If I ever took a deep dive into my heritage, I'm sure it would turn out that I was a mixed bag of a lot of different nationalities. I've always known that I was Italian on my mother's side and Irish on my dad's. Growing up, I never had any interaction with my father or his family. My mom and dad were divorced while she was pregnant with me. I have one biological brother from their union, and we are 11 months apart. This phenomenon is affectionately referred to as being "Irish Twins." Growing up, the dynamic of discussing my father was so surreal. We NEVER talked about him. He was like this mythical figure. The implication was almost one of fear, as if he were this big bad wolf threatening to huff and puff and blow our world apart at any given moment. We had NO pictures of him. That is, until I found a photo from their wedding day. My parents had a really fancy wedding, too. It was a rainbow wedding, where all the bridesmaids wore different-colored gowns. In the picture below, you can see my parents in the upper-right corner. That was the extent of my knowledge about my father.
When I was about 10 years old, I remember asking my mother about him. She didn't say much, but she did tell me that, while they were getting divorced, he had written her a letter stating that he planned to get married again and did not want the burden of supporting two children. His solution to this conundrum was to allow my brother and me to be adopted by anyone she found suitable, up to and including my grandparents. I don't know if I fully believed her at the time. I also believe I was probably too young to know about that, and I was definitely too young to ask the hard follow-up questions. When I became a teenager, I did, however, go snooping in her lockbox, and I found the letter. It was neatly typed, carefully signed, and pretty much just as she had said. She wasn't lying. Strangely, that was of little comfort to me. I guess a part of me always secretly wished she had been.
My husband, who was also part-Irish, used to ask me why I only really embraced my Italian roots, not my Irish ones. I told him I was raised in an Italian household, and it just never was a thing. It bothered him, and that bothered me. I told him that if he really wanted to know the truth about why I didn't embrace my Irish roots, I would tell him. I looked him square in the eye, and I said, "I don't like the attitude of that lucky charms leprechaun. Magically delicious, my ass." He was NOT amused. Let's face it there are a lot of things in life that are delicious but "magically " delicious. I think not. No offense to the leprechaun community.We lived together for 14 years, and he never really fully embraced my sarcasm or my unique sense of humor😬.
I like to think I got my eyes from the Irish side of my family. You know, Irish eyes are smiling and all that good stuff. I think my quick wit and sarcasm came from my dad as well. I heard from several people that he was quite personable and funny. I know my caretaking-loving traits came from my mother's side of the family. I also have a feeling that my butt is a direct result of my Italian heritage. Grazie, grandma and grandpa. I also want to address the old wives' tale about Italian and Irish people having fiery tempers. It is not an old wives' tale AT ALL!! It's a true tale. I have a very fiery temper. It can flare up like a pack of hemorrhoids, and I'm here to tell you there is no tube of Preparation H large enough to calm my ass down when I'm really pissed off.
At the end of the day, I am really proud of where I came from and my heritage. I also know that when my family chose not to talk about my father, it came from a place of protection and love. Unfortunately, the truth is you can never heal from things kept in the dark. It's always uncomfortable when you shine a light on them, but that's the only way they get addressed. All my life, I wanted the opportunity to meet my father. Not to berate him or shame him. Not to hug him either. Just to look at him and see how it felt, see how I felt about it.
In my 30's, my Uncle David reached out to me. He was my father's brother, and he invited my brother and I to a family reunion. My brother wanted to have no part of it, but I was intrigued and went. My father was not there, and Uncle David filled in many gaps for me about him. I thought about my dad often. He was a realtor, and I had thought about making an appointment to view one of his properties. Use a different name just to meet him and interact with him. That opportunity never came. One day, my phone rang. I heard my Uncle's voice, and I knew. My father had passed away. I went to his funeral, and I felt sad. Not angry, not heartbroken. Just sad. After the service, my my Uncle pulled me aside and asked me a question I would never forget. He asked me if I would take my father's ashes. No one else wanted them. He had 3 ex-wives and 6 children, and no one wanted anything to do with him.
I didn't even have to think about it. Of course, I would take them. I took the Urn, brought it home, and set it on the kitchen table. I looked at my daughters and said, "Girls, meet your grandfather." Ridiculous right? Not really. Humor helps me deal sometimes.
That day taught me a very important lesson. It doesn't matter what people do to you or how they treat you. People can only do what they're capable of, and my dad was not capable of much. I wouldn't be here, though, if it weren't for him, and you know what, if that's the one good thing I can say about him, that has to be enough. It is enough! Now I always tell people I'm Irish-Italian when they ask me, because I celebrate both sides of my heritage equally. Which is exactly as it should be. Happy St Patrick's Day!!