For many years now, I've spent part of my vacation with handicapped people. I meet them at Fede e Luce camps. But long before Fede e Luce came to Italy, my family already spent vacations differently. My parents had to balance my needs with those of Chicca, my older sister, who was severely disabled.
At home, everything worked. Chicca had her own room and her toys. I had learned to sense when I could be with her, and if she was calm, I was happy sitting beside her. I'd also learned when to leave her alone: one look from my mother and I knew to go. I'd hear Chicca's cries and her particular way of crying. I'd hear my mother trying—gently or firmly, as any mother would—to calm her down. If he was home, my father would hold Chicca and comfort her, or come play with me—to distract me, I think. If he was at work and things were harder than usual, my mother would send me upstairs to Aunt Tea's, pressing a little silver bell into my hand so she'd let me in: I was too small to reach our doorbell.
And everything was fine. That was my home. That was my family. That was my sister. And I loved her.
My problems started when we had to leave the house—to travel, to go on vacation.
Hotels didn't always welcome us warmly. At the beach, Chicca's fragility showed even more. In the mountains it was better. You could be alone by the stream, or in some meadow.
My parents must have sensed my discomfort in certain situations, and they did everything they could to make sure I still had some vacation time without Chicca. That's how my aunts and uncles got into the habit of inviting me along on their holidays.
Then, thanks to Chicca, we discovered Fede e Luce, and after a couple of years there was our first camp. I naturally went with my mother, Chicca, and my new baby brother, but I didn't mind joining the camp: there were other people like my sister there, and I was happy about it. Finally, a real vacation! I actually slept in a tent, and nobody complained about how Chicca was. In fact, that's exactly why they had come.
I was on vacation but like I was at home. I felt protected from the startled or unsettled looks people gave when they noticed Chicca.
Read also: Fede e Luce day and night
At the camps, we could go on hikes too: with all those friends around me, I felt stronger, braver. They were spending their holidays with wounded people just like I was.
I remember a long walk at Scontrone: we took turns pushing wheelchairs or helping people who walked badly. It was an uphill road the whole way, and the sun was beating down hard. We sang, happy about the sun, happy about the climb and the view. There's nothing to see at Scontrone, so when we got to the top, all we could do was sit on a little wall and buy a ton of popsicles from the nearest bar. We started eating them with pleasure. I wasn't calm at all. As usual, I had sensed that someone was looking strangely at my sister. On the bar doorway stood two children with a red tricycle. When they saw us coming, they left their toys and their eyes went wide at this group of sweaty teenagers fighting over a popsicle. Tourists, they probably thought, and pretty strange ones too... in fact, some of them are really weird... For me nothing else existed: those two kids with the tricycle, staring, staring, staring.
«For me those first camps were vacations with friends who understood me and Chicca, friends who opened me up to other kids like her».
They were staring at my sister...I woke as if from a dream hearing Francesca's beautiful voice whispering to us: "Come on, quiet now, let's stare right back at them!"...
Fantastic! Two minutes later those kids ran crying into the bar.
That's what those first camps meant to me. Vacations with friends who knew me and Chicca. Friends who opened me up to other kids like Chicca. Friends who loved her and knew, just like I did, when she needed to be left alone.
And they didn't need explanations.
- Nanni, 1989