I grew up surrounded by my Italian relatives. Long Sunday lunches brimming with pasta al forno and lemon granita, card games like Scopa and harvesting tomatoes for future passata sauces, and generously topping up red wine with Coca-Cola, a secret family “invention.”

But when my father (Baba) came from Iran more than 40 years ago, he was alone.

The Iranian Revolution commenced while he was studying abroad. Fearing what he would be returning to back home, Baba opted to charter a new path. He settled in an unfamiliar landscape without his brothers, sisters and parents.

I was raised without a deep Iranian cultural heritage, connecting only with my Italian roots.

Many times, I was corrected in my quest for full cultural authenticity.

Proudly boasting my Persian heritage was often met with comments like: “What country is Persia? I didn’t know you could be an empire…” Or, “So, you’re Lebanese, right?”

This encouraged me to find other ways to explore my culture.

I would visit Persian grocery stores in the suburbs known for being “little Iran.” I hoarded dates, marinated olives and spices. Any money spent made me feel like I was making up for lost time.

During these visits, I would observe the shop owner and how he interacted with other customers in the Iranian language Farsi:

“Salam, chetori? Khoobi?”

“Hello, how are you? Good?”

While paying, I longed to be recognized as one of his own (rather than as an ethnically ambiguous creep holding eye contact for far too long). But that never happened. Instead it was: “Thanks mate, have a good day.”

Moments like these reinforced the racial imposter syndrome I have often felt growing up, disconnected from my father’s homeland. These feelings manifest when your internal sense of racial connection differs from the perception of those around you.

It can make you question, arguably, the most significant, grounding aspect of you: your identity.

To unpack this struggle, I recently traveled to Iran for the first (and only) time.

Like any maverick, I proceeded to the beating pulse of my Iranian roots: my grandmother’s house.

Grandma’s name was Shahrbanoo, Baba called her Shirley. She was a 92-year-old warrior.

I announced my arrival at her house with three large bangs on her rusted, corrugated iron door.

Mamani slid it open, crying. Armed with a bouquet of plastic pink roses and the warmest smile I had seen during my travels, she grabbed my face. She held my hands and never let them go. I did not speak her language; our connection ran deeper than words.

One thing I noticed about the locals was a strong sense of belonging. Neighbors befriended their neighbors. Store owners knew their customers. Taarof, the Iranian form of extreme hospitality, was in full force.

Unlike my previous encounters back home, I was embraced by this town; protected by the strength of my family.

Mamani was chair-bound, so 4 a.m. laundry sessions were off the cards. But her love was no less agile and transcendent. Her first words to me echoed this: “You are my blood, my love. I dreamt of this day. I will now die at peace.”

And I hope you did.

I discovered that Mamani recently passed away, and I did not get to say goodbye.

Possibly more important, for me, was that I had the opportunity to be hugged and accepted in the warmth of her hello, to have my roots firmly planted in the ground as an Iranian-Italian.

-Adam Abbasi-Sacca