Living in Italy after growing up as an Italian American

It is a weird phenomenon when you feel totally at home in a foreign country. If you are second or third generation immigrant that went to your family’s country, you may have experienced this too. I was raised Italian, except we only spoke English. So when I finally moved to Italy as an adult, I only spoke minimal conversational Italian, but still had a very good understanding of a typical Italian household and the customs.

It is strange being in a foreign country but also feeling so much at home. Much more than I ever expected. Some things are odd to me like the way people drive or shopping norms. While some things just make me feel so at home like Italian food and cultural norms: such as not drinking milk after breakfast.

Something really interesting is that you see a lot of small businesses and some of them have the same names as your family. This feels very comfortable to see and isn’t something I am used to. When you are ethnically Italian in Italy, but did not grow up there you have a strange experience. You do not relate to the toys and common things everyone else had growing up. You share those with other Americans, or wherever you were raised. You grew up eating the same foods as Italians, not Americans. And finally, you know how to pronounce all the names of food items and people without really struggling like other immigrants. It can be odd and nice at the same time.

There are some obvious differences, especially the language. America is rooted in racism and most Italian Americans were forced to speak English to immigrate. Resulting in very few Italian Americans actually speaking Italian fluently. Fluently, meaning a certified C1 level or otherwise. However, the culture stuck. The food and family is no different.

In my household, when I was a child and now with my own child, we make our own pasta by hand. Sometimes we use a roller or machine, but usually by hand. We always make our own sauce. Unless we are in a pinch, but we never serve the sauce to others if we haven’t made it ourselves. We grow tomatoes on our balconies or in our yards. I, unlike my mother who lives in a cold climate, wash the laundry and hang it on the line. This could be a supplement line like a shower rod or off the balcony. We just prefer to wash laundry and have it air dry. Maybe this is rooted in poverty. Maybe this is simply tradition. I do not know at this point. I also believe clothing lasts much longer this way. Too many of my favourite shirts have been destroyed by the dryer.

When I see characters in my favorite shows on TV, I relate most to the Italians. I feel at home when I see pasta hanging to dry. Some might say hanging it allows it to breathe. We cook the sauce if possible for twenty-four or fourty-eight hours. I never do this, anymore. But when I did, I only did this in a slow cooker. I have a toddler in my house who will reach for things on the stove. My mother was burned doing this as a young child and I have always been worried of that happening to my son.

One of the weirdest things to happen yet, was in my Italian class for foreigners. It is funny being Italian in a class for foreigners learning Italian. You know the food and customs already but are still learning Italian like everyone else. When the teacher would ask us what we ate before we came to Italy, well my answer was that I eat the same. It just cheaper now because all of my imported food doesn’t need to be imported anymore.