When we left our native land of Italy, we left everything. My parents traded the quiet, rolling vineyards of the northeast for the bustling, concrete-heavy streets of Newark. I was too young to consciously choose this path, but I have lived every day in the wake of that decision. To many, immigration is seen as an upward move toward opportunity, but for a missionary family, it is a downward move toward sacrifice. We didn’t come for the American Dream; we came for a calling. While my peers in the United States have "roots" deep in the local soil, I have always felt like I had "wings" I never quite asked for where I was stuck in a perpetual state of being not quite American enough, yet no longer Italian enough.
In our household, service was never a suggestion or a mere extracurricular activity; it was the number one priority. It was the "family business." While other children spent their weekends at the cinema or the mall, my life was built around the rhythms of the sanctuary. I was the child who helped set up the hall before the sun rose, shivering in the morning air as we prepared for the congregation. I was the one who stayed late, my hands often smelling of floor wax and old hymnals, stacking those same chairs back up after everyone else had gone home.
I watched my parents lead by example in a way that left an indelible mark on my character. I remember the sound of the house phone ringing at 3:00 AM—the sharp, piercing noise that signaled someone was in crisis. I would hear my father’s hushed, compassionate voice in the hallway, offering counsel to the broken-hearted or arranging food for a family that had lost everything. From these midnight vigils, I learned early on that a life lived for oneself is a life half-lived. I saw that ministry isn't just what happens behind a pulpit; it’s what happens in the weary hours of the night when no one is watching.
This "service-first" upbringing created a unique lens through which I view the world. As an immigrant, I often felt like an outsider looking in—a boy with an Italian soul trying to navigate an American school system. But as a missionary’s son, I was taught to look for the other outsiders. My "identity confusion" actually became my greatest tool for empathy. Because I knew the hollow feeling of not quite belonging, I became obsessed with creating spaces where others could find a home.
This manifested most clearly in my role as a cantor. Standing before a congregation of over one hundred people, I realized that music is a universal language that transcends the borders I had struggled to cross. When I lead the songs, I am not just performing; I am trying to bridge the gap between the sacred and the mundane. I have seen people walk into the church burdened by the weight of a long work week, only to see their shoulders drop and their expressions soften as the music takes hold. In those moments, I am a bridge.
However, this role as a bridge-builder extended far beyond the church walls. I found that the "radical humility" I learned at the cantor’s stand was just as necessary in the secular world. At school, I often found myself acting as a mediator. I remember a specific instance where two of my peers were locked in a cycle of animosity that threatened to divide our entire social circle. Drawing on the patience I learned watching my parents mediate church conflicts, I stepped in not to judge, but to listen. I worked to turn enemies into friends by finding common ground, much like I find common rhythm in a song. In my Newark neighborhood, I used sports as my tool, organizing pickup soccer games where the local kids—regardless of their background or bank account—could connect through the simple joy of the game.
My immigration journey has been a long, often exhausting process of reconciling two worlds. I may not remember the Italy I left behind, and I may always feel like a bit of a stranger in the country I call home. I exist in the "in-between," speaking Italian at the dinner table and English in the classroom, never fully anchored to either. But I have found my "soil" in the act of being useful. I have learned that "home" isn't a coordinate on a map or a specific house in Newark; it is the feeling of being a vessel for others. It is the grit of the immigrant’s work ethic and the missionary’s heart combined.
As I look toward my future career, I do not see it as a departure from my family’s mission, but as the natural evolution of it. I plan to take the same "service-above-self" mentality that defined my childhood and apply it to the global stage. My parents moved across an ocean to save souls; I want to spend my life ensuring that the world they serve is a place of safety, stability, and literal light.
I want to be a professional who doesn't just build things for the sake of progress, but builds them for the sake of the "least of these." I want to use my unique position as a cultural bridge-builder to solve problems that transcend borders, applying the same meticulous care I used when stacking church chairs to the complex challenges of our global infrastructure. I am ready to carry the legacy of my family’s mission forward, proving that the most profound impact we can make is not in what we gain, but in how much of ourselves we are willing to give away.