I am Everything.
And I am Nothing.
Maybe the lives of Italians, Germans,
Dutch, Englishmen
Have made me
Maybe not.
Those people I’ll never know
Do have a place in my face
In the life running through my veins
But they do not define me, who I am,
Or who I will be.

All around me, I know those who know their heritage,
Who their ancestors were.
“I am Swedish…”
“I am Chinese…”
“I am Italian…”
Are you?
Are you Sweden?
Are you Japan?
Is the mere fact
That the life that flows in your veins,
Is pure Italian,
Is that enough to make you Italy?

Have you ever seen the salty seas of Sweden?
The sparkling temples of Japan?
The shining sun of Italy?
Have you ever tasted the fish that swims Sweden’s channels?
The seaweed that floats in Japan’s ocean?
The tomato, warmed by Italy’s sun?
Are you Sweden?
Are you Japan?
Are you Italy?

I may be a mutt—
Unsure of who’s blood runs through my veins
But whether it be French, Danish, or Irish,
Or a mixture of all three,
It is mine.
I am pure blooded me.