A Citizen at Last

On April 14th, I became an Italian Citizen.

But this wasn’t just a legal event. It was a reclamation—a recognition of something I’ve carried in my bones my entire life. Italian citizenship wasn’t a convenience or a passport prize. It was a declaration of identity. I didn’t become something new. I came home to something ancient.

What It Means to Belong
I wasn’t born in Italy. I don’t live there, and I may never. But Italy lives in me. Not as a fantasy or whim, but as lineage—woven through generations of women whose presence and traditions shaped me far more than geography ever could.

Until I was 14, I was surrounded by five living generations of Italian women: my mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and even my great-great-grandmother holding my sister. That is a kind of heritage you don’t learn—you absorb it.

My mother, though part of that lineage, didn’t carry those traditions in the same way. She was ( is) a lovely person, but more American than Italian in spirit—and in marrying a not-so-nice Canadian, she quietly broke from the closeness that defined the generations before her.

Their devotion to family, their formidable resilience, and their rituals (especially around food) formed the architecture of my identity. I didn’t grow up with the closeness typical of Italian nuclear families, but those women—those meals, those hands—kept the fire of our culture burning.

I still see my grandmother’s hands shaping dough for sfingi at the holidays—each sugared puff a gift, a memory, and a connection to the Sicilian table. That scent alone could transport me across generations.

A Pilgrim’s Return
Over the last 40 years, I’ve returned to Italy again and again—not for leisure, but for something more essential. These weren’t “trips.” They were homecomings.

I walked the Rome Marathon three times—2008, 2009, and again in 2023—feet pounding cobblestones not just for the physical test, but to feel the heartbeat of that ancient city. I trekked sections of the Via Francigena, following the path of pilgrims. I once planned an entire itinerary around an Eros Ramazzotti concert in Milan, looping my way from Lake Como down to Rome in sync with the rhythm of modern Italy.

Each journey was an act of intention. I researched, planned carefully, made deliberate choices, and traveled light—not because I had no other options, but because I wanted nothing to distract me from the marrow of the experience. Staying in a pensione or a monastery wasn’t a sacrifice—it was a choice that allowed me to be fully present.

Every Breath a Strategy
And yes, I travel with severe brittle asthma—a condition that doesn’t care where you are in the world or how much you love a place. But I’ve never let it dictate the terms.

Every trip meant meticulous preparation: translating medical protocols into Italian, memorizing hospital routes, packing and repacking meds, and embracing uncertainty as a companion. I’ve had one major asthma incident in Italy—and I was ready. That preparation isn’t a burden. It’s a pact I make with myself so I can keep saying “yes” to the places that nourish me.

Learning the Language of My Blood
Though I was never formally raised bilingual, the Italian language clung to corners of my childhood—in gestures, in musicality, in kitchen slang. As an adult, I began to study it in earnest. Not fluent yet, but slowly, stubbornly, joyfully it getting easier. My pronunciation, I’m told, is nearly flawless—and I believe that’s because it was never entirely foreign to me. It was simply waiting to be remembered.

The Long Fight for Recognition
My citizenship didn’t arrive in the mail. I had to fight for it—literally.

I inherited my Italian bloodline through my mom’s side of the family. But because she was born before 1948—when women were barred from passing their citizenship to children born abroad, I had to sue the Italian government in court over that outdated, discriminatory law. Not to gain entry, but to demand recognition of a birthright I should have had all along.

Document collection alone was its own odyssey: locating dozens of vital records, obtaining apostilles, translations, and re-apostilles. There were delays, doubts, bureaucratic snarls and of course lots of attorney and court fees. I did much of it on my own, learning each step as I went.

When the judge finally ruled in my favor, less than nine months after filing, it wasn’t just relief—it was vindication. The state had finally acknowledged what I’d always known: I am Italian.

With that ruling, I became a dual citizen—Italian by blood, American by birth. But unlike a convenience passport or a bureaucratic checkbox, this status reflects two parallel truths of who I am and where I come from.

Legacy, Not Luxury
I didn’t reclaim Italian citizenship to get an EU passport or to escape my current life. I did it to anchor myself in something deeper—to honor the bloodline that endured, even when the paper trail didn’t.

Italy is not just a beautiful country I admire from afar. It is the place where my family’s stories began. It’s the echo I hear when I speak, the gestures I make with my hands, the flavors that define celebration.

Now, when I walk its streets, I do so not as a guest, but as a citizen. A citizen by law—but more importantly, by heart.

Now that I’m a dual US–Italian citizen, I carry both identities with pride—rooted in two cultures, but shaped by one enduring lineage.

Reclaiming my Italian citizenship wasn’t just a legal victory—it was the final step in recognizing what had always been true. Italy is not just a place I visit; it is in my blood, my memories, and my very sense of home.