‘Pioneer’ and ‘visionary’ Veronica Federiconi reflects on 50+ years
working alongside people with special needs
As the former CEO of Autism Services Inc., Veronica Federiconi has dedicated her life to improving conditions for people with special needs. During more than five decades, she worked in different locations across the country, primarily in Western New York. She has also traveled to Eastern Europe to consult with workers and governments there, as an expert in the field.
Facing an uncertain future at 75, Federiconi is recognized as a pioneer and visionary for her work. She has both witnessed and driven changes in the treatment and care of autistic people.
“I don’t follow the status quo,” she admitted. “I never have. The autistic people I work with taught me everything I know. They teach me how to listen and understand them. Those are the people that taught me to be a leader.”
Her interest in serving others was established at a young age. Raised in Kenmore, the former Veronica Nunciato grew up in a strict Catholic household, the sole daughter and second of four children. Her mother was a caretaker, both at home and through her nursing job at the Veterans Administration hospital, passing those traits onto Federiconi. She was close with her brothers David, Frank, and Anthony. When her father became sick, Mom continued to work, so Federiconi “sort of took over raising” her youngest brother, Anthony, who is 11 years her junior. The concept of serving others was nurtured at home.
“She has a gift, but is quiet about it,” said Rosemary Arnone, a Buffalo resident who has known Federiconi for more than three decades.
Arnone’s 37-year-old son, Jeff Chris, is autistic, and worked with Federiconi throughout his teens and 20s.
“We gravitated to her because of her incredible energy,” Arnone said. “Veronica is like Mother Teresa, but hides it under a bed. She’s an angel on earth.”
Agent of change
“I came out of Buffalo State College with a degree in early childhood education,” Federiconi said. “I loved children. And in 1970, as a pilot, two kids with Down Syndrome were brought in to my class to see if they could integrate. I found myself drawn to them, and very quickly realized this was the population that I wanted to work with.”
Federiconi was hired at the West Seneca State School, spread across 475 acres along East and West Road, with a combination of residential, program, and support buildings. In 1974, its name was changed to the West Seneca Developmental Center. (The facility closed in 2011, and many of its buildings have since been condemned.)
“When I worked there, they housed 1500 people,” Federiconi said. “Some had severe disabilities, but some were not disabled. Some had seizure disorders. Some girls were institutionalized because they had children out of wedlock. During that time, families who couldn’t deal with kids just institutionalized them.”
Although she was in her early 20s and had little professional experience, Federiconi was mortified by the treatments she witnessed.
“Some older women used walkers. There was a dining station, and one by one, people went up to get their meal. If someone didn’t make it in time, they weren’t given food. They didn’t eat.”
Showers were open cement rooms, where residents were stripped, had powdered soap thrown at them, and were then hosed off. Everyone was given a bundle of matching clothing, and hair was trimmed short to prevent the spread of lice.
“People were treated like animals,” Federiconi said. “Everything was done for convenience of the staff.”
Bathrooms had no stall doors, so patients could be seen at all times. She recalls a huge dormitory with no privacy. An office window overlooked 40 women who were exposed to the staff. When dividing walls were added to create 4-person rooms, Federiconi believed it was a step in the right direction, but she was disturbed to see residents propped in front of a TV all day.
Training for the job was minimal. Employees were taught to administer medication, and how to restrain someone so he or she could be fitted with a straightjacket. This is when Federiconi vowed to implement change.
“There was a van sitting unused in the parking lot, so I asked to borrow it,” Federiconi said. “I started taking them into the community to purchase their own clothes. My aunt was a hairdresser, so she would do their hair. I wanted them to know that they were like any other person.”
When it was announced that the center would pilot a program addressing behavior modification, Federiconi requested to be enrolled. Her goal was to understand why people with special needs behaved in certain ways.
“I worked closely with psychologists,” she said. “We learned that there was always something behind a behavior. People behave a certain way that’s not okay, but for them, it serves a function. It may be their way of trying to communicate.”
Prior to studying behavior modification, employees used a program called Strategies for Crisis Intervention and Prevention, nicknamed SCIP, which featured dozens of physical interventions a caretaker might use when someone became aggressive. Federiconi was not a fan.
“People who trained felt they had control over others, but never focused on the positives of corrections, which was depressing to me,” she said. “I’ll never forget the first time I had to use the restraint program in West Seneca. I was upset and called the instructor who taught me. I was crying, and told him it didn’t feel good to put my hands on somebody like that.”
