Discovering What It Really Means to Be Italian-American
- Marsilio's Kitchen
- Oct 31
- 4 min read
by Denise Meinster
As long as I can remember, my family and extended family referred to ourselves simply as “Italian.” Whenever someone asked about our heritage, the answer came instantly — no hesitation, no qualifiers. We’re Italian.
It wasn’t until years later, standing at an espresso bar in Florence, Italy, that I realized how layered that answer really was.
When a local asked where I was from, I said proudly, “The United States — but I’m Italian.”
He smiled. “Oh, you were born in Italy then?”
“No,” I said, “I was born in the U.S., but my grandparents were all from Italy.”
He laughed gently. “Then you’re American.”
That simple exchange stopped me in my tracks. My whole life, I had believed I was Italian. But in that moment, I understood what generations before me had created — the blending of two worlds, two cultures, and two identities.
Growing Up Italian-American
I didn’t grow up hearing Italian spoken every day, but I heard its rhythm in the way my grandmothers talked, laughed, and prayed. Both spoke with accents, and the grandmother I was closest to had left school after the fifth grade — but she was fluent in the language of life.
From her, I learned every colorful Italian expression imaginable — both the sacred and the not-so-sacred. She taught me to call on Sant’Antonio when something was lost, and to make the sign of the cross and exclaim, Madonna! when words failed.
Those sounds, those gestures, were the soundtrack of my childhood.
My Parents’ Story and Chambersburg Roots
My parents, Grace and Vincenzo DiDonato, met in grammar school in Trenton, New Jersey. They had a unique situation — they shared the same last name, though they came from very different families and financial circumstances.
One day, their teacher scolded my mother, asking why her “brother” was always late. Horrified, she snapped, “He’s not my brother!” — a story my father loved retelling for the rest of his life.
They grew up in Chambersburg, a close-knit neighborhood filled with Italian immigrants determined to build better lives for their children. Speaking Italian wasn’t encouraged then; speaking English and getting an education were considered the true marks of success.
Still, the streets were alive with the spirit of Italy — bakeries, delis, corner groceries, and family-owned restaurants that filled the air with the smell of bread, sauce, and espresso. Every block was a reminder of the sacrifices and dreams that brought our families here.
The Feast of Lights
Each September, the neighborhood came alive for Trenton’s annual Feast of Lights. The celebration began in 1906 to honor Our Lady of Casandrino, the patroness of a small Italian town near Naples. The feast included a grand procession that started at St. Joachim’s Church and wound its way up Butler Street in the heart of Chambersburg.
A statue of the Madonna of Casandrino was carried through the streets, accompanied by prayers, songs, and the scent of fried dough and sausage and peppers. For many families, including mine, it was more than a festival — it was a connection to home, faith, and identity.
Those nights shimmered with light and devotion, and they remain some of my fondest memories of what it meant to grow up Italian-American in Trenton.
From Chambersburg to the Suburbs — and Beyond
Eventually, my parents moved our family of five to the suburbs, but Chambersburg was always our heartbeat. We returned often to enjoy “Italian” ice, and bring pastries to our aunts and uncles whose homes felt like extensions of our own.
Those visits weren’t just family gatherings — they were lessons in hospitality, community, and love.
In 1986, my parents bought one of those legendary Chambersburg restaurants — a place that had already been serving loyal customers for more than 35 years. Together, my mother Grace and my husband Alan ran the business side by side for two decades.
Our family moved to Bucks County, Pennsylvania, where we continued to build on that tradition while raising our two daughters, Julia and Grace. Julia and her husband, Owen, were part of the restaurant for years before beginning new chapters of their own. Our younger daughter, Grace — named after my mother — and grandmother, and great grandmother—now leads Marsilio’s Kitchen with her own lively, vivacious energy, carrying forward the family legacy that began so many years ago in Chambersburg.
It’s remarkable to think how that one neighborhood, built on the hopes of immigrants, became the foundation of our family’s story.
What I Know Now
When I think back to that moment in Italy — the one where the man gently corrected me and said I was American — I realize he wasn’t wrong. But he also wasn’t completely right.
I wasn’t born in Italy, but Italy lives in me. It’s in the recipes, the stories, the laughter around our table, and the values that shaped my parents and grandparents before me. My heritage isn’t either/or. It’s both.
We are Italian-Americans — rooted in two worlds, shaped by both, and forever grateful for the generations who worked so hard to make that possible.
About the Author
A Trenton native now living in Bucks County, PA, Denise Meinster is co-owner of Marsilio’s Kitchen — a family restaurant that began in Chambersburg in 1951 and moved to Ewing, NJ in 2011. Alongside her husband, Alan, and their daughter, Grace, she proudly carries on her family’s Italian-American tradition of food and community and hospitality.
