Becoming Italian

I’ve always wanted to be Italian. Despite the fact I was born in one of Canada’s biggest cities and therefore proudly hold a Canadian passport, I wanted to be a citizen of the extraordinary peninsula of Italy.

Not because of the millennia of history, the plethora of incomparable art and architecture – and not for the exquisite food and wine.

I have always wanted to be Italian because as far back as I can remember, the smells, the tastes and the sounds of Italy feel like home.

Italy in my blood

One of my earliest childhood memories is toddler-me, tugging on my Italian grandmother Carmela’s apron asking for acqua. We were standing in my grandparent’s ground floor kitchen, a big pot of sugo likely simmering on the wood stove (since there was always a pot of something fragrantly delicious simmering on the woodstove) in the stucco house my Grandfather Guiseppe built on the edge of Vancouver’s Little Italy. A home where all of their six children, a few dozen grandchildren and a handful of paesani from the home country would gather on warm summer days on a large cement terrace overlooking the vegetable garden and while away the afternoon.

I remember us kids running around, getting scolded for one thing or another, food being brought out through the kitchen window, my Uncle sleeping on a chair, legs stretched out before him, hat tilted over his eyes.

The men would be playing cards, the women laughing. I can still see the peppers left to dry on the ceiling rafters as I ran into the basement to find a place to hide in the many cubbies as we played hide and seek. My favourite place was my Grandpa’s shoe closet. I would pull the curtain and sit on his shoebox, surrounded by a vast collection of polishes and brushes, hoping nobody would find me.

I remember the way the morning light shone through the slated wood on the chicken coop when I would help my Grandpa collect the eggs – the pungent smell of straw, the commotion of the birds when we opened the door – me clinging tightly to my Grandfather’s hand, afraid but knowing I was safe as long as I was with him.

I remember Grandpa holding me up as I reached under their warm bodies – the unforgettable thrill of finding a brown speckled egg.

And I remember the lyrical sound of Italian. I may not have understood much of what was being said but those words, the sound of the Italian language rolling off the tongues of the people I loved has always brought me comfort.  

So you see, I have always wanted to be Italian.

The citizenship journey begins

You would think that with native Italian grandparents and a father whose siblings (well half of them) were born in Italy, I wouldn’t have a problem getting my Italian citizenship. Wrong.

My Dad was born a few years after my Grandmother arrived in Canada with three young children in tow to join her husband who had already been there a few years, preparing a new life for his family.

Back then, Canada did not allow dual citizenship. You had to choose. And my Grandmother chose Canada, her new home. For this reason, my Dad is not able to get his Italian citizenship yet the children – and now grandchildren – of his Italian-born brother and sister can. And have.

Some of them are from the most recent generation who have never been to Italy and never met the relatives who made it possible for them to have this privilege. While I don’t begrudge them their right, it has been a difficult pill for me and for some of my siblings who grew up with our grandparents to swallow.

My Dad and a few of us tried everything – visits to embassies, consultations with lawyers. While we were told it wasn’t impossible, it would be very difficult to make it happen.  So the years went by and I accepted I would be a Canadian who would have to be satisfied with visiting her beloved Italy as much as possible.

Then along came Peter. My handsome, love-at-first-sight Canadian/Italian soul mate. From our first date, we discovered we had much in common, including a love of all things Italian and a deep-rooted desire to spend as much time in Italy as possible.  

Marrying Peter on a warm day in May on Venice’s Grand Canal was a dream come true in more ways than one. It seemed that my new husband offered me much more than a lifetime of happiness; he was the key to opening the door on my citizenship dreams. I was able to apply for Italian citizenship through marriage. How hard can that be, right?

Well, for those of you familiar with the Italian love of paperwork, signatures, stamping said-paperwork, it would prove to be the single-most frustrating bureaucratic process I have yet to undertake.

But I knew it would be worth it. I was finally going to be Italian…one day.

The citizenship paper trail

This is not a ‘how-to’ or step-by-step on how to get your Italian citizenship. There is plenty of information online for those interested in the process. This is the story of my journey. Suffice it to say it was daunting. Some highlights include having to remember every address I’ve lived at since the age of fourteen (no small feat for a nomad like me); being fingerprinted, and acquiring a newfound virtue for patience – something that had previously eluded me. I was going to need it. Close to three years after I had submitted the last document and fired off the required fee to the embassy in Rome and I was still waiting.

