Italian? American? Italian-American?

I had just decided to settle into my foreigner status after the coffee bar incident -- I mean who cares what the hell you call yourself? -- when I was reminded that no, actually, I am Italian.
100 percent. And stop pretending otherwise, please.
I mean, what, you think you're better?
No. Not even a little bit. I just don't know what to say anymore.
Met this very interesting Italian woman the other night at a friend's house, an extroverted actress about my age who runs her own little theatre outside of Rome.
Full of opinions and stories. Great to watch -- and listen to.
Fascinating woman.
Also named Daniela.
A rose by any other name.
We chatted for awhile and then she asked me where I was from, that loaded question.
I said I was Italian-American, born in Italy, brought up in the US.
That's my new answer here.
Took me years to make peace with that label. And probably some therapy.
No wonder really.
My father spent my entire childhood repeating to me that I was in no way an Italian-American, for him some weird loathsome hybrid creature that couldn't speak Italian properly, that didn't know pappardelle from pasta con fagioli.
That's not us, Gigi would say over and over, while being rude to every Italian-American he met. We're real Italians.
Okay, Gigi, whatever you say.
So I used to just say I was Italian when Italians asked.
But boy, could that feel bogus.
They would look at me quizically, trying to pinpoint my accent.
Or what it was that made me somehow just not Italian.
If I talked to them very long, the explanation would then come out.
So I've decided to dispense with all that now. And just say it right up front.
I mean, Italian-American, that is what I am, no?
I went to the States when I was three years old, was educated there, went to university, spent my entire career working for American media companies.
If you met me, and we spoke in English, you'd just think, American, yep. Check.
Unless you meet me here. Then there's more.
Gigi put his money where his mouth was. Tried really hard to keep me Italian -- while I was growing up American.
My parents spoke to me only in Italian my entire childhood. Sent me back here every other summer so I would never forget where I came from, so I would know my Italian family (who I love).
Thank you, Gigi.
Daniela looked at me quizically when I said I was Italian-American.
Didn't like that answer much, it was obvious. (Nobody ever likes my answer to that question no matter what I say. And I've tried every variation.)
"Italo-Americana?" she asked, just dubious as hell.
Si.
"Is your mother Italian?" she pressed.
Si.
"Is your father Italian?"
Si.
"And you were born in Naples?"
Right again.
"Well, then you're Italian, for chrissakes, not Italian-American."
Whatever you say, girl.
Whatever you want.
I know one thing: Gigi would've liked you.