Italianish

By Susan Smith
Staff Writer

Are we who our culture makes us?

It was only about a month ago that I sat across from my mother, over the linoleum countertops of a sticky downtown diner, who -only upon finishing her third glass of red wine- leaned over the table to reveal to me a family secret that had laid dormant for over 85 years. It soon became clear, (between regular intervals of "I shouldn't be telling you this") that the birthright of my grandmother held less water than the Titanic in its final hour. Over several minutes my previous pride toward my strict Irish/Lithuanian culture faded as I was told that my Grandmother's Irish background may have been a little falsified. It turns out that her father was not 100% Irish but Italian, a fact that was so frowned upon by family during that time that she was only able to be raised by a distant aunt, a woman who had claimed to be her mother until her passing. She, therefore, never knowing her parents and accepting what she was told to be the truth, raised her children under the false beliefs of an Irish upbringing. Generations passed, and eventually the secret was lost in the seams of time. Until a bottle of wine decided to speak up.

After looking around for reality show cameras and concluding that the only audience chuckling at my disbelief was the neighboring table, who shot a smirk of distaste, I sighed and began to regroup my thoughts before releasing on my mother a surplus of questions, “Who are my great grandparents?! When did you find this out?! Do we have ties in the mafia? What copious amount of alcohol did Grandma have to drink to tell you this in the first place?! Why aren’t I tanner?!” It was only after her silence and attention turned its back to my wonder and changed to the empty glass before her, that I asked myself the real question I needed to know: “Who am I?”

We see it everywhere: distinct demonstrations of cultural pride. The shamrock tattoo, the Puerto Rican flag adorning the rearview mirror, family dinner on Sundays, down to the refusal to alter a family bloodline (a problem dating back to Montagues and Capulets). Nationalities have defined people since the start of humankind. But should they? Should I be categorized by the nationality that lies in my chemical makeup, or is there something else defining my existence?

It’s the question of nature vs. nurture. If humans walked around with shirt tags, what would they say? “Made in Sicily” or “25% sarcastic, 75% well-natured”? What does my DNA have to say about my personality? Can a doctor know who a person really is by studying blood work?

I thought so at first. That was why I was so mad at this kept secret. I assumed that I was born who I was, and that while personality and character may change and shape a person, it was your background that really defines who you are. I even found myself sympathizing with Jason Bourne, bitter that my identity had been kept from me (and a little eager to idolize myself with a fictional character).

However, weeks went by, and I realized I was no different a person than I was a month before. I wasn’t just a 5’6” Italian/Irish/Lithuanian 20-something. I was a friend, a sister, a daughter (finally clean of resentment), and a million other little things I had grown to be throughout my lifetime. I was bits and pieces of experience, of life, of people. Sure, I may be made up of genetically specific blueprints, but I’m also made up of childhood memories, of a love for books, of good advice, of friendship, of sardonic humor, of a susceptibility to chocolate, of extreme skills at Mario Kart, of a warmness towards strangers, of years and years of stories, of scars from love lost and found and memories made and forgotten. But most importantly, I’m 100% unique from everyone else. And so are you.