For all of my life, I’ve been told I was Italian. Sicilian and Calabrese if you really want to know.
I have a large and very loud Italian family. For most of my childhood, I remember spending lots of my time in either my house or one of my aunt’s houses, with everyone gathered around the table. With my Papa at the head of the table, he would grab my Nana’s hand, and signal for my oldest cousin to say Grace. I can still remember closing my eyes, the smell of hot and fresh chicken cutlets sitting in front of me, and the words I was dying to hear all prayer: bon appetit. My Nana would make sure everyone had ample amounts of food on their plate, constantly serving seconds, telling everyone to “mangia, mangia.” Being the youngest grandchild, my voice would get lost in the constant crossing of conversations that were being fired from all angles of the kitchen table, but I still adamantly tried to be involved. For me, this was a regular Sunday, so I naturally thought it was the same for everyone else. It turns out that it was not. Why is my family so different from everyone else’s?
Being Italian-American has always been such a defining part of my personality. “Take pride in being Calabrese, only the best people come from there,” I remember my Papa telling me as a child, with my Nana retorting how Sicilians were truly the best. I would laugh, not thinking anything of their play banter. From a very young age my grandparents taught me what it meant to be Italian — think of yourself highly, be proud of who you are, take care of and respect your family, and remember and honor those who came before you — but I was not really able to grasp the concept. Am I not taking care of my family? Do I not remember and honor my ancestors? I didn’t even know them, how can I remember them? From an early age, many questions such as these would fill my head and cause confusion. As I got older, I thought these questions would disappear and the answers would magically fall in my lap. As time went on, I realized there would be no simple answer.
My grandparents were first-generation Americans. The connection to the Old World was ever so present in their upbringing that, naturally, it was passed down to my mother and her siblings. “Blood is thicker than water,” my Nana would remind me. If there was one message she wanted to drive home, it was the importance of family. She would constantly reiterate that my family was going to always be there for me, no matter what. There was no distance that could separate us, as we would always find our way back to each other. Generations upon generations of strong Sicilian-Calabrese blood would always bind us together, and nothing could change that.
Just by looking at my family, anyone could tell that we were close-knit. Secrets and personal business were virtually nonexistent because everyone knew everything, and there were no boundaries to cross. Questions barred no limit when it came to sitting at the dinner table and having every detail of your life put on display. My family is a very intricate ecosystem, with culture forever intertwined in our dynamic. Everything we do has some sort of cultural reasoning behind it, whether it’s praying to Saint Anthony if we lost something, or even just calling a dishtowel a mappina. On occasion, I get looked at a little strangely for being so heavily connected with my heritage, but I never let it bother me. I’m extremely proud of who I am, and I’m always happy to educate others on my Italian-American culture.
Everything we did growing up was because of my grandparents. They created the strongest foundation anyone could wish for and watched it strengthen with every child and grandchild. My grandparents supported everything my cousins and I did, no matter the endeavor. My Papa constantly emphasized the importance of doing something full out and giving it your everything, explaining that’s all anyone could ask for. No matter what we did, he would look at us with pride. No matter the size of the accomplishment, he was still so proud to be our grandfather. While it is still heavily debated who the favorite grandchild was (undeniably, it was me), my cousins and I all agree on the fact that Papa’s pride and love were equally felt. While he would jokingly say he “disliked us all the same amount,” we knew his teasing was backed up with an immeasurable amount of unconditional love.
As I look back on the time I had with my grandparents, I realize how much they’ve impacted me. When I was younger, I really took for granted all the time I spent with the two of them because I thought it was so normal. Little did I know, it subconsciously cemented my appreciation for my heritage and upbringing. Because of my grandparents, I value my family’s presence and the time we spend together (for the most part). I will always know the feeling of having an army of people support me in whatever I do, and I know how to properly support them, too. I know how to properly carry myself and walk the line between proud and overconfident. I remember and honor those who came before me in everything I do. I remember their sacrifices and tough decisions and never forget how grateful I am. I will always remember and cherish the love my grandparents showered us in, and never forget all the wonderful memories we shared. My Nana and Papa may no longer be physically here, but I feel their presence now and then. They are never too distant in my memory, and will never be forgotten. I will forever proudly carry on their legacy in everything I do. I would not be where I am and who I am without John and Ann.
Nana and Papa, with everything I have and everything I am, thank you. I’ll see you again soon. Ti voglio bene e mi manchi moltissimo, Haley.