In 2014, photographer Marco Catini felt that his photography had gone stale and that he needed a new challenge, so he decided to take on a personal photo project that would be outside of his photographic comfort zone. No landscapes or architecture, but a people story, a story about somebody whose life is different from Marco’s. He expected that this would teach him how to think and plan beyond just one pretty picture and hoped that it would hone his storytelling skills. He knew of a friend of a friend’s son who has an Intellectual Disability (ID), so he got in touch with his parents and told them about his photo story idea, which he called “A Day in the Life of Michael”. Not only were they open to it, but their support made it very easy for him to focus on Michael. Shortly after he posted the story on his Facebook page, Marco became a Special Olympics volunteer photographer, and has traveled the world to cover events from team practices to World Games. This year, Marco became a Special Olympics New Jersey employee. Here he is in his own words:
As with most projects, I exceeded the initially planned time frame and ended up documenting Michael over the course of three different days: twice while he competed with Team New Jersey during the 2014 Special Olympics USA Summer Games and one full day while he went to school and physical therapy and all those other things one does during a regular day.
Ever since then, Michael has been calling me his personal paparazzi. Before big events, he texts me, asking if I would be there to take photos of him. I usually reply, jokingly, that by now, I have probably taken enough photos of him and asked him to give me a good reason to photograph him anyway. His response varies, from “because we are friends” to “because I asked nicely” to, occasionally, “because I am beautiful”. Who could say no to any of those answers? Once we are at events, we usually start by taking a selfie of the two of us, with him insisting that I send it to his mom, Cheri.
Early this year, I started thinking about following up on the 10-year anniversary. Before anything else was firmed up, I knew two details: One day wouldn’t suffice this time around, either, and if possible, I wanted to see Michael play baseball again.
By now, you have certainly realized that this piece is a bit different from the blog posts you usually see here. Sure, Michael is clearly the main protagonist in this story, but the photographer and writer (me!) is part of the narrative. Ok, enough prologue, it’s time to start the story.
It is a hot Wednesday in July, which for Michael means day program, fitness, and work. I arrive early at Michael’s home, just about as he is finishing his breakfast. His mom, Cheri, helps him clean up and does whatever is needed for him to get ready for the day. As he did 10 years ago, Michael insists on writing his name on the plastic cup he uses to take his medication. After he packs his own lunch, Cheri reminds him to check the Access Link to see when his ride will arrive. He puts his shoes on by himself, which is not made easy by the integrated ankle braces. Mom is omnipresent in the background throughout this, giving him as much independence as possible while keeping an eye on him and the clock.
The ride to Ashley’s Quest, Michael’s day program, is short. Some of the other participants arrived before him and were busy bantering about baseball when he entered the room. Before taking part in it, he puts his lunch in the refrigerator, marks on the board that it needs to be heated in the microwave oven, washes his hands, and then, as he finally sits down at his desk, he participates in the chatter. As his mom had reminded me, routine is very important to him. A few more people arrive, and once everybody is settled in, they share what they did the previous day. The tone is respectful, and there are no interruptions. Well, there’s some gentle teasing that comes with being familiar with each other. Then Pam, the director, opens the discussion about the group’s activities for the upcoming month. They discuss trips to parks and a pool, which movies to watch, and at some point, Michael suggests doing a project for the nearby soup kitchen.
Later in the morning, the group goes to Gail Force Winds, where they regularly do arts and crafts projects. Today, they adorn a solar lantern with colored glass squares. Some first lay out all their pieces, row by row, before gluing them to the lantern. Others generously apply glue first and then select the squares. Michael is quite engrossed in his task and doesn’t talk much. I take some time to reflect on how I reacted 10 years ago when I saw him and his classmates use glue and scissors. This time around, I don’t instantly visualize all the bad things that may happen but relax and look forward to seeing the crafts.
You see, like most people born in the seventies, I had never had much contact with someone with ID while growing up or even in my adult life. I can remember a couple of kids who had ID in my neighborhood, but we didn’t see them much and certainly barely ever played together. This probably explains why I never learned (or tried) to look beyond someone’s disability but comfortably focused on whichever way it manifested itself and then moved on with whatever was on my mind. But spending time with Michael showed me how wrong and insulting I had been. Over the past ten years, I have incessantly been learning during my encounters with others at Special Olympics events. I began to understand and appreciate everybody’s abilities (there aren’t any sports where I wouldn’t get my butt kicked), experienced how to manifest compassion, and learned how to appreciate the little moments again. Having understood the meaning of words like inclusion, respect, and kindness has helped me lead a more empathetic life while being open to supporting others without expecting anything in return.
