My father’s family arrived in America when he was 19. They are from a small town named Amantea in Calabria, a section of Italy. In Italy during the 1960’s salt was being rationed, it was very hard to come by. This was hard on most women seeing as their primary job was to cook. When my Nonna first came to this country, she noticed all the stores lining the street and was made very happy by all the signs in the window saying ‘sale’, but not for the obvious reason. The Italian word for salt is ‘sale’. She said to my father "I like this country already, everywhere you go they sell salt". There are things that my grandmother, whom I call Nonna, has experienced that I never will, and vice-versa. This is due in part to being brought up in different countries, but it is also due to changes society has made over the years. I am extremely proud of the progress my family has made since that first day in America. I think that is one thing I share with my grandmother. When I left for college she was so excited, I was the first from that family to attend a college. Hopefully she will see me graduate.

Even though America has been good for my family’s development it is clear that they will always remain Italian and even though my cousins, sisters and I were not born in Italy, the Italian culture still has had a huge impact on our lives. This is not to say that we are not American, we definitely have been influenced by this culture, however we are not just American…we are first generation Americans. This means that my childhood experiences were very different than those of my classmates. During my childhood, I did things like help make wine, pasta and sausage. I also became quite skilled at carrying cups of espresso on a tray down two flights of stairs, spilling little. Most of my friends cannot claim that, even if they are of Italian heritage.

The difference between my peers and I became evident at school. In second grade I brought a sandwich in for lunch that had Nuetella in it. Nuetella is a chocolate hazelnut spread that is creamy and dark brown. Bathroom humor is always a big favorite of seven-year-olds. That wasn’t the only time my heritage was clearly displayed at school. Once while discussing something with my teacher that had upset me, she started smiling at me. I was confused at this until I realized I had been talking with my hands the entire time. She told me that there was no question I was Italian.

Home, however, was a different story; I felt very different from my extended family since I did not even know their language. My father’s brothers and sisters all married Italians. Fortunately none of this affected my happiness as a child. I did not realize all these differences until I was older. Growing up I didn’t feel that I was different than the rest of the children in my family or my country. I still don’t. The one thing my father has always strongly insisted on was that I was not to be called or call myself an Italian-American. According to him I’m an American Italian.