When I turn back the clock to my childhood, I find crisp memories of making tomato sauce in September with the family in Zia's New Jersey backyard. Every Friday morning, I was getting dropped off at Nonna's to make fresh pasta for dinner. I would watch Sanremo every year with my parents and watch the daily news in Italian on RAI. I remember squashing grapes with my feet to help my father make wine. I also remember marching with my cousins in my father's hometown of Casacanditella in the Ferragosto parade.

Dad, Dario, and I in Casacanditella, CH, Abruzzo during Ferragosto Iris Kurti-Cavalieri

Growing up in St. Monica's parish, a predominantly Italian-American neighborhood of South Philadelphia, my peers in school always boasted about their great-grandparents and ancestors moving from Italy to America and loudly announced their percentage make-ups.

But for me, it was always different. I always had a more immediate connection to Italy and my Italian culture. My father was born there and moved to Philadelphia when he was 14, making me a first-generation American. Both my parents speak Italian, Italian was the main spoken language during family gatherings at my Nonna's house.

Every August for 3 weeks, my family and I went on vacation in Abruzzo, Italy, and travel to Casacanditella where my father was born. In all these ways and more, I have always been more in touch with my culture and it has been the one thing I hold really close to my heart.

Florence, Tuscany 2015 Iris Kurti-Cavalieri

When I go to Italy, however, I'm seen as an American. I do not speak the language fluently, I do not dress as elegantly, and I am not immune to drinking espresso without bouncing off the walls. When in Italy and I speak English-or even broken Italian-I get intense stares from those around me and I'm always left feeling like a public spectacle. Over the years, I learned how to masterfully blend in, but deep down I will always be "the American."

In America, everyone is always sharing their ethnic makeups because this is a country of immigrants, but in Italy, you are either Italian or not.

Venice, Veneto 2005 Iris Kurti-Cavalieri

Despite these feelings of awkwardness, I feel like Italy is my true home. When I come back to America from these yearly ventures, I feel sad for weeks. I am left dreaming and wishing that I was in Italy, in our little house in Casacanditella. Walking the streets of Philadelphia, I often catch a whiff of a food or perfume that reminds me of Italy, and I feel giddy excitement when I see an Italian tourist. In the summertime, when the longing is at its worst, I watch documentaries of Italy to help cure the wanderlust.

Italy is my home in my heart, even though my physical home is In Philadelphia. I am forever grateful to live in a city like Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love that is enriched with culture, diversity, and history. A city that has helped me find my way.

I am not quite fully Italian, just as I am not quite fully American, and I feel equally proud to be both. The way I see it, I have the best of both worlds.