"TORN BETWEEN TWO LOVERS"*

01.27.2026

For the past month or so, every time I see a promo for the upcoming Winter Olympics, I find myself pumping both fists in the air and shouting to no one in particular, “MILANO–CORTINA!”

There’s something about those spots that presents my homeland in an unmistakable, almost theatrical way. It’s as if Italy is a global influencer taking endless selfies—reel after reel showcasing its history, scenery, and the promise of la bella vita.

I’ve visited Milan, but I knew almost nothing about Cortina. I’m not an athlete, but the Olympics always spark a love-at-first-sight romance between me and the host country. So, I let myself enjoy the montage: Italy as the world sees it. The postcard version.

Then, with that glossy image still glowing in my mind, I stumbled across an AP News headline that shattered it like a rock thrown through a plate glass window:

“Italy now recognizes the crime of femicide and punishes it with life in prison.”

Hard stop.

In a single beat, the postcard curled around the edges. The headline was a reminder that for every celebration of Italian beauty, there is an Italy the cameras don't show. The country I love—my homeland—is also a place where some of its most enduring history is only now being dragged into daylight.

Although I’ve lived in the United States for all but two years of my life, I consider myself, first and foremost, Italian. I’m an immigrant, not a descendant. My identity isn’t filtered through nostalgia; it’s my lived experience.

I’ve embraced so much of American culture—from my passion for football (no small feat for a Clevelander) and love of roadside attractions, to my deep appreciation for clothes dryers and central air conditioning. But I still see, hear, taste, and navigate the world through my Italian DNA.

That's why the issue of femicide hit so close to home.

I didn’t need a sociological study to understand the roots of that headline; I grew up hearing the stories the women in my family whispered among themselves when their fathers, husbands, and sons were nowhere in sight.

My grandmother used to tell me about the day her father threw a hatchet at her. She was sixteen when he told her she would marry the man he had chosen. When she refused, he hurled the axe at her head. It missed her skull by inches, embedding itself in a wooden door and slicing off one of her braids. She told me this not as a story to pass down to the next generation, but as something that “just happened”—a father's justifiable response to a daughter who had dared to say "no."

Violence was not theoretical for the women who came before me. I know exactly where that cultural behavior takes root.

Stereotypes about Italians are easy to caricaturize: our supposed obsession with cooking (I don’t), Mafia affiliations (not me, although there might have been a time or two when that connection could have been helpful), or the myth of enormous, boisterous families (not mine).

But some stereotypes are rooted in truth—especially those regarding the dynamics between men and women, and the weight of tradition forced upon them from birth.

Sons are treated as if they were fathered by God himself. (I’ve called my brother “Baby Jesus” since I was five, and no one has ever corrected me.) Daughters, meanwhile, are held to a different standard entirely. (We are Mary Magdalene—the pre-redemption version.)

To be fair, being the “chosen son” isn’t always a blessing. The expectations are crushing: exceed your father’s achievements, marry well, provide, and preserve tradition at all costs. In many families, a man’s honor is the axis on which everything turns—and keeping the household “in line” is the core of his identity.

Women, on the other hand, are "guilty until proven innocent." Even in my generation, it wasn’t uncommon for a woman to arrive at a family gathering attempting to hide her bruises or a broken arm which was explained away as an unfortunate encounter with a flight of stairs. No one questioned her because we knew. We all knew.

So, while I understand the culture, I am still shocked by how long it took for accountability to follow—that a quarter of the twenty-first century had to pass before the law finally caught up to the crime.

Sometimes I wonder how my life might have turned out if my family had stayed in the rural community my parents called home. Maybe I would have gone to college. More likely, I would have followed the expected path: marriage, children, family dinners every Sunday, a life lived quietly—as long as I toed the line. I can picture it clearly. I just can’t see myself living it.

Instead, we immigrated to the States, where I was lucky enough to be educated. I grew up with the freedom to question, to form my own opinions, to make my own mistakes, and to reap my own rewards. My decisions may have been challenged, scrutinized—even discouraged—but my well-being was never in jeopardy.

So when the Olympic torch is finally lit in Milano–Cortina, I know I’ll still feel that familiar tug of pride and longing for my family and place of birth.

But living a life straddled between two continents has taught me this: the flame illuminates both countries I call home. Each one casts a light on the other. And each makes the other’s truth easier to see—even when that truth is difficult to bear.

Link to AP article:

https://apnews.com/article/italy-femicide-law-crime-gender-violence-women-99e4be4aaba9f6b940d834ed6c7cb4d0

Torn Between Two Lovers" is the title of a song written by Peter Yarrow and Phillip Jarrell and recorded by Mary MacGregor. 1976.

Somehow, sweeping snow off the porch steps never made it as an Olympic sport.