‘My Kids Are 100% Americans’

My kids are mutts. They are not pure-bred. They are not 100% anything, but are a mixture of several races. Or should I say they come from several different ethnic backgrounds? Or is it different cultures? These days, with all the discussion of what is politically correct, I am not sure how I should say it. All I know is that they are not full-blooded Italian, as I am.

I was always proud of being 100% Italian when I was growing up. But looking back on it now, it seems that the thing I was really proud of was being a “pure-bred” something. The Italian part was inconsequential. Around the turn of the century, all four of my grandparents migrated to this country from Sicily. Most of my friends could not boast the same thing regarding their roots. They had grandparents from various parts of Europe, which made them a little bit of this and a little bit of that. I was the only one in my group of friends who was 100% of anything.

I always thought my kids would be 100% Italian too. Until it dawned on me that I would have to marry a man who was also 100% Italian.

Then I met the man who was to become my husband and the the father of my children. And that is how I came to be the mother of three children who are part Chinese, part Spanish and part Indian. Oh yes . . . and 50% Italian.

My children are beautiful, although no one can guess exactly what combination of ethnicities they are. They have very light olive-colored skin, slanted eyes and dark brown hair. Two of them have greenish-hazel eyes. People often try to guess “what” they are. Hawaiian? Greek? Latin? I get a kick out of strangers’ comments. When I see someone staring at one of my children I can anticipate what they will ask next. “Is she part Japanese?” Or after studying my face and comparing it to one of my children, the question might be, “Where is their father from?” I smile and delight in telling people, “Oh, they’re a mixture. A little of this and a little of that.”

My children, however, are not so delighted. They are uncomfortable with the entire subject. They see themselves simply as kids--American kids. When I talk about being Italian, they know that I am really an American, just like them. They know too that their father came to the United States from South America when he was 18, not even speaking English. But he became a citizen a few years later and that makes him an American also. To them, national origin is no big deal.

Which brings to mind the questions: What does it mean to be an American? And what does it mean to have relatives who are of different races or from different countries? Does it make them unique and different from other American children? Hardly.

The color of my kids’ skin or the shape of their eyes ultimately will not and should not predict the kind of people they will become. They are Americans first and foremost. And though there are cultural differences among American families, and some of the values and mores of our ethnic backgrounds make us a little different from each other here and there, basically there are more similarities than there are disparities. My hope is that the American culture is the one we all ultimately make our own, which is exactly what our children do already.

When I observe my children with their friends, I see many different races represented among them. But as they listen to their music and talk about clothes and school, I realize there really is only one culture here: the American culture. A virtual cornucopia of many different ethnicities, races and nationalities, all living together as one. And that is how it should be.