Coming full circle

On April 14th, my sister, her 2 daughters and I became official Italian Citizens

What It Means to Belong
I didn’t grow up in Italy. I wasn’t raised speaking the language or walking its streets. But Italy lived in me from the beginning—not as a fantasy or whim, but as lineage. It was 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 and of course swear words. 30 years later I began to study it in earnest. Though not fluent, I can communicate effectively.

The Long Fight for Recognition
My citizenship didn’t arrive in the mail or at the Consulate, I had to fight for it in court.

Though the maternal side of my family were born in Italy, the citizenship path wasn’t automatic. The bloodline was there, but the law wasn’t on my side. Because my Mother was born before 1948—when Italian women were barred from passing citizenship to children born abroad—I had to sue the Italian government to overturn that outdated, discriminatory rule. It wasn’t just a legal technicality. It was a denial of identity.

Document collection alone was its own odyssey: dozens of vital records, apostilles, translations, and re-apostilles. There were delays, doubts, and plenty 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, it wasn’t just relief—it was vindication. The state had finally acknowledged what I’d always known: I am Italian.

Years later when the judge finally ruled in my favor, it felt like a quiet correction—an overdue recognition of something that had always been true. In that moment, my heart lifted. I couldn’t help but wonder: if my grandparents could see me now, would they be proud? It wasn’t just a legal outcome—it was a bridge across generations, connecting me to the people and traditions that shaped me long before I understood their significance.

Two Truths, One LineageWith that ruling, I became a dual citizen—recognized by Italy through jure sanguinis, the principle of citizenship by descent. But this wasn’t about convenience or paperwork. It was about honoring both sides of my identity. I carry two passports now, but more importantly, I carry two histories: one rooted in the soil of California, the other in the traditions of Sicily. They don’t compete—they complete each other. And when I walk through Italy today, I do so not just as a visitor, but as someone whose story belongs there too.

Legacy, Not Luxury
I didn’t pursue Italian citizenship to gain a travel perk or escape my current life. I did it to honor something deeper—to affirm the lineage that persisted, even when the paperwork didn’t. Italy isn’t just a country I admire from afar. It’s where my family’s stories began. It’s the echo in my speech, the gestures in my hands, the flavors that mark 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. Holding dual citizenship isn’t about having options. It’s about carrying both identities with pride—rooted in two cultures, shaped by one enduring heritage.