My Cultural Identity Narrative

I am Clyde Twitty. My cultural identity is something I carry with me and take a lot of pride in. My father’s side has deep Italian roots, in fact if it weren’t for the Italian mafia I wouldn’t be here today. My great-grandpa was a local store owner in Modena. He got tangled up with the mafia, and when they demanded money he didn’t have he was forced to move his family to America. My mom’s side is Norwegian. At Christmas, it’s always fun to see the strange Norwegian foods that my grandpa is eating. Usually it’s something nauseating like pickled herring. My mom’s clan is very tall. My uncle is 6’7”, and other than my mom everyone on her side is over 6 feet tall. Hopefully I inherit those height genes. Although I appreciate my Norwegian

Although I didn’t inherit the big nose I definitely am a stereotypical Italian in the other two senses. My lust for eating food is almost as keen as my devotion to baseball. My whole family played baseball at some level, be it high-school, college, or professionally. At get-togethers there are so many great baseball stories. From growing up playing catch with a young Joe Dimaggio on the streets of New York, to striking out Barry Bonds three times in one game, to playing pro ball for the Pirates, there is definitely no shortage of material between all the Twittys. No matter if it’s playing, watching, or talking it, baseball is, and always will be, the most important part of my cultural identity. So even though I don’t eat that revolting pickled herring or have a colossal sniffer, I feel I express my heritage proudly. I assert my identity through playing baseball with my younger brothers, taking the time to explain to yet another person that I’m Italian, and by always trying to do the family name proud. I undertake in all of this because there is so much rich history within my roots, and that’s not something everyone can