“That’s how you should feel,” the instructor agreed. “You should never feel like it’s okay.”
Later, when she ran Autism Services Inc., Federiconi attended a workshop that offered a different method, featuring a “hands-off” approach. Employees were taught to use padded blockers to protect themselves if a patient became aggressive.
“They were like blockers that you used for football practice,” she said. “When people aggressed toward you, you would protect yourself with a blocker and not allow them to hurt you. You never pushed toward someone.”
Blockers were often required with challenging patients. Federiconi recalled one man in particular, who regularly bit and kicked others. In his presence, employees needed to wear tight caps to protect their hair, and arm splints to prevent scratching.
“We used him as our model and worked with him for months and months and months,” Federiconi said. “With SCIP, you had to apply deep pressure, and he liked that pressure. Light pressure bothered him, but deep pressure worked. So he was getting everything he wanted, and all he had to do was act out.”
Federiconi and her team worked to turn that around, explaining that he could receive deep pressure, but needed to ask. Behavior modification reached a point where if he laid down and extended his arms, deep pressure would be provided. No conflict was needed.
Job changes
“Sometimes we had to use SCIP if the blockers weren’t working, but the data told me it was working,” she said. “There was a huge decrease in staff injuries. Workers’ compensation dropped from $700,000 to $200,000. I always made decisions based on data.”
For a short time, Federiconi relocated to Houston to help her older brother operate his business. While in Texas, she volunteered to work with a brain-injured child and with special needs children displaying extreme behaviors at a Texas institution called the Richmond State School.
“These kids were severely injured and self-injurious,” she recalled. “We were on call 24 hours a day, and took a very positive approach, reinforcing them for doing small things.”
The program, called Applied Behavior Analysis, was new at the time, although it is well-known now, according to Federiconi.
“We made huge progress during a three-year grant,” Federiconi said. “One of our big guys was constantly hitting his head, so they put splints on his arms so he couldn’t reach his head. Prior to that, he’d try to gouge out his eyes. As his behavior improved, we were able to reduce the splints by making them smaller. With positive reinforcement, over a period of time, we got him to the point where he’d hold two rolls of toilet paper and hit himself with that.”
Federiconi later followed her brother to California before returning to Buffalo. Her next career stop was at Allentown Industries, which provided work opportunities for adults with special needs.
“But sometimes they weren’t given real work,” she lamented. “One of the jobs was counting things, so I created modules to focus on certain skills. I was never okay with someone doing meaningless tasks.”
Federiconi was hired to be a house manager at Autism Services Inc., which was opening its first group home. Twelve adult men would be living in a house, and several were volatile. As these men aged, families struggled to care for them round-the-clock.
“It was very difficult for parents to separate from their children because of guilt,” she reflected. “Sometimes they had to drop off their kids and leave them, without informing them that this was about to happen.”
Arts program
She continued to learn by working with individual issues. One resident was sensitive to people speaking to him directly. When Federiconi asked him to select a cereal, he became upset. She eventually laid out cereals and looked toward each one without words, letting him choose.
“I had to learn through different steps,” she said. “If he didn’t like one way, I’d try another. That’s the way it was with special needs people. I put all my energies into their interests. They couldn’t tell me things, but if you observe people, because of repetitive behaviors, you will learn their interests. You capitalize on that and hope that certain behaviors will diminish.”
Once, an autistic man entered the room while Federiconi worked at her desk. She asked how he was doing. When she received no reply, she worded the question differently. There was still no response.
“I asked three times, then I stopped asking,” she said. “I waited, and all of a sudden, he responded. He just needed time to process what I was saying. Sometimes autistic people won’t talk until they go through the whole room to feel comfortable. The environment has to come to them before they can communicate.”
As years passed, Federiconi assumed more leadership roles. By the time she became the CEO of Autism Services Inc., she held regular meetings with other CEOs across New York state. As services began to shrink because of staffing issues, she invited government representatives to visit facilities in person. It wasn’t a popular move among her colleagues.
“We needed to increase pay,” she said. “We couldn’t compete with other jobs where workers didn’t have to deal with extreme behaviors. Our staff wasn’t paid enough for the work they do.”
Around 2002, with leftover budget funds, Federiconi developed a performing and visual arts program, hired teachers, and let special needs people create. It remains a proud achievement.
