I'm Proud.

Picture it: It's in the early 1900s. A young boy, about nine or ten boards a boat, with ten cents in his shoe. He sleeps in the bottom of the ship, with the rats. For three weeks, he lived that life, until docking in New York. He lives with his aunt or someone and begins to work hard, eventually making enough money to make a name for himself.

That man is my great grandfather, and that's his story about how he came from America from Palermo, Italy in the Victorian age. This man worked hard, basically from nothing to something, kind of like Cinderella, without the shoes. I aspire to be like him, because he's an interesting person to look up to. Even though I don't actually know him personally, because he died before I was born...
I'm an Italian American, and I'm proud. I am a strong woman, who speaks her mind, and wants to be heard. I'm short, and small, but at the same time, I make up for it with my voice.
People have different tastes on what Italian Americans are. No, I'm not a guido, and rarely get drunk or go out and party. No, I do not, to my knowledge, know anyone in the mob. I'm just a ginny, who enjoys the tradition, and proud of their ancestors.