…the Red

Russo by definition in Sicilian means red or ‘the red’. Possibly bestowed as a descriptor for auburn locks that shine ruby hued in the Mediterranean sun. But also a popular historical epithet for someone fierce and/or exceptionally angry. The first piece I knew from deep pride and connection to my Sicilian family and ancestry. The second I learned over years of historical study, always paying extra attention to naming conventions in any culture I stumbled across. If only I could have had the clarity all that time to realize those historical definitions would be exactly what defines me.

My family, like many American families, is a beautiful little melting pot. I have always been a history fanatic because I remember by age six being able to rattle off multiple family lines and the geographical roots. This was in the nineties and I grew up in tiny towns across northern Minnesota and Michigan. Not exactly meccas of easily accessible information. But I rooted out everything I could. I would ask my mother questions about our family constantly, and as a talkative baby of the family that was CONSTANTLY. (In an effort for full authorial integrity I will tell you I did not question her well enough, because my mother dropped a bomb when I was seventeen letting me know one of my ‘grandmas’ was not blood related. (Which does not remove this grandma’s matriarch status, but still I was a bit dizzy when I was really somehow certain she was my blood.)) All of this to illustrate: I loved learning about our family history. It has always surprised me that some people do not know theirs or are not thinking about it often. Few things break my heart like the idea that people have had their history or ancestry taken from them. It is what motivated me to become a historian.

My Sicilian ancestry was always the open arms in which I found myself cradled. I always knew innately they were my string to my history. They were always the hands that tethered me to myself. As the years have gone on and I’ve grown into the person I always felt I would be I see my ancestry in the mirror. Temples that grayed long before expected, with dark hair that glimmers red in the sunlight, green eyes large but almond shape, skin with a brown hue even at its palest. (Russos across Sicily and the world look all sorts of ways. There is no one way to look like a Russo. I’m speaking strictly of my Russos.) There was never a doubt what ancestors guided me earth side or which ones greeted me when I arrived.

Holding my Sicilian heritage with both arms I dove into the history. The people. The cultures. The centuries. The empires. The peoples. The Sicels. The trinacria. The seas. The foods. The myths. The spirits. The religions. And yet, I still know that I have barely scratched the surface. That insatiable truth is what leads me to continue learning. The love and connection I have always felt and my innate Russo-ness, was a compass pointing down my path my whole life.

That path, though, has also lead me to studying history. And in that study a deeper understanding of what an epithet or a family name, like ‘red’ or ‘the red’, can truly mean. Throughout history this nomenclature has meant ruby hued. Often, though, it has also been bestowed on someone angry, volatile, likely dangerous, ready to erupt. Whether this epithet was given by those the historical figure was in community with or empirical propaganda varies across the entire spectrum of possibilities for each person throughout history. However, like much nomenclature, it gave me a title to rise to without realizing.

If there is an emotion I have been swallowed whole by it is anger. The deeper in myself I explore the more I recognize volatility at my core. Over the years I have handled that in different ways. Once upon a time I thought the solution was continually swallowing it until I was burning myself alive with the dense, smoldering coals. I remember being angry at myself for simply being angry, fanning the embers I felt. When I ‘matured’ enough to start trying to work on myself, anger was highest on the list of what I thought I was trying to rid myself. Years of work went into recognizing righteous anger, and it was only that understanding that started to quell the anger within me.

Now I like to think I have learned to alchemize. I try to recognize why I’m angry, where it comes from, when to put it down, and when it needs to be the sharpest tool in my hand. Learning to wield my anger decisively, but with minimal cruelty is something I am always trying to learn. However, if there is anything I know about lessons, it is that you get to learn about them from every possible angle.

My anger is a part of me, and one that I love. One that has served me so graciously many times, invigorating me to what I believe. Whether it is not needing to fit into the small confines of what other believe were best. Whether it is protecting me from treatment I now recognize as subpar or toxic. Or even steeling itself into bravery to leave a family so viscerally disgusted by my inclusion simply for the radical simplicity of being something else.

Anger became a mantle I chose over the years, and in the end it was the one waiting for me. Russo. Am I a Russo in my appearance? I am, magically, blessedly so. I see myself in the eyes of my Sicilian ancestors, warm eyes connecting in photographs or blinking back at me from my own mirror. But should it mean ‘the Red’ for someone at any point feeling the deep, volatility at their core or for that burning anger pointing them precisely towards their truth? Magically and blessedly, I am a Russo in that reality as well.

Few things have made me prouder than realizing and recognizing who I am in an array of ways. Some things divine intervention, some things created from clay and my own two hands, and other things still a combination of the two. But few things make me prouder or feel more called into myself than knowing I get to be Elair Russo…Elair the Red. Sharp, righteous anger pouring down generations to feel certain and profoundly welcomed.