Ever since I was little, I’ve always loved my last name. I loved it for the most simple reasons, I thought it was fun to say. I thought Carlini sounded like tortellini pasta, and I LOVE pasta. These reasons are silly and childish, but did play a role in my love for my family name when I was young. However, as I’ve grown and learned more about my family from which I got my name, my love for the name has deepened and become more complex.

I get my last name from my father’s parents, who were Italian immigrants. My dad’s father passed away before I was born, so I never got a chance to meet him. My dad’s mother, my grandmother, passed away in 2012 after a long battle with Alzheimer’s. My relationship with my grandmother was complicated by her Alzheimer’s and my young age at the time prevented me from truly understanding what was going on. I wish I was able to foster a longer and stronger relationship with her, and miss her greatly.

My dad has never been the type to talk a lot about the past, so growing up I didn’t know very much about my grandparents’ lives. When I reached middle school and high school, school projects and natural curiosity led me to ask more about my grandparents’ lives. I even became curious about my grandparent’s parents, especially since I knew most of the family beyond my grandparents stayed in Italy. I know some other relatives are also in America, and I met them once when I was young, but we aren’t very close with them for some reason or another.

My grandparents were born and raised in Italy, and lived in a small village named Ceccano. After World War II, they decided they wanted to leave Italy for America, where they could have better opportunities for jobs. However, this was no easy feat. My grandfather traveled to America alone on a boat, to find a place for him and my grandmother. After a few years of going back and forth from America to Italy, my grandfather had enough money for my grandmother to join him. They then grew their family from there. My grandfather worked many jobs while my grandmother worked as a seamstress.

When my aunt and dad were born, they lived in a neighborhood of many immigrants from all over. My dad still talks fondly of the Jewish family he grew up next to and the food they would make, as well as the advice and guidance. As the children of immigrants, my aunt and dad lived a life very different than their parents. I’ve heard stories of my aunt being bullied in school for her name that is very standard in Italy, but was considered weird in America. The lives and experiences that immigrants and their children go through can range from uplifting to extremely difficult. Coming into a new country is extremely daunting, and I admire my grandparents for their sacrifices and devotion to bettering their lives for themselves and their children. Immigrants deserve kindness and respect for the immense work that it takes to make a life for yourself.