Once everybody is done with the lantern and it is time to leave, Michael holds the door open for others and waits to board the van until everybody has taken their seats. These two little acts and his earlier suggestion to do a project for the soup kitchen seem quite representative of his character. I will never forget when, ten years ago, we told him to ignore me and act as if I wasn’t in the room, he replied with “but that’s not nice!”.
It dawns on me that all day long he has been saying “please” and “thank you”, and often uses “Mam” and “Sir”. Yes, he still calls me his personal paparazzi, but he also calls me his friend and shows that he means it. For example, when he completed high school many years ago, he invited my wife and me to his graduation party. We vividly remember the dance floor that night: joy, laughter, and some sick moves. Since then, I have photographed a lot of weddings, but very few of them had a dance floor that kept up with Michael’s.
Back at Ashley’s Quest, Michael quickly eats his small lunch. Once all surfaces are cleaned and table sets stored, the movie “Mrs. Doubtfire” comes on. Pretty much everyone in the room remembers a lot more parts of the movie than I do, and it is beautiful to see how genuine anticipation builds before certain scenes and then hear the laughter.
After the day program is completed, we go to RWJBarnabas for his strength training. Technically, he is not scheduled to work out today, but we can quickly drop in so he can show me what type of exercises he does. He seems to know all the staff there, moving around like somebody who feels at home and joking with staff. But he is always polite, and once his trainers show him the exercises, he listens and does all the repetitions they instruct him to do. I decided to try out one of the machines he uses, which has a weird-looking vibrating platform. To no one’s surprise, I barely managed to hang on for not even half as long as he did.
We drive back to his home so Michael can get ready for his job at Trenton Thunder. This means putting on khakis, the staff polo shirt, and the official name tag. Cheri realizes that he didn’t shave in the morning, so back to the bathroom we go! Michael does a great job with his electric razor, but she has to help with a few pesky spots he just can’t reach properly. This is a great moment for me to step back and put my camera down for a moment. I see that mom is navigating that fine line again between giving Michael the independence to groom himself and stepping in and helping with the razor or the toothbrush.
We talk about this and that and laugh at some of each other’s witty remarks as we drive to the stadium. There is that feeling of being at ease with an old friend, without the pressure of having to impress each other. Once at the stadium, Michael leads me past security with a simple “He’s with me,” and then he introduces me to his supervisor. Maybe it is my imagination, but his posture seems to straighten a bit, subconsciously showing his pride in having this job. He has tried a few other ones before, but this one seems to be the perfect fit: hand out programs at baseball games. And he does more: he answers questions from visitors and points them toward their seats.
After a while, he looks sapped of energy, which we attribute to the hot and muggy conditions. We step to the side for a little break and some cold water. He keeps an eye on the game, which started a few minutes ago, and he seems to be lost in thought. When I ask him what he’s thinking, he replies, “Winning a gold medal here, 10 years ago”. While not surprising at all, I somewhat expected the answer to be along the lines of competing with his teammates while their families and friends were in the seats cheering hard. But after a bit of thought, his answer makes perfect sense: He sees his teammates all year while competing in several sports. But he hasn’t won another gold medal at the USA Games. With a smirk, he then adds that he remembers being hit by a pitch during that gold medal game and how he got to walk first base.
When his shift is over, Michael clocks out on an app on his cell phone, and we drive back home to pick up Cheri and go out to dinner. She and Michael talk about the day, how he did at work, and, most importantly, what he wants to order for dinner. His interactions with the server are very polite, with several “Could I please have?” and “Thank you very much.” sprinkled in. Once dinner is finished, he insists on paying for all of us. With Cheri’s help, he figures out the tip, which slips to sign, and what to do with the card afterward.
During my drive home, I started to ponder about my transformation from being completely ignorant about ID to becoming involved in the cause for inclusion. There was no single big epiphany or eureka moment, but rather a slow learning process fueled by every single contact I had with a Special Olympics athlete, emphasized by their patience and generosity towards me. Every time I returned home after volunteering at a SONJ event I had a big silly grin on my face. But what was it that obviously made me so happy? I realize this may sound like a generic awareness ad, but here I say it: I have become a better person since having met Michael.
