I was just hammering this out for the book when I remembered my old pal Frenchy—the guy who could (and would) monologue for hours about the unmatched glory of la belle France. Naturally, I affectionately referred to his people as “little surrender monkeys” just to keep the conversation lively.
Frenchy loved to whip out the Napoleon card like it was the ultimate mic-drop: “Look at him! He almost conquered all of Europe! He saw himself as the next Roman Emperor!” I’d just sit there nodding politely… before dropping the hammer:
“Uh, buddy? Napoleon was Italian.” BAM.
The man nearly ruptured something. Veins popping, beret practically spinning like a helicopter. So I calmly laid out the receipts:
Napoleon Bonaparte (real name: Napoleone di Buonaparte) was born in 1769 on Corsica—exactly one year after France strong-armed the island away from Genoa. His parents? Pure Italian stock:
- Daddy: Carlo Maria Buonaparte, Corsican lawyer with family roots tracing straight back to Tuscany.
- Mommy: Maria Letizia Ramolino, whose clan hailed from Lombardy.
The family spoke Corsican at home—a dialect so close to Italian it might as well have been Tuscan with a beach vacation. Little Nappy grew up more fluent in Italian than French (he kept that thick accent and charming spelling disasters in French his whole life). Early on, he was even Team Corsican independence, fangirling over Pasquale Paoli like a modern-day stan.
But ambition is ambition. The kid was a war-nerd prodigy, saw the French Army as his personal rocket to history, and said, “Oui, sign me up.” You would too be considering that Italy was still divided into city regions. Hardly a launch point for a Great Emperor in his dreams for his future. France became his launchpad, his tool, his very convenient stepping stone to play Roman Emperor cosplay across Europe.
So yes, by birth certificate: French. By blood, language, culture, and childhood vibes: Very much Italian. He even bragged about being “more Tuscan than Corsican” on occasion. The man basically treated France like a really nice Airbnb—great location, excellent army that needed his special training methods and tactics, but he was always going to check out and leave the towels on the floor. His goal was, after conquest, to settle in Rome as the new Roman Emperor.
So the next time some proud Franco-American starts waxing poetic about the greatest Frenchman who ever lived, just smile sweetly, pat them on the shoulder, and whisper:
“Napoleon was Italian, mon ami. BAM.“
Mic drop. 🇮🇹
A poem…
Ode to the Corsican Who Conquered Their Pride (A poetic mic-drop for the surrender-monkey set)
In Corsica’s cradle, beneath azure skies, A tiny tyrant first opened his eyes. Not born to the Seine, nor the Loire’s gentle flow— No, Buonaparte bloomed where the pasta trees grow.
His mama said “Mangia!” his papa said “Vino!” They spoke Tuscan whispers in a dialect fino. Young Nappy dreamed big in his little-boy pants— Of Roman laurels and imperial pants.
The French snatched the island, said “Now you’re one of us!” But the kid kept his accent—thick, proud, and brusque. He learned French like a tourist who flunked every class, Wrote “je” like “gee,” and “bonjour” like “bah-n’yore.”
Yet France gave him cannons, and he said, “Grazie mille!” Then marched ‘cross Europa like a short-tempered missile. He crowned himself Emperor, screamed “Vive l’Empire!” While secretly thinking, “This crown looks better in fire.”
The French love to claim him—their greatest, their best— The man who made Europe his personal guest. They polish his statue, they toast with champagne… Then someone whispers: “He was Italian, mon frère.”
The cafés fall silent. A beret hits the floor. A mime in the corner starts weeping encore. “Non! Impossible!” they cry through their tears, “Our greatest Frenchman was born without Brie in his ears!”
They clutch their baguettes like a lover betrayed, While historians shrug: “Well… technically… he stayed.” But blood doesn’t lie, nor does childhood cuisine— Napoleon was Italian. That’s the end of the scene.
So next time a Frenchman puffs up with that pride, Just smile very sweetly and look in his eyes: “Your Emperor ate polenta and spoke with a drawl… He conquered the world—then went home after all.”
BAM. 🇮🇹🥖 (And somewhere in Paris, a waiter just died a little inside.)
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