Discovering my Roots

My personal journey to discover my roots. Jennifer's story.

The trip was born of a quest, a pursuit of dual citizenship, a tangible connection to a heritage that had long resonated in my soul. Newly divorced and living in Shanghai, I was preparing to present my documents directly in Italy, with the intention of making it my new home. The practicalities of this process—consulting with attorneys and service providers over phone and email— coincided with my eight-week summer vacation from teaching. It was an opportunity I couldn't ignore, a chance to explore the land of my ancestors and to seek out a place to begin again.

Italy, for me, and Sicily in particular, was a mythical place. My nonna's kitchen was a portal to that world. I grew up amidst the rich aromas of her Sunday sauce, the rhythmic rolling of involtini, and the tantalizing array of Sicilian cassata and biscotti, my favorite the reginella a delicious weirdly dry sesame cookie best described as bird food. She filled my ears with stories of a land of striking beauty, where the sea met the mountains in breathtaking vistas. But her tales were also tinged with the stark reality of poverty and desperation, the forces that had driven her family to leave for America with little more than the clothes on their backs. My ancestors were pescatori, fishermen, their surname, Di Mercurio, a testament to their trade. They were, I would later learn, pearl fishermen, a detail that perhaps explains my lifelong fascination with all things pearl.

Living in Shanghai, a sprawling metropolis of over twenty million people, I confess I harbored a somewhat contradictory image of Sicily. I expected a sleepy, perhaps even run-down town. I wasn't sure what to expect from its people or how easily I would be able to communicate. My linguistic focus had been on mastering Mandarin Chinese, leaving me with only a smattering of remembered Italian phrases, mostly slang and the colorful expressions my grandparents would exchange in the heat of an argument. I had attempted to arrange a guided tour in advance, but the plans fell through. A researcher provided very little information, and the tour guide and I couldn't align our schedules. So, I would be on my own, a prospect that was both daunting and exhilarating.

My journey began in familiar territory. Florence, with its captivating beauty and the warmth of its people, had stolen my heart during my first visit in 2014. I arranged for my sister and her daughter to join me there. I tried to persuade them to extend their trip to include Sicily, to see our grandparents' hometown, but my sister's fear of the Hollywood version of Sicily—the land of the Mafia—proved too strong. So, we met in Tuscany, and from there, I bid them farewell in Venice, embarking on a long train journey south. Along the way, I paused for a few days on the Amalfi Coast, a brief respite after work and navigating the challenges of traveling with a family not quite as travel-savvy as myself. Finally, I was en route to Sicily. The train journey was unexpectedly enchanting. As we reached the toe of the "boot" of Italy, the entire train was loaded onto a barge and ferried across the Strait of Messina. Passengers were encouraged to leave the train car and gather on deck. It was golden hour, that magical time just before sunset when the light bathes the sea in a shimmering, golden hue.

Palermo, my first Sicilian stop, holds a unique place in my personal geography. In my childhood, it loomed large in my nonni's stories—a city of contrasts, where wealth and beauty existed alongside crime and danger. It was a place of art, of the distinctive Palermitano Liberty style architecture, and, significantly, the last place my nonna saw as she left her homeland for America.

Arrival in Palermo: A Baptism by Chaos

Stepping off the train in Palermo was like plunging into a swirling vortex of motion and sound. While others seemed to navigate the platform with confident purpose, I stood momentarily dazed, a solitary island in a sea of purposeful movement. The sheer volume of my luggage suddenly felt absurd. Whose bright idea was it to embark on an eight-week Italian sojourn with only a Rick Steves backpack, only to succumb to the chronic over-packer within, requiring a wardrobe change for every conceivable occasion? And then there was the rolling suitcase, bless its wheels, burdened with the twelve bottles of Tuscan wine—a spontaneous purchase during a boozy cooking class overlooking that idyllic landscape with my sister.

I had booked a stay in a monastery near the train station, a seemingly straightforward proposition. Surely, I could simply walk, dragging my burgeoning collection of belongings. Reality, however, had other plans. The streets surrounding the station were a labyrinth. Wrong turns led to frustrating backtracks. I found myself unexpectedly swallowed by a vibrant, overwhelming festival before finally stumbling upon my destination: the back door of a church, nestled deep within the chaotic heart of Palermo's ancient and famous Vucciria market. It was a spectacular surprise, a sensory overload of noise, color, and life, yet undeniably beautiful and exciting.

