"Come at seven!" Sister Maria had told me on the phone. "You'll be welcome."
At the end of a small country lane, we ring the gate. Sister Maria greets us and we go straight to say hello to Marina, Betta, and Paola, who are sitting under a tree at a garden table; with the help of Giorgio, a young friend of the house, they are absorbed in their calculations. "Good evening, good evening!" We exchange introductions and then leave them to their problems.
"Yes!" Sister Maria says. "When we do the shopping for the house, we realized that math is hard and they needed to brush up on basic arithmetic. Giorgio helps them. He comes by often to lend a hand, to play, to tutor them—like tonight."
The house is lovely. Jasmine blooms and perfumes the evening air. There's a basin-fountain, laundry drying on one side, a tiny vegetable garden down the way. We step inside and tour the living room—television, bookcase, a cart with aperitifs. The kitchen is spacious and beautiful. The furniture was donated. By painting the chairs red and decorating the refrigerator and sideboard, the girls have given the place a rustic yet elegant warmth. It's wonderful to gather here for meals.
The bedrooms, furnished with two or three beds each, feel like rooms in a real home. Sister Maria has her own room, and the door is usually open—or almost always, she tells us, though the girls have learned that she needs to close it sometimes. No strict rules, no rigid schedule, though work and school impose their own demands. Each girl washes and goes to bed when she wants, but it's understood that she must learn to share the bathroom, not to shower at midnight and disturb the others.
They gather for meals. Housework is shared. Sister Maria, who is something like the mother, does most of the cooking, but while we talk with her in the living room, Marina and Paola prepare dinner after having an aperitif with us.
"Serve yourself first—you're our guest!" Marina says, passing pastries. We talk with her about her work: she's an apprentice at a hair salon, washing hair and beginning to set curls. Betta attends the neighborhood school. Paola works at the agricultural cooperative run by the nearby institute. "I don't dare find her work outside yet. She's still very withdrawn and fragile in many ways."
Betta tells us she'll go to the beach on vacation with a lady friend (she no longer has her mother). Then the whole group will go together for a holiday in Calabria.
Sister Maria is eager to tell us about the countless happenings and aspects of her house and the girls. Not theories, not minute regulations—rather, everything is an occasion to teach autonomy and the skills of living together. The atmosphere is cheerful and warm. Maria's joy in life is contagious, and the climate of trust is evident. She truly lives with the girls: "We discuss decisions together and talk openly about our problems." She can also be demanding: she expects from each one respect for herself and for others, a sense of responsibility. The entire life of the house tends toward that goal.
In fact, Villa Olmo is not meant to be a permanent home. It is an educational place where certain girls are prepared for true integration into family, work, and society at large. The emphasis is essentially on learning autonomy within the house, but also at work or school, on public transport, in shops, and so on.
Realism is a core feature. They do the accounts together. A certain budget cannot be exceeded, but they allow themselves some indulgence—things for the house, outings together—when the funds permit.
Another important aspect is learning to live together without formal rules, through individual participation: respecting personal space and possessions, for example.
The third essential goal of the project is integration into the world beyond the house: through work, through school, but also through any opportunity that arises—the parish, neighborhood life, sports, evening classes. This integration happens with a critical eye toward society too: don't absorb everything society offers, learn not to trust blindly. (It's wisdom and, unfortunately, necessity.)
All this requires constant dialogue from the sister, who explains, cautions, listens, helps, and is practically always available—the person of support and authority (without abuse). It's a discreet authority that diminishes as each girl grows in autonomy.
Though Villa Olmo is particular (to learn how it is today, read here)—because it is not meant as a permanent solution but as a path to rehabilitation—it seems to me that the principles animating it and the atmosphere characterizing it could inspire every family home. The other distinctive feature is that the responsible educator is a religious sister.
This may have some drawbacks, but also real advantages. Beyond the excellent training that any educator in such a role should have, Sister Maria offers a level of availability that is rarely possible for an ordinary "worker," and the security of continuity: her commitment is for life. And this matters greatly—she has behind her a community of sisters who share her ideals. To conclude, I'll cite two passages from Villa Olmo's founding document because they seem to sum up the impression Sister Maria made on me.
"The educator in a family home is not a bureaucrat. She cannot hold a monopoly on wisdom or have all the answers. But she must have a clear character.
When the girls are present in the group, the educator must be with them. She must be a discreet presence, active, democratic, and reassuring."
–Nicole Schulthes, 1986
===FINE===