Sitting in the front row of my French class, the new kid seating next to me asks: where are you from? Where am I from? That is a question I’ve been asking myself quite a lot too. Each and every time I hear these words, my brain jolts and flashes back, what should I answer? That I’m Italian so that I don’t have to explain, or say the real other truth and start a conversation? Every single time it’s the same story and invariably I don’t know what to answer. I am a true melting pot, my mother is Italian, my father half Moroccan half Norwegian born in France, with a grand mother who is Danish and a grand father, on my father side who was born as a nomad from the Sahara desert. Yet both of my parents are US citizens who lived in America for