In the meantime, life for Peter and I had evolved in a direction that was taking us closer to our dream of living in Italy. We had bought a 600-year old house in a medieval village in Umbria, renovated it and then decided to pack it up in Canada and try living there for a while.

Throughout the months of sorting out our departure from Canada, I checked back with the Consulate in Toronto, asking if there was news of my citizenship. The answer was always the same: my application was being held up along with a mountain of other applications in Rome. No telling how much longer it would take. I was told when it finally came through, I would be required to make myself present in Toronto for the swearing in ceremony. Okay I thought, how hard could that be, right?

Ten days after we arrived in our tiny medieval village of Paciano and I got an urgent email from the Consulate in Toronto. After years of waiting, my citizenship decree had finally arrived. My presence was required in Toronto in two weeks.

I had barely unpacked the last box and I was supposed to get back on a transatlantic flight to receive my Italian citizenship – in Canada. Surely logic would prevail and I could simply get the Consulate to send the documents to the Comune in our Italian town and I could be sworn in there. I soon found out logic was to play no part in my bridging the final gap in my long journey toward citizenship.

Toronto insisted the Comune wouldn’t accept the documents. The Comune insisted Toronto wouldn’t send the documents. The standoff continued while several of my local villagers tried to intervene on my behalf and appeal to the Comune to resolve the impasse. Nothing was working.

Frustrated and tired, we decided to take our case to the Questura, the police headquarters in Perugia. Logic came in the shape of a young, military looking inspector who took one look at the paper trail, asked me what was going on and declared the entire mess to be idiotic. He told us to return in 24 hours and he would have it all sorted. True to his word, one day later, I had the document I needed to take to our local Comune and get my citizenship decree sent to Paciano.

Three years, six months and two days after I had started on this journey and I had a date. On May 11^th, 2016 I was to finally become Italian.

The day I became Italian

Two things were very important to me on the day I was to become Italian. I wanted my family and friends to be with me as I swore allegiance to Italy. And I wanted to say something heartfelt to my new country.

The first wish was coming together nicely. My parents and one of my brothers and sister were able to coordinate being in Paciano for my special day and my local group of Italian and stranieri friends were happy to save-the-date.

The second thing on my wish list was a little trickier. I knew what I wanted to say but the execution of it was proving a tad complicated. At that point, my spoken Italian was very much in its infancy. With Peter’s help, I practiced the words. All six of them. I was sure I had it down.

The morning of May 11^th, I woke up with butterflies in my stomach. This was the day. The day I had waited for all my life. I woke up as a Canadian but I would go to sleep that night for the first time as an Italian as well. On the short walk up to the Comune, where family and friends were waiting for us in the Mayor’s official meeting room, Peter had me practice my line one more time. I slowly said the words in Italian, “Nel mio cuore, sarò sempre Italiana.”  or “In my heart, I will always be Italian”. At least that’s what I thought I said. Peter took my arm and stopped me in my tracks. He said, “Darlin’, I think you might want to rethink saying this at the ceremony.” I was crushed. I asked him why. He was trying to keep a straight face when he told me, “You just said, ‘In my ass, I will always be Italian’. Indeed. Clearly, I had a long way to go before I was ready for any public speaking in Italian.

My disappointment was short-lived. When I walked into the room and saw the faces of those I loved looking happy for me, the Mayor with his green, red and white sash smiling fondly at me and Peter squeezing my hand, I allowed myself to be in the moment – to take it all in.

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The moment I was declared an Italian citizen, I saw my beloved grandparents, Guiseppe and Carmela. I heard their laughter, their sweet words of Italian spoken in love, in praise and I felt the tears of joy on my cheeks.  

I knew they would be proud of me – their Canadian granddaughter who had traveled so far to be part of their legacy, their story.

I walked out of the Comune and into the warm embrace of my family and friends, head held high, rose petals being thrown in my path and wearing a smile I could not contain.

After all, I was now Italian.

A presto

Anna