Turns Out I'm a Fake Italian

Turns out I’ve been a fraud my entire life. Today, I discovered that I’m a fake Italian. I always thought I was at least half, but it turns out I’m not even that. I’m 48%.

After years of proudly proclaiming I was “half Italian,” I finally caved and took one of those DNA tests—you know, the ones that promise to tell you all about your ancestry for the small price of spitting into a tube. I felt pretty confident about what I'd see: a solid 50% Italian, maybe with a couple of wildcards like "Nordic" or "Viking" to spice things up. So, I sat back and waited for the results.

This morning, an email popped up on my phone. My DNA results were in. My thumbs couldn’t swipe fast enough.

As I clicked on my ancestry breakdown, there it was, in bold: 48% Italian. Not 50%. Not even 49.5% so I could round up. Nope. Just shy of half, the same way I’m a half short of 7 inches. And the other 52%? A grab bag of European randomness. Turns out I’m English, Irish, a sprinkle of German, and even 1% African. It’s not enough to call myself a minority, but technically, I’m 1% African-American. Basically, I’m Europe’s version of a Neapolitan ice cream tub.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I still love Italy. I’ll still talk with my hands and correct people when they pronounce mozzarella wrong. But knowing I’m not a solid 50% Italian feels like finding out Santa isn’t real. My whole life, I clung to this idea that my ancestry was as spicy and Italian as my mom’s Sunday gravy, only to find out I’m more of a melting pot than I realized.

Even worse, what do I do with my love for saying “vaffanculo”? Am I even allowed to pepper my speech with random Italian words anymore, or will the English, Irish, and German parts start demanding equal time? I’d say I could embrace all sides of my newfound ancestry, but I don’t think my stomach could handle combining pasta, bratwurst, and, worst of all, beans on toast.

So here I am, embracing my new “European mutt” status with as much grace as I can muster. Sure, I’ll always be mostly Italian, but now I have a new, global perspective. Maybe this means I should lean into my other backgrounds, start adding “O’Leary” after my last name, or develop a strong opinion on sauerkraut.

In the end, I’ve decided to embrace this 48% business. The Italian part of me might be a little less than I thought, but it’s still there—gesturing wildly with both hands, enjoying a good glass of red, and being way too passionate about everything. As for the rest? Well, at least now I can pretend I’m cultured when I buy random European stuff.

Turns out being a mutt isn’t so bad after all. And hey, if anything, it just gives me a bigger pool of countries to blame when I do something stupid.