Granddaughter Iysa and I in front of Nonna’s door

When my granddaughter Iysa visits me each summer, we return to the Mezzogiorno, back to Rotondella, the hilltop village where our family story began. We stand in front of the padlocked door in Via Cervaro, and I tell her about the hovel in which Carmela lived, the fields where she labored, and the water that she carried up the mountain.

During her first visit to Rotondella, when Iysa was in first grade, she struggled to understand the significance of this village to her life in America. “Sally, at my school,” she questioned me, “came from people who were famous Vikings. Are we famous for anything in Italy besides being poor?”

My reflection: She’s correct that our family history holds the narrative of poverty, but it also holds the narrative of hard-fought wisdom, pride of achievement, respect for education, love of family, and the dignity of living meaningful lives. These are stories I want Iysa to know—the sacrifices made by those who came before her, on whose shoulders she now stands. The ones who lift her up.

Something to think about: Sharing our past might feel difficult or painful, but is it valuable to pass on our family history? How do our histories shape the way future generations might see themselves? These are questions I return to each time I walk with Iysa through those hills, hoping she carries with her not just memories of hardship, but of the strength and light that come from knowing where she truly comes from.