“Autistic people tend to repeat themselves,” she explained. “People want them to stop their repetitive movements or language. They’d be instructed to fold or sit on their hands. That treatment was not okay to me.”
Instead, she believed that autistic patients could communicate through a canvas. Choosing subject matters, colors, and designs had a positive effect. In addition to painting, people gathered onstage for performing arts.
“Veronica’s legacy is closely intertwined with the arts program,” said Dana Ranke, an art instructor who currently works for People, Inc. She began as a volunteer more than 20 years ago, and has helped artists develop skills.
“Veronica created a program that was not therapy,” Ranke said. “It was a way for people to express themselves. Our role was to assist them in making the kind of art they wanted to make. We never used the word client. We said that artists were creating work, and rightly so, because they are making art.”
The program began in a single room in Clarence. Success was palpable, eventually expanding to four simultaneous locations throughout Western New York.
“On the canvas, you could recognize each artist by their interest,” Federiconi said. “They do art in the purest form, then walk out. They only like the process. They don’t care if anyone liked it or it was going to be exhibited or if it made money.”
As a mother, Arnone had never considered using art to engage her autistic son.
“When Veronica started the arts program, that was the first I’d heard of it,” Arnone recalled. “She was a groundbreaker. It engaged my son, and it was the first time where we could see tangible evidence of the talent he had.”
Ranke recognized the pride felt by both artists and their families.
“We watched people grow into their role and see themselves as artists,” she said. “It’s hard to put into words because they don’t put it into words, but you could see the change take place. Feedback from families was an added bonus. Family members don’t always hear good news, but suddenly the community was seeing their art being admired. That was a huge thing. Veronica’s legacy is that all things are possible when you allow someone to achieve their greatest potential.”
Romania
Brendan Bannon was a local housepainter and amateur photographer in the early 2000s when he visited his stepbrother, Peter Brown, who served in the Peace Corps in Romania. During the dictatorship of Nicolae Ceaușescu, children with special needs had been taken by the government and dropped into institutions, where living conditions were poor.
“The premise was that children belong to the state,” Bannon explained. “They prioritized state rights over parental rights. That system had spread across Eastern Europe. There was a group called ‘Hope and Homes for Children’ who were resilient in trying to change this. During the lead-up to joining the European Union, Romania had been mandated to close these institutions and address their problem.”
Ceaușescu had been deposed in 1989, but the after-effects of those policies remained for years. Bannon and his brother took photos of workers and people trapped in those Romanian institutions, documenting the difficulties.
Some kids were clad in rags numbered by the floor they lived on. Others were tied to metal cots. Bannon captured the dehumanization of a vulnerable population.
Photos of institutionalized people in Romania, taken by Brendan Bannon and shared with Federiconi, which moved her to action. © photos by Brendan Bannon
A West Side resident, Bannon, now 54, returned home to develop his film. He had no journalism training, nor any idea how to promote the stark images he took. So he invited several friends and acquaintances to his Auburn Avenue home to share his work.
“Veronica was one of those people,” he said. “We had met years before, and I had taken photos for her at Autism Services. I had a deep appreciation for the way she connected with people who were living with autism. My mom had Multiple Sclerosis. You see people shy away from folks who are different in any way. But instead of shying away, Veronica would meet people with differences in the most dignified, loving, and compassionate way.”
When Federiconi saw the photos, she was reminded of her early career, where mistreatment was rampant. She wondered aloud how she could help. Bannon connected her with people in Romania. Soon she was invited there, assigned an interpreter, and undertook the first of many trips to Europe.
“You could see the devastation of what was going on,” Federiconi recalled. “Abuse was rampant. I knew I had to be very careful with what I said. It was a new culture for me. I didn’t set out to offend anybody.”
She witnessed, for instance, a special needs boy who had oatmeal spooned into his mouth while in a reclining position.
“A woman asked me if that was okay to do,” Federiconi recalled. “I didn’t say ‘don’t do that.’ I said ‘it’s not really okay,’ and waited for questions about better ways to act.”
Federiconi offered training, inviting Romanian workers to visit America to witness techniques that were practiced here. Some special needs children in Romania had never felt snow. Some had never even been outside.
“Initially, some of the (Romanian) staff didn’t like that I was there,” she recalled. “They wanted to keep kids in institutions so they wouldn’t be visible. Once you put them in the community, people can see what’s going on. I’m sure the interpreter didn’t tell me everything that was said. It’s great that they get three meals a day, but there’s so much more that should be done.”
