(Third Generation Immigrant of Italian and Ukrainian Grandparents)
I’ve never felt fully English — it never quite fit,
Like a jacket too stiff, or shoes that don’t sit.
Too many syllables stitched in my name,
Too many roots for one soil to claim.
I’ve never felt fully Italian, the words would twist and slide,
A language not my own, though it lived deep inside.
But pastina simmered slowly, a soft and steady thread,
Tied me to a place and love where so many stories spread.
My Nonna would stir the pot and softly say,
“You won’t grow strong if you skip a day.”
It wasn’t just food — it was love made warm,
A comfort, a custom, a family form.
I’ve never felt fully Ukrainian either, though it echoes through my veins,
In stories half-told and inherited pains,
In names I struggle to say aloud,
In a quiet pride that stands unbowed.
My schoolfriends didn’t understand her broken tongue,
Her words unfinished, half-unsung.
But I understood — the in-between,
The meaning that lived in all things unseen.
At school gates I’d pause, my voice held low,
Not “Grandma” or “Nan” — but Nonna, you know.
Ashamed of love in foreign sound,
Not knowing then how deep it’s bound.
She came on a boat with a case and a dream,
No riches, no roadmap, just courage unseen.
And though I can’t feel all she knew,
I walk on the path that she pushed through.
I am not one thing but I am not less,
I’m a blend of stories, a tangled mess
Of three proud bloodlines, old and bold,
In a modern shape they could not have foretold.
I am the child of far-off lands,
Of stitched-together hearts and hands.
I carry their strength, I speak their name,
With pride, not shame — without the same.
So ask me where I’m really from —
And I will say: from more than one.
I am the sum of all they gave,
Of love, and fight, and what they braved.
I am proud — of pastina and stories untold,
Of sorrow and sweetness, of fierce and bold.
I am proud of my roots, my name, my face —
Not one place owns me, but I still belong in this place.
Poem by Jowanah Majeed
Blog by Shanil Rao
