The Blood Runs Through

My story didn’t begin with me. It began across an ocean, in Sicily — in a small village where the sun kissed the hills and the air smelled of olive trees and hope. My grandfather was just a boy when he crossed that ocean, lying on the floor of a crowded ship beside animals and strangers, clutching a pouch of coins his family had sewn around his neck. He arrived in America through Ellis Island, small and scared, but determined. He missed his sponsor — the man who was supposed to meet him — and for a time he had nowhere to go. He sat on the steps of a church, hungry and tired, until even the coins meant to start his life were stolen.

But somehow, through courage and grace, he made his way south — to Galveston Island — a place that would one day hold the story of our family. There, he became a butcher. A businessman. A provider. He built something out of nothing — a row of small rental houses and a store on 61st Street, where he worked with his hands and his heart. In that little community, he raised twelve children, including my mother — a woman who would later teach me the meaning of strength, tradition, and faith. It was on those same streets, between the butcher shop and the sea, that my parents’ story began.

My father, the son of migrant farmers, had traveled a winding road to get there — attending twenty-eight schools before finally graduating from Ball High on the Island. When he and my mother met as children, no one could have known that generations later, their love would still echo in the salt air of Galveston. They were married at St. Patrick’s Church — the same church where my son and daughter-in-law would one day stand and promise their own forever. Life circles back like that — a thread of faith and family that ties us through time.

I grew up with that story woven into my bones — the story of resilience, work, and faith. Of Sicilian pride. Of hands that built, hearts that endured, and a family that found its way, no matter how many times the tide shifted.

As a child, Galveston was freedom — my escape from a strict home and a structured life. The island gave me space to breathe, to dream, to wander beyond expectations. I didn’t know it then, but it was already shaping me — whispering that I belonged here, that this place carried both my history and my becoming. Now, walking these same sands as an adult, I feel that history under my feet. The spirit of my grandfather, who came with nothing but faith. My parents, who built a life through love and endurance. Me, still walking the line between legacy and reinvention — proud of the blood that built me. My Italian heritage is more than ancestry — it’s rhythm and resilience. It’s family dinners that last for hours, voices rising in laughter, the sacredness of good bread and shared wine. It’s love that perseveres through loss, and faith that finds its way home.

Here, on this island — touched by sun, salt, and story — I see how everything comes together: Sicily and Galveston, past and present, roots and wings. And I realize that every new beginning I’ve made has been carried by the courage of those who came before me.

Their strength is my inheritance. Their journey is my compass. Their love — my home.