The Power Of The Italian Mom: Play Your Cards Right And Pray For A Little Word-of-Mouth

A Milanese mother unleashed a flood of English lessons, but it was one from Porta Romana who sealed the deal. After 10 years, work keeps rolling in. Pay heed to grooming and etiquette to score points.

Today’s 92-degree (33 Celsius) walk took me past a vintage 1930s-era tram replete with formal dining service. Ten minutes later, an English lesson would begin with a teen whose mom is friends with a mother from Porta Romana.

A Rolling Stone staffer was about to rock my teaching planet.

“David, a friend of mine is looking for an English teacher to do private lessons with her son,” said Emanuela after an advanced-level class at the music magazine’s Italian headquarters in 2014. “Do you do those, and would you be available?”

In Italy, private lessons are like silver dollars. You won’t get you rich, but shopping sprees to Benetton and railroad trips to places like Parma are more easily penciled into weekend plans.

“Why sure, Emanuela, here’s my number. Just have your friend write me a message—any time.”

Italy is a land where elation and frustration strike equally. The Milan language school that had farmed me out to Rolling Stone was stiffing me €450 in back pay tied to previous courses taught at other companies. Its parsimonious owner was a chain-smoking old biddy who one week tried to pacify me through a gift of outdated dress ties. Her New York City-born assistant was nice enough but played stupid when it came to compensation. Both women had grown up in agrarian regions that worldly Milanese disparage. A form of debt peonage was dogging me. 

“David, those two old ladies—that’s a volatile mixture,” a Milanese friend counseled me, commenting on their provenance. “If I were you, I would cut ties.” A pro-bono lawyer added: “There’s not much that can be done.”

[Note: €400 out of the €450 were eventually recouped through Italian-style guile]

That day at Rolling Stone perked me up when the going seemed tight-fisted. Milanese generosity awaited me in the upper-middle class neighborhood of Porta Romana, a 25-minute walk southeast from the cathedral, where nannies walk golden retrievers before lunch, guests are directed to vintage wooden elevators, and college kids play pick-up basketball on shaded public basketball courts with snap-back rims. The McDonald’s there is a magnet to teens in Air Jordans.

Porta Romana, primarily middle and upper-middle class, is a 25-minute walk from Duomo, Milan’s cathedral. The 16th-century gate was built to commemorate a visit by Queen Margaret of Spain.

A shaded Porta Romana public park reflects neighborhood demographics, heavy on ethnic Italians. Glass backboards and snap-back rims are rare across the city but not here.

A neighborhood mural.

Porta Romana is served by the metro as well as tram No. 9.

Everything started through Emanuela, herself a mom. In Italy, never underestimate the power of the mother. They call the social shots and operate on word-of-mouth, passaparola, when extracurricular family matters are at stake. A verbal recommendation via an acquaintance counts infinitely more than a squeaky clean résumé. Vetting measures appearance, etiquette, culture, and subject-verb formation. An American accent might charm if slang is kept to a minimum.

[editorial note: Scant few Americans, unless a soccer star or the grandchild of an Italian, can get a long-term visa for Italy. Marriage to an Italian is the only route for most.]

In the case of Emanuela’s friend, a petite spark plug of a mom named Nuvola answered the doorbell, looked me up and down, and presented me to her 14-year-old son, Leonardo, an easygoing kid with a catchy smile who several years later would decide on a career in medicine.

Our English lessons weren’t pedantic. They centered on such themes as sports vocabulary and Southern California culture, as well as the occasional YouTube video tied to odd-ball science. One followed the day in the life of an American man with Tourette Syndrome, which captured Leo’s imagination. Already a capable speaker of English, he marveled at the earthy vernacular spoken by the tormented subject.

A few lessons focused on linker adverbs and complex sentence construction as exam prep, but keeping it loose dictated my general philosophy toward language acquisition: A teacher can know all the grammar in the world but if the kid doesn’t like you, it’s curtains.

After that first session with Leo, text messages came from two more moms, a Paola and a Roberta. Nuvola knew Paola, and Paola knew Roberta. Passaparola was in play. The following week, a Carina wrote. In 10 days, my Porta Romana haul had grown to four families, with a couple more soon to follow.

Two of these moms worked at corporations, one was a notary, and the other had a degree from UC Berkeley, one of the USA’s finest public universities. Their husbands had equally good jobs. These parents knew English would help open doors for their kids, bound for careers in finance, law, medicine, engineering, and computer science. The new millennium’s globalization had rendered French irrelevant. English cruised in to stay.

This summer marks my 11th year of teaching kids with ties to Porta Romana-area mothers, the majority of whom work for corporations. A decade and going has tallied 19 families, with lessons to 13 sons, 13 daughters, two fathers, one mother, and an 86-year-old grandmother, Giuliana, a star pupil.

The Porta Romana Mother Web:

Emanuela: magazine mom who started ball rolling

Nuvola, corporate: teen son and teen daughter

Paola, notary: teen son and teen daughter

Roberta, attorney: two teen daughters

Carina, UC Berkeley graduate: teen son and teen daughter

Elvira, corporate: teen son and teen daughter

The trifecta sisters:

A. Aline, corporate: teen son and teen daughter

B. Nicole, corporate: teen daughter and teen son

C. Monique, publishing house: college-aged son

Laura, corporate: teen daughter, teen son

Emanuela, corporate: teen son, teen daughter

Chiara, bookstore manager: teen son

Marcella, corporate: teen daughter

Monica No. 2, corporate: teen son

Margherita and Ludovica, college-aged sisters introduced through a boyfriend

Silvia, corporate: two teen sons

Donatella, print-media journalist: teen son

Giuliana, 86-year-old retired English teacher

Marco, engineer

Carlo, medical doctor

Melania, corporate

Privately teaching English doesn’t hinge on just showing up, as Woody Allen says. Families are welcoming you into their homes. For starters, a teacher oughtn’t dress like a slob, as is sometimes the case in the US. Italy—and especially Milan—is fashion-conscious. Slipping on a crisp pair of pants and a classy business shirt is a good idea. Loud colors that clash are not. However, Nikes of most any shade are in because they reflect class and are popular with teens.

Grooming, too, is important. An average American male might rub on some sports stick and call it good. Think again. If you’ve downed an espresso, bring a breath mint. Comb your hair and don’t stroll through the door looking like a loco. Those nails and that wayward ear hair should be clipped. A little cologne’s not a bad idea either.

An Italian lady friend told me ages ago: “Dave, you know how girls are here. They notice the little things.”

Keeping up on fashion, social media, and influencers is a plus, too. One student of mine adored Justin Bieber, so my questions followed in suit: “Oh, wow, how many times have you seen him live? That’s crazy about his dad.”

Bieber is now passé. Trap music, a cousin of rap, rages on among Italian teens. They love Milan’s own, Sfera Ebbasta, but are not hip to most any classic rock group outside Nirvana.

The boys? Well, boys are boys. My first ever private lesson was with a kid named Nico, who had a wild hair. A rabid Inter fan, he drilled me in the gut with a soccer ball thumped on his roof top. Today, he is a movie director. 

A year later came Marco, my student for the next five years. A game of catch with a baseball led to errant throw, which smacked my cheek bone. He is now a corporate manager for Tommy Hilfiger.

Both of those balls hurt.

Uniting teacher and family are rituals tied to espresso and water poured from one-liter glass bottles, preferred by proper Milanese.

Two weeks ago, after treating myself to a final sip of sparking water, sweet words came from Giuliana, the retired teacher.

“I have given your number to a friend of mine. Her son needs English.”

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