderful law. A law that called us "handicapped." Because that's what we were. She probably wanted to protect me, seating me in that chair, or forcing me to swallow my dreams. But she read me Dante and Manzoni when I was eleven, as if that alone were enough for me to grow up well. She wanted to show me my corner of the world, without illusions. All I was asking was to be tested, to find my own limits and the way to overcome them. I won. And this is my greatest victory.