Italy

By Andrea Scarpino 

Family is a difficult word, a word I’ve often cringed to use—too full of obligation and drama. Family is what you make it, I’ve often said, having felt closer to friends than to relatives. When your family of origin has been full of dysfunction, factions hating other factions, embroiled in decades-long disagreements you don’t quite understand, when you’ve never felt totally accepted by any side, too close to all the wrong people at any given time, it makes sense to cobble together a family from people who don’t demand anything but your friendship, kindness.

And then an email came from Italy: “My mother and I were searching for you as she, part of the Scarpino family, was wondering if you were Pasquale's daughter.” And later, “I am very happy that my son found you on the web. I immediately recognized your face as part of our family.” 

And something shifted. Cousins I didn’t know existed had found my website, and from my website, my email address. Suddenly we were writing. And for the first time, I learned how my grandfather came to the US, how his brother remained in Italy—stories I had never heard before, stories my father never told me. How some of my father’s first cousins are still living, how I have second cousins eager to meet me.

And then, photographs. And clearly, my face is theirs, their faces are mine. Family: people who recognize my face, who think enough about me to search for me online. One cousin wrote recently, “You are part of my family and you have my blood so at the end of the day, you are like a sister to me.” This isn’t the sense of family I have ever before embraced—too much dysfunction. But now—something has shifted.

I’m trying to keep my expectations low for this trip—less chance of disappointment. But the truth is: I am beyond excited. Something deep inside me needs Italy. Needs to meet this side of my family. Needs so badly to embrace—and be embraced by—these relationships. Family—la famiglia. And yes, a part of me is hoping this trip brings me closer to my father. This summer, he’ll have been dead five years; through his blood-ties, a piece of him. But more than that: a living family.

Zac and I leave in a week for Italy. We’re going to visit my cousins, stay with them. We’re going to visit the town in Calabria my grandfather left to move to the States. Hear my family’s language for the first time outside of a classroom—the language my father heard growing up, the language he didn’t teach me. We’re going to drink Italian wine, try to speak Italian, wander city streets, see some Botticelli. And most importantly, meet family.

Author: stevekuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by stevekuusisto