Stepping inside the cool, dim interior of the church, I discovered my arrival had coincided with the festival of the patron saint. The evening promised two remarkable events: a multilingual play, performed by students from Spain, Malta, and Sicily, with audience participation woven into its narrative as it moved between the church's interior and its courtyard. Following the play, after the market stalls were cleared and the streets washed clean, the locals would emerge en masse for a midnight parade and festival under the warm July sky.

A Hasty Departure and the Stillness of Terrasini

Oversleeping after the previous night's festivities, I found myself rushing to catch the mid-afternoon train to Terrasini, the town of my ancestors. Having spent a good amount of time lost in Palermo's tiny train station the day before, I felt much more confident in my navigation skills this time around. Thirty minutes later, I was exiting the train in Terrasini—or so I thought. It turns out the train station is on the far edge of town, and since I had (thankfully) left my bags at my accommodation in Palermo, I faced a long walk with no real sidewalk and cars whizzing by.

My first real glimpse of the town came as I neared the piazza. Simple two- and three-story buildings stood close to the street, with the tiniest of sidewalks. And there it was: the chiesa madre, the church I had seen in pictures. It was open, so I took a few moments to step inside, catching my breath in the cool, crisp, white marble interior—a welcome relief from the hot July day. Two sisters (nuns) were quietly praying in the front pews, but otherwise, the church was empty.

I exited and wandered through the piazza, where the restaurants were still lively around 2 pm. But as I left the square, I noticed the stillness of the town. It was almost eerie. Was everyone still in the piazza, having lunch? Doors were closed, shutters on homes were drawn. The town was quiet. I had not yet been introduced to the wonderful afternoon riposa.

So, I made my way towards the sea. The closest beach, I had read online, was at the end of the street where my nonni were born, what a great location: Via dei Mille. I took my time strolling down the street, looking at each house, wondering which one had been my nonna's. She held such a strong place in my life, and as I walked this street, I could feel her presence. I didn't discover her house at that moment, but I could easily imagine her and her siblings playing on the street, her mother in the kitchen, making her sauce and rolling involtini, just as I had been taught.

A Twist of Fate and a Homecoming

Though I didn't find my ancestors' homes on that first visit, I left with the feeling that I would return someday. I wasn't sure if Terrasini would become my home, but I knew it would be a part of my future. Two years later, after returning to China and living through 2020 in the epicenter of a pandemic, the time felt right to pursue my citizenship and make my move to Italy. My original plans for assistance fell through, but the tour guide I had tried to connect with in 2019, came through for me.

A few months later, I found myself living in Sicily, not in Terrasini, but in a cute mountaintop town, while I pursued my citizenship recognition. Once recognized, my plan was to move to Barcelona with my Spanish partner, Guillermo. However, the spirit of my nonna had other plans. I felt drawn to Sicily, a need to be there. The desire to live in Terrasini, a town where I had spent no more than a few hours, was overwhelming.

I shared my thoughts with a friend who had a local connection in Terrasini. Before I knew it, I had a new apartment with a view of the sea. Once I moved in, I became the "Americana" in town. Everyone was kind and curious, wanting to know why I had come, why I would leave America. When I explained that my family was from Terrasini and that I had recently been recognized as an Italian citizen, people were incredibly helpful. They connected me with others who shared my family name, helped me locate the exact houses where my nonni had been born, and introduced me to third and fourth cousins who welcomed me home.

And so today, four years later, this is where I am: home. Home in Terrasini, the town my family left in 1902 and 1906 to make their way to an unknown place in search of a better life. It feels like a full circle, to return to the place they loved so much and left reluctantly, knowing they had no other option if they wanted a life worth living. And that is exactly why I now call this place home. For me, it is the place where I feel safe, where I can thrive and live the life I was meant to live.

P.S. And for those seeking to discover their own roots, ICC and its partners offer Roots Tourism: custom-designed tours with ancestral research. Having long assisted our citizenship clients in this way, it's a natural extension of our services, helping others to retrace their own journeys home.