Preface by Federica Brogna
James Marazza In his freshman year of college, he took the course "Language, Community, and Power." His first assignment was to write an essay describing his relationship with languages as a "narrative ideolect." It was September 26, 2021, and Giacomo was very scared: he had never written such a long narrative piece and was having difficulty telling stories in general.
His friends helped him in this endeavor, choosing with him what to incorporate into the text and how to do it. The theme of his story is the evolution of his definition of being "normal," along with the idea that any goal is achievable only through hard work. And Giacomo did an excellent job.
At two years old, Giacomo couldn't pronounce the words "mommy" and "daddy," and the diagnosis soon came crashing down: "a very serious language disorder." Years of therapy and testing began. Therapists were pessimistic, saying Giacomo would have difficulty not only with his native tongue but also in learning foreign languages.
Today, Giacomo speaks fluent Italian, English, Spanish, and a little Russian. I was fortunate enough to meet him on my journey, here in America, where he also lives, works, and studies, and, I assure you, he's a great chatterbox! Giacomo is living proof that miracles exist and that, with willpower and determination, extraordinary results can be achieved. This is his story, his history, of everything he remembers and everything he doesn't, but it's the story of his journey toward normalcy. Enjoy the read.
“"SWEET DREAMS"”
“"Finish your homework now, so you don't have to think about it later," was Mom's response when she asked if I could take time off work. Why did I have to do more homework than my classmates? Why did I need to see a speech therapist every day? Why was it so hard for me to do simple things?
Mom and Dad had noticed that I wasn't exactly like your typical two-year-old. I often slept and couldn't even pronounce "mamma" or "papà." I appreciated all the melodic Italian words around me, yet I wasn't a singer; like a conductor, I had only my Italian gestures at my disposal. Mom and Dad had taken me to the infamous Bambino Gesù Children's Hospital on the banks of the Tiber. There, the doctors I was diagnosed with autism, but my parents felt that something different was happening.
Dad was furious: he claimed my brother slept more than me, yet he wasn't disabled in any way. So we visited a different facility; I was intrigued by its green courtyard full of flowers and its pungent mimosa scent. Valentina, the facility's speech therapist, confirmed their doubts; I wasn't autistic, but I did have a very serious language disorder.
He later explained that I could only speak through intensive and long therapy; he didn't know how long it would take, but the resolution of the disorder was possible. Valentina also observed that unfortunately I would never be able to speak foreign languages and that I would have been overall slower than my peers; my brain was simply not wired to accomplish such feats.
E This is how my crazy journey to becoming a normal kid began.
I started attending the ’Valentina's office”, a facility for children with mental disorders, about five times a week to practice with computer reading exercises and subsequently with verbal exercises with Valentina, like saying the alphabet out loud. Valentina only let me relax once I'd finished the exercise in its entirety. I started to hate Valentina; I couldn't see the harm in taking a little break.
I was so annoyed by Valentina that I was crying in the car on the way to his office. When Mom asked me why I didn't want to see Valentina, I told her, "I don't like her hair!" Her Medusa-like hair seemed to be staring back at me. Valentina was well aware of my fear of her and encouraged me to work harder so I wouldn't have to work with her. So I sat on the little plastic chair and worked on the computer for at least an hour.
The reward for the commitment and attention given to Valentina it was playing in the courtyard with the other children in the facility or setting up games in the playground for them. Both activities were delightful; I had formed such a strong bond with these children that I often forgot about their disabilities. One of the children I played hide-and-seek and one, two, three star with was named Amadin. She was an autistic girl from India and one of my closest friends at the facility. Our friendship began when we both couldn't speak.
When I learned to talk, she hadn't made much progress; however, our friendship never wavered. I spoke to her slowly and pointed out parts of the playground and yard to explore: that was all the communication we needed to get along.
At about the age of four I was finally able to connect syllables to form words.. The transition from silent to speaking was surprisingly quick, At the age of five I neither stammered nor hesitated to speak. I could finally call them Dad, Mom, Leo, Grandma Ornella, Grandma Anna, Grandpa Lamberto, and Grandpa Chicco, the nickname Leo had given to Grandpa Francesco. Leo, my brother, had invented this nickname because Francesco's "ce" sound was too difficult to pronounce when he started talking.
Evidently Even normal people had trouble speaking. Despite all the progress, I still had to go and see Valentina at least five times a week Before the school bell rang. For example, during recess I'd organized a game of hide-and-seek, I'd looked for the best place to hide, I'd hidden there, and then I had to leave mid-game to get in the car to visit Valentina's office.
I hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye to my friends. Having now repeated a year of kindergarten, my new classmates and I were sharing the stage where we were celebrating our entry into elementary school. We also met Roberta, our primary school teacher. Her assertive yet comforting demeanor reassured me. Roberta's classes were a lot of fun, especially the history ones. While she taught history, I lost myself imagining myself next to Hammurabi, Alexander, and Caesar. While I daydreamed, I imagined myself as a polyglot man living the life of kings and emperors.
Back in the world of the living, Roberta had begun to teach addition. I had firmly rejected the idea that the signs “greater than” and “less than” should be reversed. How could the "greater than" sign point to the smaller number? Roberta explained to me that the symbol points to the smaller number because its ends originate from the larger number, but I didn't want to understand. I concluded by saying that I just couldn't grasp the concept.
The easiest way to prevent me from studying and paying attention in class was to convince myself that I couldn't learn the concept in question. Roberta wouldn't allow such claims and forced me to accept that I could accomplish anything only if I truly believed I was capable of such feats. So, after a week of insistent explanations and practical exercises, I gave in to the fact that Roberta was probably right and realized that the most logical way to place the "greater than" sign is to point it toward the smaller number.
Meanwhile, in addition to the basic knowledge of English and the reading skills acquired in elementary school, Valentina was doing psychological evaluations on me And he was teaching me new skills like printing and memorizing sentences. I seamlessly transitioned from the immaculate, practical cursive I'd just learned to the useless, rudimentary block capitals. After all, my brain wasn't yet ready to memorize entire sentences word for word. The Italian school system still emphasizes learning poetry and memorizing algebraic and geometric formulas.
Valentina had me draw geometric definitions and poems so that I could interpret the drawings and recite them aloud. I called my drawings hieroglyphics because they were a literal representation of forms of speech. This opened my eyes to the beauty and complexity of languages.: cHow do you draw a verb, or a pronoun? I was fascinated; however, my classmates weren't as fascinated as I was.
As soon as I got up to go to Roberta's desk, at least two of my classmates would say, "Giacomo is cheating!" I knew I wasn't cheating, and I felt like they were. After all, they didn't study three extra hours a day on software that focused on speaking, reading, and writing.
Pushing aside my anger, I stood before the deadly silent class, crumpling my hieroglyphics and feeling the smooth texture of the paper. As I slowly recited one word at a time, both my voice and hands shook. As I pronounced my last word, I scanned the room for any signs of tension, hoping no one would notice any mistakes during my performance. The room was still deadly silent, then Roberta said, "Bravo, nine." As I folded my hieroglyphics, I sat down.
amid the groans of some classmates. I knew that one day I'd be able to recite poetry like the other students, and that then I'd truly be on equal terms.
As she progressed through elementary school the frequency of visits to Valentina was decreasing while My desire to become independent was growing rapidly. Now I understood the importance of participating in psychological evaluations with Valentina and I felt confident in sharing my problems with her.
Valentina always started with the question, "So, Giacomo, how was your day?" Every time I answered, she took meticulous notes, which made me feel appreciated and more. Now I answered her questions from my large swivel chair. Furthermore, I spent most of my working time in Valentina's personal office, I had become his de facto assistant. Moreover, I had learned to appreciate his authoritative behavior, which had motivated many other children to work harder.
I was ten years old when I went to visit Valentina for the last time, The assignment consisted of a final psychological evaluation. By the time I got to the final questions, I couldn't wait for our session to end and for me to officially become independent. After being discharged, Valentina suggested to my mother to enroll me in a drama course..
When I stepped out of the room, I realized thatI was alone, but, more importantly, I realized that I was as intellectually efficient as, if not more so than, anyone else.
I had I was fourteen when I moved to Miami, and four years had passed since I joined a drama club in Italy, the place that had helped me overcome my shyness.
The first day of school in America Virtually no one understood me, and I understood only half of what they were saying. I was so lost that I showed up to my first class thirty minutes late and was immediately yelled at. I had no idea what was happening. Six months into middle school, I had learned English.
It's been a long time; I vaguely remember the smell of the plastic chairs in Valentina's office, the chirping of birds in the courtyard outside. I remember the anxiety of completing the homework and the desire to go play in the courtyard with the other children. I remember slipping under the warm sheets after a hard day's work, waiting for Grandma Ornella's lullaby.
As Grandma finished her lullaby by saying “sweet dreams,”, I dreamed of a Giacomo who was older, more self-confident, more independent and more normal.”
James Marazza
