The last time I felt truly proud of my cultural background was in second grade when I had to do a project on my heritage.  The “cool girl” in my class said I could sit at her table because I was Italian like her. I haven’t thought about my culture much since then.  All I ever wanted in my earlier years was to blend in and be like everyone else. But I wasn’t like everyone else, not because of my cultural background, but because I was quirky and didn’t fit in with a lot of the other kids.  I was made fun of for how skinny I was, or how smart I was, or how I dressed, or how I looked. I was never made fun of because of my ethnicity and I was grateful for that. It was nice to be included for a change, accepted into her circle because of the one thing we had in common: where we came from.  I had I always known that I was half Irish half Italian but it never meant more to me until I could use it for a means of approval. But why did I care what she thought of me?

As the years went by and I reached my middle school years, this encounter and pride had long been shoved into the back of my mind.  I grew increasingly uncomfortable in my own skin. I came home from school one day to find a feast my family had made to welcome home my uncle from rehab.  My heart skipped a beat when I heard my whole family would be joining because I always have a good time with my cousins. I have an Italian family but our culture often gets lost in our American identity.  One thing we didn’t lose, though, was our love of eating. My parents are the best cooks in the family and they can prepare a meal in no time and have everyone’s mouths watering.

I had always felt particularly close to the uncle we were welcoming home that day.  I was his favorite and he let everyone know it.

“You and me, we are the same.”  He would always say to me and I could see my mom get uncomfortable hearing these words.  I now understand why this worried her but at the time I got the biggest thrill from hearing it.

He was always so fun and paid attention to me, genuinely caring about what I had to say.  It was rare for me to find people like that at the time. I didn’t fully grasp his addiction problem then but I knew he got sad a lot.  I knew there was something missing in him he tried to fill with other substances.

“Sometimes it’s nice to not feel like yourself” he would say.  

I couldn’t interpret the depth of this because of the light hearted manner in which he said it but I now understand what he was trying to say.  

That dinner was the first time I would be seeing him in over nine months and I could hardly contain my excitement.  When he arrived, however, my excitement wavered. His face was sunken in and I could hardly recognize him. There was a hopelessness in his eyes which I observed immediately.  He smiled when he looked at me and I was relieved he had not forgotten about our bond. This dinner was different from our usual family dinners. I sat at the kids table like I normally do but I couldn’t help but listen in on the adults talking.

“I’m so sorry” he kept repeating, focusing mostly on my mother.  

I didn’t know then but my mom had lent him a large sum of money because he had been in trouble and she had always had a soft spot for him.  He was her big brother and she couldn’t stand to see him struggling.

Two weeks after that dinner my uncle killed himself.  The morning we got the call I felt like a piece of myself had floated away with him.  I needed so badly to feel like I belonged to someone. I had to identify with something because for so long I had identified with him.  It made me aware of my lack of belonging into a specific category. I was not athletic, I was not artistic, I was not a good singer and quite honestly I wasn’t very motivated in school anymore.  As my thoughts wandered throughout the next few days, I recalled the encounter I had in second grade that had made me feel so special. I knew now it was not the cool girl’s approval that I needed, it was my own.  I needed to accept myself but that isn’t so easy for a middle schooler to do because it is a time in their life when you are transforming and everyone wants to be the same.

In an attempt to fit in and feel good about myself I started to embrace my culture a little bit more.  I became curious about our ancestors and where they came from. I was constantly asking my parents questions and I think my curiosity excited them.  I still would not say my Italian culture is a dominant factor in my life but it definitely has its place. I don’t think we should be defined by where we came from, but where we are going.