Climbing the Family Tree: Discovering My Sicilian Roots

As I sifted through the blurry and often hard-to-read World War II draft records, I discovered where my grandfather Antonino was actually born. It turns out it wasn't Cinisi, like my dad always said. Instead, he was from Balestrate, a town in the province of Palermo, Sicily. I quickly realized that online tools in the U.S. have their limits. To dig into my family history, I had to take some risks and explore this "branch" of my family tree. (Sorry, that pun was too tempting!) I had to "go out on a limb" and take steps in discovering my Sicilian "roots." (Ok, I'll stop.)

The solution was clear: I had to go to Sicily. I wanted to see my grandpa's homeland firsthand, “la terra dei miei padri”. I planned my month-long trip down to the last detail—flights, a rental car, and a cute apartment in Balestrate near the Tyrrhenian Sea—but nothing could've prepared me for the adventure that awaited. When I emailed my landlady, Rosalia, about my family search, her response was amazing. She offered to introduce me to friends in public records and even pick me up from the airport. Even though my Italian was rusty and the Sicilian dialect is its own beast, I knew I had found a fantastic ally.

After an easy flight and a stopover at Heathrow, I landed at Palermo's Falcone-Borsellino Airport—named after anti-mafia heroes. As I cleared customs, Rosalia and her daughter Martina greeted me with warm double-cheek kisses. Being in my grandpa's homeland, a place he left over a hundred years ago, was profoundly moving. The mix of history and a spiritual connection grew stronger as we walked to the airport parking lot under the glowing Sicilian sunset.

The next morning, a rooster's crow woke me up. I thought, “Wow! American and Italian roosters speak the same language.” After colazione (breakfast), I drove into Balestrate. The air was thick with history. I could almost see my grandpa as a kid exploring these streets, kicking a worn soccer ball with the other "ragazzi" (kids). The town was a mix of tradition and a quiet, almost secretive, community vibe. Strangers were politely reserved, but Sicilian hospitality warmed up once a local introduced you. Until a Sicilian vouched for you, you stayed an outsider, tolerated but not totally accepted. It all makes sense once you recall lines from mafia-themed movies: “He’s a friend of ours!” Then, the double-cheek kiss—a sign of acceptance—became a familiar gesture.

I found out the town gets its name from a pretty cool crossbow legend. The story goes that when explorers were looking for a spot to build a city, they'd shoot a crossbow bolt into the air. Wherever it landed, that's where they'd make the town square, or “piazza”. You can tell they're proud of the story because they even put little crossbows on top of all the streetlights. Learning that history made me feel way more connected to my ancestors.

A few days later, Rosalia kept her promise and arranged our visit to the public records office. However, the name is a little misleading. The records themselves are public, but access to the office is not. Thank God for my landlady. Walking into the dimly lit building felt like stepping back in time. Instead of modern tech, I found dusty ledgers and an old IBM Selectric typewriter. Seeing all of this low-tech, I didn't have much hope for any worthwhile results.

My initial doubts quickly vanished. Rosalia's friend and her colleagues dove into a passionate search. I must point out that while they were searching for information about my grandpa, the trio of black-frocked nonnas argued about how to arrive at the best result. Animated hand gestures, raised and rapid-fire voices, peppered the air. Sadly, my digital recorder lay on my dresser, gathering dust back at Rosalia’s apartment. Dang!

Nevertheless, their old-school methods uncovered amazing results. So they handed me these documents, and it turns out my Dad was born a full year earlier than he'd always been told. And get this—he was born right there in Balestrate, not in the U.S. at all. It took me a second, but then it hit me... Wait a minute. That makes me first-generation! They showed me birth certificates, marriage records, and the surprising discovery of my grandpa's siblings and their offspring, most of whom lived nearby. I had dozens of cousins. Big surprise! Catholic and no TV! It was later explained that the majority of folks born in the late 1800s never left their homeland. My “nonno” was the exception. The warmth and enthusiasm of these women made the experience unforgettable. The three-hour dive into my family history left me emotionally spent but incredibly grateful.

A week later, the highlight of my journey happened. It was a reunion to remember. I joyfully met, photographed, and hugged my newfound Sicilian family. We savored pasta, devoured cannoli, and enjoyed local wine. Those precious moments, filled with hugs and kisses, are some of the most meaningful experiences of my life.

While online genealogy tools are helpful, nothing beats the real-life connection of exploring your roots in person. The time, effort, and resources you invest in this ancestral adventure are well worth it. The rewards go far beyond what you might expect. So, if you want to get a view from high up in the branches of your family tree, em"bark" on your own journey. (Oops, did it again!) Anyway, go for it! You won't regret it.

Buon viaggio!