I could tell you how difficult it was. How when I was asked where I’m from I would stumble over my words explaining “I’m Italian, but I was born here, but my parents were born there…” and end up launching into a two-minute lesson on my familial history. How at school I was “that Italian girl” with leftover lasagna for lunch from mandatory Sunday night family dinner, a dad with a funny accent and a cousin named Luigi (that one always got the kids going). Conversely, In Italy, I was “that American girl” trying to explain pancakes, dressed in a wardrobe so foreign to them they would just stare, with my detailed description of maple syrup going straight over their heads.
With how I am describing it, my life sounds confusing and frankly just far too complicated. And sure, I may have stumbled over my words describing my nationality. But never once did I stutter when explaining my values. Family and hard work, those are my priorities no matter which country I am in. No matter what I am wearing or eating, my family always comes first and I know that if I work hard there is no limit to what I can achieve. And beyond that I know that in any weather I have an army of funny accents that will support me.
There is this burning that need many of us have to categorize things, especially ourselves. To label groups and individuals and attempt to make sense of where they belong. I can’t tell you if I belong in America or Italy. But I can tell you that I belong with my family. That incredibly Italian value is that which dictates my life and it will never change. Sure, I never got to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and yes I need to explain basic acronyms to my parents, but that was the beauty of my upbringing. As they would teach me Italian culture and tradition, we learned together how to navigate this American society we were part of. We grew together and that gave us an irreplaceable bond.
Who am I? Daughter to Gisella and Natale. Sister to Margot. Niece to Zio Paolo and Zia Teresa. Cousin to Luigi, Daniele, and Andrea, and soon to be aunt to baby girl Petrone. I’m an American born Italian whose immediate family includes the eight aforementioned individuals who have been present for every milestone in my life. My mom can make both a stack of pancakes that will brighten your morning and also a tiramisu that will change your life. My refrigerator is always overflowing with leftovers of dishes that most of my friends can not pronounce. When I am out of town I call my parents twice a day, each. And I am not ashamed of any of it. In fact, I am proud. Proud that my family can annihilate yours in both soccer and wiffle ball. Proud that any occasion will be celebrated with a family dinner, because nothing is too small to commemorate with industrial amounts of pasta, as a first course. Proud that I was that 8-year-old on field day with an Italian flag painted on one cheek and an American flag on the other.
