It wasn't until I was in my twenties and moved to the East Coast that people started to ask me 'what I was.' Being born to two liberal parents from the Bay Area and having left one of the most progressive cities in the world (San Francisco) to move to New York left me questioning the curiosity. Female, American, a brunette. The question could be answered many ways but it did not take me long to figure out on this coast, in a more old school way of thinking in a city with some remaining ethnic divides - they were asking for my cultural makeup; my ethnic derivation.
Though I am a European mutt, for all intents and purposes, I am Italian and Irish, though I am pretty watered down at this point.
For many years my pride in being Italian reigned supreme. Being met with validation from the more ethnic communities I have chosen to embed myself with as an adult somehow solidified my belief. I have olive skin and long dark hair. I blend in and that meant a lot for someone who has more often chosen language and wardrobe to make them stand out.
As a teenager I wanted desperately to change my last name from Heard to Benevento, but having so much respect for my father, decided to hyphenate it through those formative years and give up entirely once I reached university.
Though I weighed heavily on my ethnically ambiguous leaning attributes my Dad, secure and mature in my relationship with him as you can only hope a parent is with their child, scoffed, laughed, turned up the morosely beautiful music that filled his home on Sunday mornings and insisted my Irish roots ran deep.
Of course, like most things, he was right.
Though I am attracted to the sounds, scents and colors of my Mediterranean roots and, honestly, my penchant for Latin culture in general - but man.
As I sit here alone. During quarantine and decided that R.E.M,'s "Nightswimming" is so beautiful that I decide a 90's alternative soundtrack will accompany my afternoon, there is no doubt.
No doubt that the melancholy melodies speak to me and make me feeling beautiful tragedy.
And there is no denying that the morose Irish blood is readily available in my being. And my Dad lives on. In me.
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