A couple of days later, I drove Michael to his drum session at Blue Light Digital. I suspect he doesn’t like the music that is playing in the car, so I put him in charge of the music selection. He picks songs by Shinedown and Disturbed. In the studio, Michael seems to know everybody, or maybe it’s the other way around: everybody knows Michael. Cheri probably had told me beforehand how the session works, but I focused on seeing the day evolve rather than going in with set expectations.
I feel this is another one of those ways my life has changed: the willingness to observe and learn and not to expect I know everything already.
Thus, I watch Michael sit behind a drum kit, put in his monitor earplugs, and pick a song on the iPad. Before he starts drumming, I put my own earplugs in. Now and then, he loses track but manages to regroup quickly and get back into the rhythm. His song selection varies from pop and movie soundtracks to hard rock.
After an hour or so of drumming, Michael takes a seat at the console in the control room, where he searches the internet for some songs to play. While we all relax a bit, I wonder aloud if he didn’t used to play the guitar when we first met. He actually did, but he prefers the drums now because they are more physical and a little easier to master. We finally drive back to his home, where he poses for some photos with the DJ setup he plans on using the next day when his teammates come by for their annual party. As Michael eats lunch, his parents and I reminisce about the past and wonder how fast the time has gone by.
One week later, Michael and I met in Pittsburgh for the Special Olympics North America Softball championship. I am on location to photograph the event while Michael is participating in a baseball exhibition program with Baseable, where his father, Rich, and his older brother, Marc, are coaches. This time around, I am aware of the magnitude of the event and what it means to athletes, coaches, and parents. And about my role, albeit small, in helping raise awareness for Special Olympics.
The softball tournament schedule keeps me too busy to photograph all of Michael’s activities, but I managed to cover some scrimmage on day one and then the exhibition game on the second day. This time around, I decided to stay more in the background and observe how he plays and interacts with his teammates and coaches. During scrimmage, he hits a ball quite nicely, and once he is safe on second base, he shows a lot of swagger. But shortly thereafter, coaches make him aware of an incorrect decision about stealing a base, his showmanship disappears, and he listens attentively.
There are no gold medals at the end of the game on day two, but the teams are happy with having played another exhibition game. Michael and I hug and say goodbye. His team gets on the road for the drive back to New Jersey, and I go on to photograph the softball event. I may or may not have had a big silly grin was back on my face while covering the next couple of games… It feels right to have finished this project here, as it started with a baseball game in 2014.
With all the little and big changes during the past 10 years, one detail has remained the same: I still don’t know the medical description of Michael’s ID. I never asked, and his parents never shared it with me, probably because they knew from the beginning that it didn’t really matter.
Oh, silly me, I haven’t told you yet how it came to be that I was at this SONA event in Pittsburgh as one of the official photographers. My apologies. It happened like this: Special Olympics New Jersey noticed the photo story I posted on Facebook in 2014 and reached out to me to see if I would like to volunteer at some upcoming events. I obviously said yes, and I guess my photos weren’t terrible. After a while, SO USA and SO North America asked me if I would like to volunteer for them, too, and I said yes again. Over the years, I have had the opportunity to cover small local events, big fundraisers, humongous World Games, and everything in between. I have photographed on fire truck ladders and from top of buildings, I have laid on the ground, I was inside airplanes and in tunnels, close to home and across the globe.
But why? Why did I decide to volunteer a considerable chunk of my time over many years? I must admit I don’t know how to answer this. It would be easy to say that it is fun to be involved with Special Olympics, that the volunteer t-shirts are great, and that they feed me at events. But there is more to it, both intrinsically and extrinsically. On the one hand, contributing to a great organization that helps people with ID develop new skills and be more included in society is very satisfying. On the other hand, it really feels good to receive great feedback on my work, be recognized at events by athletes and parents, and have the freedom to document events the way I see them. This is the paragraph I have been rewording and editing the most throughout the whole story. It feels like I’m trying to embellish the obvious answer because I feel obligated to end the story with big words and profound insight… while the answer to the why is simple: Because it feels great and because it is the right thing to do.
Oh, and another detail I forgot to mention: I am not volunteering for SONJ anymore because, as of April of this year, I have joined the staff as a full-time employee!
This is probably an overused phrase, but I mean it: I cannot express my gratitude enough to the many, many people who have helped me along this path. Not only because there are so many, but also because of my impressive ability to forget names… To save myself some embarrassment, I will keep it simple: Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart, for helping me find my passion and encouraging me to become a better human.
Amazing and Heartwarming story!!! Marco is an incredibly talented man. Kind, caring, fun, and just all around a GREAT human. Special Olympics is lucky to have him as part of the team.