Some people could not tell you a single thing about their heritage. ‘I’m American’ they’ll tell you. 

If you asked me I would it break it down by the specific percent. Fifty percent Italian, I love a good meal. A quarter Puerta Rican, my grandmother speaks Spanish. Half a quarter Dutch and half a quarter Chinese, I’m a mut with a long family history.

My Italian side has always resonated with me most. Ever since I remember my Grandpa on his knees and screaming his heart out at the soccer game on the television. As the 2006 World Cup concluded with Gli Azzurri on top, I saw first hand the love my Grandpa carried for his home.

My Grandpa always labels himself an American Italian. He came here many years ago in the 1950s and although he assimilated well and began a family, he never lost sight of his heritage. Like something tattooed across his forehead, he has worn it proudly wherever he has gone.

I can see a similar attitude has imprinted itself on my father. Living the hectic life of a business man he has traveled to the ends of the Earth and back. Germany, India, England – he has really seen it all. Somehow, for some strange reason I do not know, his humble hometown of Upper Darby in the suburbs of Philadelphia will always be his one true home.

 I can only hope that vested within me is that same passion for the town I’ve spent my 17 years on Earth living.