Personal Narrative: My Italian Upbringing

This year was my last year at The Little Middle School. Even though I’ve had a lot of speed bumps, I’ve accomplished a lot of stuff. From learning new instruments to working on my ability to focus, I’ve grown a lot.

My family’s traditional Sunday sauce is when my mother’s side of the family gathers for an early dinner to enjoy pasta, meatballs, sausages, and pork cooked in freshly produced tomato sauce. Regardless, the gathering occurs individually every Sunday in all of my family members’ households, however, when my grandparents were alive whoever was available to attend would sit at their long wooden table and enjoy their favorite meal. The setting was not clearly pleasant due to my family’s sarcasm, although deep down, we felt blessed to have each other’s company. Being a large Italian family, we had no choice but to be cramped in my grandparent’s tiny kitchen, where everyone previous to eating seemed irritated and anxious to eat the delicious meal

Growing up in a big Italian family, food has always played a large role throughout my entire life. Whether it was helping my mom and grandma make meatballs for Sunday dinners, having the traditional seven fishes on Christmas Eve or making trips to Little Italy, food has always been the common ground to bring my family together.

What is culture? Culture is the idea of what is wrong or right, the concept of what is acceptable within our society. Culture serves us as a guide, taking us to the "right way" and helping us to make sense of things that surrounds us. There are many different cultures around the world. A lot of them are similar in specific ways and others are just completely different, this difference explains why we think that people from different backgrounds are "weird".

Where I come from it's taking pride in your yard, knowing every single one of your neighbors, and leaving doors unlocked because there isn’t a thing to worry about. I find comfort in that small town feel, and I am more than proud to be from good ol’ Warrenton, Indiana. Here, we are just a wee bit shy of being big enough to be on a map, but we have a name and we have town lines. Within those lines nearly two hundred people have found a home, and thanks to Mr.Dave Gruible our community is steadily flourishing. There are now three subdivisions on the rise in addition to the church, salon, family restaurant, and campgrounds that nestled into the area years ago.

Santiago de los Caballeros, that’s where my family is from in the Dominican Republic. Everything about it warms my heart just as much as its vicious sun does penetrating your pores until you’re almost sure they aren’t there anymore. My father’s side of the family had just come down from the Capitol, which is known to be ignorant and high maintenance despite being from a third world country. The Dominican air smelled earthy and damp, yet you could feel its purity in the pit of your lungs.We decided to sit down at a food truck area and eat the signature post-club, pre-hangover, Dominican sandwich: The Chimmichurri. It is nowhere near as disgusting as it sounds, I promise. As we made ourselves comfortable in our plastic chairs beside The Monument, we had a complete view of the lights scattered like a den of fireflies illuminating the city. I was lost within the laughter you find yourself in after one too many Red Rock sodas when our Haitian server approached us. He kept reading the menu off to us and I fell in love

I never thought I would be labeled an outsider, a misfit even. As I trudged my way through the halls of my small town high school, I would endure the gazing pairs of eyes, that belonged to my peers, followed by whispering and often times some laughter. I always used zone out during those repetitive speeches and commercials about the effects of gossiping and rumors; never did I imagine that one day I would be on the receiving end of of the everyday potshot. Growing up I was always the center of attention, the one everyone yearned to be friends with, never was I the antisocial child in the corner with nowhere to turn… not until high school. They say high school changes you. They say high school accounts for some of the greatest years of

I’ve always been an outsider, it’s been hard for me to build friendships and relationships. Not too long ago, there I sat in the corner of the room in the way back, trying to hide from the world, and be myself. I didn’t really want to get involved with anything or anyone. I was afraid to open up, talk to others, maybe because I was afraid to get rejected. Until, I met the best people I could ever meet, my best friends Marisa Mendoza, Jessica Contreras and Deseray Reyes, the ones who up to this day have sticked by my side, at my best, and worst moments. They have all been a big part of my life, I can enjoy every minute I spend with them. For me, they aren’t only my friends they are like my sisters.

The documentary “The Italian Americans: La Famiglia” explains the circumstances that led to early Italians migrating to America. In the mid-1800s, the people who lived in the southern part of what would become Italy were living in abject poverty. The citizens there could not prosper because they did not own their own land and they were mistreated by the rich (Maggio, 2014). However, there appeared to be hope for the southern Italians, in the 1860s, when Garibaldi fought for Italy to become a nation. Sadly, once that happened the peasants were then forced to pay taxes that they already could not afford.

My “outside” cultural influences I have: America is one of the most ethnically diverse countries in the world culturally. We have German-Americans speaking German, Filipino-Americans speaking Tagalog, Irish-Americans speaking Irish, Scandinavian-Americans speaking Norwegian, Swedish, Danish, etc., Welsh-Americans speaking Welsh, Japanese-Americans speaking Japanese, Iraqi-Americans speaking Arabian, Mexican-Americans speaking Spanish, and all Americans united in the common goal to create the best possible nation in accordance with our Constitution.

James was always a mediocre kid. His family was descended from nobles in Italy who built up a small tailoring business in what is now the USA. They and their ancestors before them were responsible for keeping the place up and running for 100 years. James’s family was involved in many historic moments. They made the first flag for the USA, kept slaves and fought for the right to, and were part of the women’s suffrage movement. It seemed as though they had always been on the generic side of anything. Even the uniqueness of being Italian was lost when his great-great-great grandfather married a British girl. When James was little, his parents taught him what their parents and all the parents before them aught their kids- money was everything. Money was, of course, not literally everything, but it was important enough to be treated as such, and everyone

This title gotchya huh? So before I convince you to commit five or so minutes reading this blog, let me just keep it honest right here: there's no blood, no broken bones, not even a fever involved, but I still ended up in an ambulance in rural Italy.

It became normal. I started to believe these names. If somebody called out, Tree, I would look around. In the barn scene, Kunta was getting ready to escape, and Fiddler was helping him after he was singing that lullaby. Kunta had asked Fiddler his name, his real name, and I have to admit, that moment was really emotional. Fiddler seemed to come to an understanding of how unbreaking Kunta was. I feel Kunta wasn’t built for a slave, his roots, his mindset, and his resilience wouldn’t allow it. This leads to him escaping, or trying to escape, many times. The first time he was bought by Samson, and the other times, he was caught by dogs. A very disappointing moment for me, because my nerves had built up while he was running, so when he was caught, I was extremely disappointed. It seemed to me, when he was escaping the second time, he was doing it not only for himself, but to Fiddler, and his family. Maybe even Jinna. At the end, where he was losing contact with his parents, was absolutely heartbreaking to me, because he is giving up. He was giving into his new identity, losing his

Post WWII in 1957 my great Grandad left their homeland of England to immigrate to Canada by plane which took 10 hours to fly from --------- to New York City. The ride was stressful and sickening, my Papa, Colin who was only _ remembers puking on the plane.

I read somewhere that girls in Italy turn their painted Madonnas to wall for a little sinning. I wish I could set aside my conscience and remodel my experiences. My life is a plethora of past voices I cant name ,unresolved yearnings and stinging urge to end it all.The old book allows us to pray to God not to lead us into temptations ,but I doubt if in my case the noble scripture applies.Am so deep into messed up zone that divine intervention plus pace of Bolt cant help me skulk out.I do not want to hope anymore,hope is just a blind boy,I want to acknowledge my failures,embrace my scars