Since a very young age, my father taught me that while I may have both Italian and Armenian blood in me, I was an American, no hyphen, pureblooded American. I, like my father and his father before him, like my mother and her mother before her, I was born in America and I am all American.

My father also taught me that the greatest leaders are only the best because they work with the best. The Greeks knew it; the Romans knew it; the Americans know it; my father knew it, and I know it. Some may call it assimilation, but I call it evolution.

I am American through and through, which means I can accept the best of all cultures. I can eat chicken penne and dolma with just as much appreciation as chile relleno or egg foo yung. Like the English language we Americans use, my life has been influenced by all cultures.

I’ll admit, my heritage has influenced my life, but it is not my “culture” or my “race” (a term I take offense to, after all there is only the human race) that defines thoughts and values. I am often surprised in how much the Italian and the Armenian in me cross over. They are cultures that both value family, food and religion. While I may be well fed and love my family, the strong religious ties had drifted away from me.

The Armenian in me has taught me the values of the land; most of my family was, after all, immigrant farmers. We value our gardens, whether they be for food or for show. Most of my family at one point or another has had peach, lemon, or orange trees flourish in their backyard. In fact, if Armenians know one thing, it is how to take two completely different foods and make a delicious meal; who would have thought that lamb could have been stuffed into tomatoes without it being tradition? Family is not just blood; family is neighbors, friends, teachers, students, coworkers, employers and employees. We all live in this world; we all struggle for money and love, and the more we love, the happier we will be. All that is soft about me is Armenian.

Whereas my soft side is Armenian, my grit comes from the Italian. They are a people known for their passion in all spectrums from hate to love to art to food. When my cousins and I get together, everybody is ready to break balls. None of our physical or mental faults will be passed over for ridicule.

The Italian in me taught me the value of keeping a family together, but not by example. It’s not an understatement to say that the Italian half of my family has some familial problems caused by pride and trust issues. From them I learned what not to do. But, as I have found out, they still love, just as much as any other, but their passion can burn as much as it can warm.

My Armenian side is my constitution, my Italian side is its defender.