In 2019 I uprooted with my family and relocated to Italy. More specifically, from New York to Florence, where we’ve been residing ever since. There was a lot packed into this decision, and we each have our own reasons for moving (or even thinking about moving) to another place. Whether to a new neighborhood, state or country there is something impactful about uprooting oneself.

In these upcoming series of articles, "Uprooted", I plan to share a bit more about this journey. I hope to provide some real-world insights, and a bit of exposure to what it’s all about. At the very least, I hope you enjoy.

The American Expatriate

I never liked the term “expat”. I suppose it has to do with the etymology of it – the “ex” in particular. While I know it is not the Oxford definition, I don’t like the implication of having turned my back on my country of origin. It’s not like some former relationship that has been broken off. If anything, I still feel a deep connection to my native country, the United States of America, and living abroad has added meaningful dimensions to this feeling.

Before I dive into our life in Italy, it’s necessary to provide some context. In 2009, I met my future wife in Shanghai. Although originally born in China, she moved to Italy when she was 5 years-old. So…she’s European, but not really. On the other hand, I’m some jewish-kid from the Long Island suburbs. The fortunate son of loving parents who met when they were in high-school and just celebrated their 50th anniversary. They are still living in the home I was born into.

In fact, the closest to Italy I ever got during my upbringing were my neighbors. They were Italian. Mario and Teresa. Mario loved to tend the garden alongside his home – particularly the roma tomatoes. He was originally from somewhere in the countryside, not too far from Rome. They spoke Italian at home – with a strong, loud accent from the Lazio region that easily carried into our adjacent yard. It wasn’t until Mario learned that I married an Italian and was actually moving to Italy that he invited me into his kitchen. We drank strong grappa and he told me that he owned an olive grove that he frequents every year.

I knew where to find Italy on the map. Sure, from school, but mostly from a local pizza joint known for their “world famous thin-crust pizza”, Eddies. The same name as my father, too. Eddie. He works along the Bowery, in lower-Manhattan, sandwiched between Chinatown and little-Italy. That was the other Italian dimension of my upbringing. Mulberry street. My engagement with first-generation families of Italian immigrants, colleagues of my father’s. All the American-Italian stereotypes compressed into close quarters that still carry on today.

While I could digress into my suburbia upbringing and exposure to Italo-American culture, it’s my other half that maintains a compelling recent history of emigration. It is due to my in-laws, and their migration journey from a southeast city in China to Italy that we’re here today.

We Migrate for a Better Life

An entire novel could be dedicated to the migration journey of my in-laws. Born and raised in southeast China, the 1960s and 70s changed the course of history for virtually every Chinese national, and generations to follow. While my parents were going through the flower revolution and spinning records, my future in-laws were in the midst of a cultural revolution that swept through the social structures of an entire nation. Wealthy, land-owning families found themselves stripped of personal property. Families were divided – many sent to labor for the newly forming central government. The academia and traditional ways of learning were transformed, and the youthful masses were encouraged to hitch rides on free trains and explore the land of what was to become the People's Republic.

Many fled. Or made plans to flee. Particularly those whose welfare was already being threatened. Violence was not uncommon, and hit close to home. It wouldn’t be until the 80s that my father-in-law was able to join one of his sister’s in Italy. He worked in a Chinese restaurant washing dishes. They were starting over and came empty handed. They left their only daughter, my future wife, back in their hometown, Wenzhou, to be cared for by her grandmother, aunts and older cousins. A decision that nobody ever wants to be forced to make. It wasn’t until 5-years later that they were reunited and began life anew as a family in a foreign land.

It took 5-years before my wife reunited with her parents in Italy. She lived with her grandmother in China, who also joined the family in Europe. This photo is taken in her hometown in the early 80s.

My parents were high-school sweethearts and just celebrated their 50th anniversary.

Uprooted

The reasons why we might migrate are of infinite variations. There is no one story that remains the same. There are themes, no doubt. There are historical events and geopolitical affairs that influence waves of migration – ranging from war and civil unrest to pandemics and remote working trends. Such influences for migration will continuously transform the patterns of how we move around this world.

The recent history of our family migration is a mix. While my in-laws were wedged into a forced migration trend, my parents dug in their roots. We’ve seemed to land somewhere in between. Uprooting our family because we made a conscious decision to plant our roots elsewhere. We’re not starting completely over, either. It’s just new soil, and perhaps a bit more fertile than the one before.

David Cantor is a global immigration lawyer and passionate advocate for the freedom of movement. He currently resides in Italy with his wife and two children.