I live in the best country in the world, and I come from the greatest country in the world. I don’t know what it’s like to grow up with only one culture. The opportunities afforded to me have not been wasted. Those that fought, so I wouldn’t have to. Those that did it the hard way, so I could have it a little easier. I suppose I am, but it is thanks to those that have come before me. They say I am loyal, and fierce, and gregarious. People often say I am strong, courageous, and tenacious. People that gave up everything they knew and loved for the prospect that their children, and their unborn grandchildren, could have a chance at something. I have come from smart people, kind people, talented people. From people that crossed oceans and started new lives with nothing but gumption and hope. It’s like I’m perpetually un altra, an “other.” I used to think that maybe it would be easier to just be one thing. I used to think I didn’t quite fit, not here, in Australia, and not there, in Italy. I might have battled with which culture I belonged to, but my Nonna spent a month at sea with seven kids in tow to arrive in a country literally on the other side of the world where she didn’t speak the language and had to start from scratch. While someone may have sneered at the contents of my lunchbox, my mother chased men with a broom out of the delicatessen she worked at because she’d be spat on. While I may have had the occasional taunt, my father met with daily fist fights. They were not Australian, and they were reminded of it every day. Arriving in Australia for them was a culture shock. If I felt slightly diversa growing up, then I wonder how much harder it was for my parents. And, if passing a road accident or un poverino with a flat tyre, it was always, always fa la corne. It was a chorus of fa la brava during the day and fa la nanna at night. Growing up Italian meant a thermos filled with brodo at the football on weekends. Fresh pasta being rolled by hand, the slap of the cast iron sizzling pizelle into shape, foccaccia rising in the outdoor brick oven, spiducci spinning on the charcoal BBQ, muset e bruade in winter, baccala by the bucketload, porchetta, gnocchi, panettone, caffè, vino …it goes on and on and on. Growing up Italian meant food – everywhere, all the time. Fare la salsa involves waiting until tomatoes are at their very best, usually sometime during Australia’s dry, hot summer, and turning your garage, backyard or carport into a makeshift production line filled with family, music, and never-ending boxes of tomatoes that need to be chopped, boiled and bottled. There is no tradition more revered than pranzo o cena with the family. Some might think Italians, being Catholic, observe the ritual of Sundays so steadfastly because it’s a holy day, one to attend la messa in chiesa, but any real Italian will tell you Sundays are hallowed because it’s the day you have lunch or dinner, sometimes both, at Nonnas. It was setting la tavola on constant rotation, amid noise and laughter and boisterous rounds of briscola. It meant someone was always coming or going through our revolving front door gli zii o i nonni o i cugini. There was always le condoglianze to be given, for a family friend, un terzo cugino, o la moglie di un amico del fratello di Giovanni. Sometimes, with a family as big as mine, it was un funerale. I grew up as an Italian, in Australia, and that meant una festa every third weekend un matrimonio, una comunione, un battesimo, una cresima. They didn’t have salami hanging from the roof in their garage. They didn’t appear to wear una canottiera under their school uniform. Other kids at school didn’t have peperonata sandwiches for lunch, or prosciutto e melanzane panini, or leftover polenta. It didn’t slide off the tongue in the same way Jones or Williams or Rossi did. Tighello wasn’t one many teachers could pronounce at roll call. An Italian one, but not as palatable as Ferrari or Romano, surnames the Anglo vernacular could handle. My surname, prior to getting married, was Tighello. In Italy, when I visit, they refer to me as L’Australiana. At home, in Australia, they call me The Italian. Growing up, I wasn’t sure where I was placed. They migrated to Australia separately, with their respective families, and met in Melbourne when they were in their twenties. My parents were born in Italia my Mum in Abruzzo and my Dad in Friuli. I was born and raised in Melbourne, Australia, but people always ask me where I come from.
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