In 2004, Federiconi helped create a non-profit, Bridges for New Beginnings Inc., to serve special needs children in Romania. She traveled there frequently, spending her own money, to ensure that changes were made. Over time, attitudes began to shift.
Gradually, Romanian children were moved from institutions to group homes. The transition wasn’t always smooth.
“Kids would be put on a train to visit the Black Sea for the holidays,” Federiconi recalled. “When they came back, they moved directly into new group homes. One thing that wasn’t taken into consideration is that groups of kids had lived together for many years. Kids were brought back to their home villages, but it broke up their friendships, which was devastating. We had to think about that and adapt.”
Federiconi met with government representatives in Bucharest, asking for funding to sustain the progress. Staff were overwhelmed, Federiconi believed. She helped develop a training curriculum for future employees, and outlined steps that had been taken. While changes have occurred, the work continues.
“What began with 100,000 people in institutions is now down to 1000,” she said. “I was happy to be part of a beautiful transition, and excited to see the change in staff mentality.”
For Bannon, connecting Federiconi to the system in Romania remains a proud achievement.
“If my photos had ended up on the cover of Time magazine, it wouldn’t have been as impactful as showing them to Veronica and her network for creating change in the population she serves. She was the right person at the right time to see a way forward. She’s determined to use her life to give other people’s lives meaning and dignity.”
Physical challenges
Federiconi lives in Buffalo with her daughter, Kirsten, and three grandchildren: Gabriel, 20, Nathanial, 17, and Zoe, 15. Family is important because the future remains uncertain.
“Two years ago, I was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease,” Federiconi said. “And I’ve started to show symptoms of Parkinson’s Disease. I’ve fallen a few times when my upper body was propelling but my feet did not keep up.”
Federiconi planned to visit Bucharest last summer, but her doctor suggested that she cancel. While most days are good, there are moments of memory and stability loss.
“My doctor says to socialize, to exercise, and to challenge my cognitive abilities,” she said. “That’s what I do as much as I can. I’m sure it makes my daughter crazy because I repeat the same questions, but I’m very positive and hopeful.”
Following a recent cognitive test, she enthusiastically quizzed the doctor about her results. Was there any improvement?
“Veronica, you have Alzheimer’s Disease,” he told her. “You need to understand that it doesn’t pause or stop. It’s progressive. I can’t tell you you did better, but the best we can hope for is that it will progress slowly.”
Despite the challenges ahead, Federiconi remains proud of her life’s work, eager to discuss her legacy. Autism Services has closed, and much of the work they did has been taken over by other service organizations.
“When I left Autism Services, it was heartbreaking. I didn’t want to leave. I walked out believing that no matter what happened, I made a difference. Autistic people had a better life because of me.”
Arnone, the mother of an autistic son, believes that.
“Not only did she provide education and a place to be, she gave me one-on-one support,” she said. “She saved my son’s life and my life so many times. Our friendship is one I will always cherish. She is beloved in this community and was a groundbreaker. It was never about a paycheck. It was all about heart and what she could do. She was the first person to say that these individuals understand everything going on and we should treat them as such.”
For the past 18 years, Federiconi has coordinated “AUSME,” a monthly social gathering in a public library for people with autism or are interested in learning about it. These are usually adults who were not diagnosed until later in life.
“I want everyone to understand that special needs people are no different than you,” Federiconi said. “They just learn differently. They may not process information the way you do. For them, it’s a little more challenging, and takes longer, but they can get there. They deserve to be treated just like all of us. They can do anything you put before them if you just give them a chance.”
text © 2025 by Jeff Schober
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Jeff Schober has a journalism degree from Bowling Green State University and a master’s degree in English and History from the University at Buffalo. He retired from teaching English and Journalism at Frontier High School and is the best-selling author of ten books, including the true crime book Bike Path Rapist with Det. Dennis Delano, and the Buffalo Crime Fiction Quartet. Visit his website at www.jeffschober.com.
Steve Desmond is an award-winning photographer. With his son, Francis, he is the author of A Life With A Purpose which raises money for Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy research. To view more of Steve's work, search Facebook under "Steve Desmond" and "Desmond's PrimeFocus Photography," or on Instagram at "Stevedesmond9."
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