Can one ever really understand what it’s like to grow up with a heart split in two? Not a broken heart, but a heart that belongs to two worlds, two identities. I’ve often wondered how one would best describe the strange existence of mixed-race Italians as myself, never really belonging to one place or another but perpetually split in half; our spirits torn in two, an even distribution the way Spaccanapoli divides the old city of Naples.

I’ve often wondered what it could be like for Italians of foreign origin. The Afro-Italians. The Asian Italians. The Indian Italians. Those who are as Italian as an Aperol spritz yet are rarely instantly perceived as such. I’ve always felt as if I have two worlds inside my one person.