- CP photo: Gab Bonesso
- An Italian father’s daughter
My entire life has been a lie. I only recently discovered this because I was given an Ancestry DNA kit for Christmas. The reality is that I was given an identity crisis for Christmas. Thanks, sis.
My whole life I’ve declared that I am an Italian American. My father, I believed, was the product of two Italians. Therefore I assumed my old man was 100 percent Italian, making me at least 50 percent.
My mother never knew her birth father. We were told he was either Russian or Italian. (What? My maternal grandmother had a full dance card. Don’t judge.)
My mother deluded herself into believing she was Italian. Honestly, if you had ever eaten her food, you would have assumed she was a full-blooded Italian. Don’t let a chef’s palate fool you. It means nothing.
My results arrived last Thursday. The “science” deduced that I was only — wait for it – 35 percent Italian (sobbing).
I was so irate, I threw my laptop in what I used to describe as an “Italian rage fit” and now I can only call a “rage fit.” This is not right.
I must question the science behind a Q-tip of my saliva determining my heritage. I don’t know if I’m buying this. I am definitely trying the competitor 23andMe.
I just can’t accept 35 percent! I’m telling you, I look just like my father, especially when I wear a fake mustache. This can’t be accurate.
According to the test, one of my Italian grandparents wasn’t all Italian, capisce?
Here’s my DNA breakdown, which incidentally caused a mental breakdown:
• 35% Italy
• 22% Russia (We found out who our Grandpa was!)
• 13% Greece and the Balkans
• 11% England, Wales, Northern Europe
• 9% France
• 4% Baltic States
• 3% Ireland and Scotland
• 2% Turkey and the Caucasus
• 1% Sweden
Who the hell am I? This is the first time I’m glad my parents aren’t alive to see this garbage. Poor mom … got the birth father she never wanted. Poor pops wasn’t even a full-blooded Italian. More like FOOL-blooded, am I right?
I am so sad. Not to be dramatic, but it’s like spending your whole life assuming you’re Rocky Balboa, the Italian Stallion. Then you find out you are equal parts Rocky and Dolph Lundgren. I’m fighting myself in Rocky 4, you guys! (more sobbing)
Whatever. Culturally, I was raised Italian. It doesn’t matter what my spit determines. I know who I am. I’m Gab and I’m Italian … kind of.