When driving from Naples to Faicchio the road is often wrought with potholes, cracks caused by past earthquakes never to have been repaired, dirt, dust, and sometimes, ashamedly, litter. The surrounding vista is mountainous, rocky, covered in swathes of olive trees and sunlight, biblical almost in its tranquil but rugged expanse conjuring up images unchanged since Levi first saw his inspiration for Cristo si è fermato a Eboli. Eventually, amidst old stone houses built into the mountainside, from which the heavy consonants and swallowed end-vowels of Faicchiano drift and abandoned new builds scattered along the road, there is a bend over an old stone bridge haphazardly poised over the stony Volturno and the view, this view in front of me, that is home.  

At the same time, in East Anglia, there is a country lane, hostile to cars but open to the wandering walker or cyclist and amenable to rattling old tractors, that has wound its way deeper into the boundaries between fields for centuries, sinking down into the ancient hedgerow, dappling the English sunlight on the brow of the wanderer whose “Good morning” or “Nice day now” betray a jaunty Suffolk lilt. Peeking out over the top of the banks of the sunken lane the singing, zesty yellow tips of rape wobble in the warm, pollen-filled May breeze, dancing with the “cow-parsley skirts” of Rossetti’s (his Italian heritage not lost on me) Silent Noon. This “twofold silence” of the English countryside, that is also home.  

These two natures with their two suns have juggled my national, cultural and linguistic existence since birth between two lands, two passports, and two languages. Born in the heart of England to a second-generation Italian mother and a British father with my birth registered both in the UK and Italy, I have had the privilege of two nationalities, two citizenships, two homes, two languages, since birth. I have also had to answer the pervading question “where do you feel you are more from?” ever since I developed the linguistic capacity to formulate answers as a child. The pervading answer to the pervading question has always been, “I don’t know”.  

Everything to me has always been a liminal blur of cultures and languages. My mother’s mother tongue is Faicchiano, a dialect of the regional language Neapolitan, a language which is not recognised by the Italian state. It was spoken around me at home in England by my mother, my nonna, and my uncle. It was also spoken around me at home in Faicchio by everyone I’m related to there (nigh on the whole village, mind). It came as a shock to me to learn later in my childhood that whilst my strange mix of English-lilted Faicchiano was the beautiful exotic in the UK, if I spoke it anywhere else in Italy I would not be understood, or, even worse, I would be told not to speak it at all. Dialetti are not “real” Italian. Strano to be un-understood in a land of which I am a citizen. A foreigner of an old diaspora which means that despite bearing the highest stamp of nation-state approval, a passport, I’m not “really” Italian.  

I can, however, be more of a chameleon in the UK. English, the language of my father, my education and profession, is the language over which I hold greatest command. It is also a language that I love and use most; however, it is not my mother’s tongue. Wrapped up in the Faicchiano culture that burst with vitality and vibrancy out of our English-built house, friends always felt that they were walking into a microcosm of southern Italy. They also associated me with such. So, despite my unquestionable command of the English language and accent, I was English, but culturally speaking, “not really”.  

Now, living in Belgium adds a third dimension. It is easy to feel at ease when hearing British voices who have either escaped Brexit Britain or who are visiting to underestimate the power of Belgian beer. I have no doubt how my English will be received: English, no question about it. Hearing Italian voices, however, is more fraught. Not ever having had the same command of standard Italian as I have of English, a little creeping doubt surfaces when I have to introduce myself to new colleagues, especially to fellow Italians. If one states one’s nationality, one is expected to be fluent in the nation-state language. My existence as an Italian is thus a perpetual spanner in the works to that assumption. Whilst the cadences and dissonances of Faicchiano is (one of) the epitome of phonetic and linguistic home to me, to use Jennifer Scappettone’s words, I fear “the bastardized Italian of my household” will be taken to mean that I’m not “really” Italian or that something went wrong with my upbringing if, with my dual nationality, I am not perfectly bilingual with the standard.  

The association of the perfect “native” nation-state standard language as the ultimate mark of someone’s “real” national identity does not sit right with me. Am I any less Italian than a standard speaking Toscano or Milanese just because I was born into a diaspora of regional language speakers from southern Italy? I like to think not. I’m Italian, just a different version of it. Am I any less British because I grew up surrounded by a non-Anglo culture? I like to think not. I’m British, just a different version of it. So, in answer to the pervading question of what am I “more” of, my answer is: both, with all the bendy roads and lanes, natures and suns, drifts and lilts that having dual nationality comes with. 

(Originally written in English) 19.3.24

Riflessione Uno is part of series of riflessioni/reflections on being an imperfectly bilingual English/Italian dual national living abroad in a multilingual state. Each reflection is written in the language in which it first sprang to mind and may or may not be self-translated, mistakes and all, into another riflessione/reflection in the future.