Accidental Ancestry

Proud of Celtic heritage,

Glaswegian born and bred.

/

The sound of the pipes,

the infectious laughter

of The Big Yin —

Billy Connolly.

/

Architectural

shipbuilding giant.

/

The glens and Bens,

the peaty bogs

and magic lochs.

/

The people earnest,

perfection fallen short.

The history,

the lyrical majesty

of Scotland.

/

The words, the songs,

the prose and the art

distilled from the Highlands

through the Central Belt

to the Borders —

braving the harshness

of the North and Irish Seas

and expansive Atlantic Ocean

surrounding the islands.

/

Accidental though it is,

my heritage it still is.

It is my accidental

ancestral identity.

/

Like the Roman Empire,

a composite I am.

/

But as Nonno entered life’s fray

on the Emerald Isles a sea away,

and Nonna’s induction to life began

in the great motherland

of Roman origination,

a Scottish legacy seemed,

through history’s eye,

a distant, ridiculous prophecy.

/

Yet as his branches stretched

to Scotland

and his ancestral homeland,

Nonno was thrust

into the young life

of Nonna.

/

His pursuit of life with the woman

who would sit at the end of the table

as the premier

of the Euro-Celtic Cafolla clan

was relentless.

/

Yet they found themselves apart —

in Glasgow

and Sesto Campano.

/

The eventual marital cohesion,

by proxy:

but romantic,

persistent in the traditional

Wordsworth sense.

/

Stories of truth,

of immigration

and redefinition of legacy,

are always the sketchiest.

/

So often the timeline suggested

an Irish Paulo

or Italian Pól

with no love directly gained

and nurtured

for Glasgow

and its dirt and beauty.

/

When people speak of immigration

and racist nationalism,

it makes me sick,

stokes angers deep within me.

/

For as truly Scottish

through and through

as I am,

I am also the accidental product

of love across national boundaries,

of immigrants looking

for something better.

/

Italian, Irish, Scottish —

the best and the worst

of all that came before me.

/

Grandson to a legacy

beyond Scotland,

but held together

in a fine tapestry

of culture.

/

In truth,

my birth may never have happened —

perish the thought, I know.

/

Or perhaps I would have vaulted

from my mother’s womb

into the warmth

of rural Molise

or the northern grit

of Éire brethren.

/

In truth,

I was thrust

into the dirt and beauty

of my beloved Glasgow —

to a family rich

in heritage and legacy,

to which I owe

my identity.

/

As Scottish as they come,

while desperately trying

to hold to

and honour

my roots

spread beyond

the coastlines.