Mathew Giagnorio, ‘A Further Inquiry’ and ‘Modes of Inquiry’

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): The Good Men Project

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/02/18

Mathew Giagnorio is an Italian-Canadian podcaster, writer, and researcher based in Niagara, Ontario. With an academic background in philosophy and classics, he is passionate about fostering intellectual debate and evidence-based discussions. He is the founder of Modes of Inquiry, a podcast and A Further Inquiry, an online magazine and podcast that explore diverse perspectives, freedom of expression, and contemporary issues. Deeply influenced by his Italian heritage and family traditions, Giagnorio blends cultural pride with a commitment to liberal values. Inspired by his late mother’s encouragement to “never stop,” he channels his curiosity and resilience into creating meaningful content that connects audiences across Canada and beyond. Giagnorio reflects on the Italian community’s pride in traditions and its integration into Canadian culture. Giagnorio recounts his challenging early life in Niagara, where a childhood accident caused a brain injury and severe epilepsy, derailing his prodigious talents. Facing relentless bullying and educational struggles, he harnessed adversity to develop resilience and academic excellence. Embracing his Italian heritage, particularly his Pugliese roots, he cherished family traditions while adapting to modern life. Inspired by his great-grandfather’s critical spirit and philosophical heroes like Spinoza, he transformed pain into purpose. Giagnorio founded Modes of Inquiry and A Further Inquiry to champion free expression and evidence-based debate, celebrating learning, diversity, and the relentless pursuit of truth with steadfast resolve.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: What was your early life like in Niagara?

Mathew Giagnorio: Well, that’s a good question, Scott. My early life in Niagara took a drastic turn at a young age. At five and a half years old, I slipped and fell on a wet surface at a restaurant with no sign indicating that the floor had been recently cleaned. There was no warning to watch out for the wet floor.

From that moment on, at five and a half years old, I had an acquired brain injury, which drastically changed my life. Before the injury, I was considered a child prodigy. I attended early childhood education programs, started speaking at a younger age than most peers, and was exceptionally inquisitive. However, after the injury, I began experiencing grand mal seizures, petit mal seizures, and other types of epileptic episodes. Most people with epilepsy have one type of seizure, but I endured the full spectrum.

This continued for nine and a half to ten years of my life, during which I also faced intense bullying throughout elementary school. I was an easy target—just a kid having seizures. My peers did not care; they only saw someone acting strangely. The bullying was relentless and made my primary school years extremely difficult. It was never a good experience.

Fortunately, I had a strong support system within my family. I never lost sight of who I was. I loved learning, but I hated the school environment. It always felt like I was stepping into a fire to retrieve something valuable. Despite the challenges, I worked on myself from a young age—figuring out what I wanted to do, what I wanted to read, what I wanted to focus on, and even how I wanted to present myself.

As a ’90s kid, most people around me were interested in style, hair, and clothing, but I had my unique approach. I sought ways to stand out and best represent myself and my ideas. I developed a deep fondness for menswear—not just as a personal interest but also as a form of armour in the world. The way I dressed became a reflection of my identity and a means of self-expression.

On a side note, I have been happily seizure-free and free from epileptic episodes since before I turned 14, for which I am incredibly grateful. Those years were a nightmare, but I do not look back wishing it had never happened. In many ways, the experience shaped me. It forced me to value the learning process because I had to relearn everything—how to read, write, and even write in cursive.

To illustrate the profound impact of my injury, consider something as simple as taste and memory. Most people take for granted that they know what they like and dislike. I, on the other hand, lost those reference points. I did not even recognize my food preferences. For example, as a child, I loved pineapple—almost to an obsessive degree. Then, after the injury, I found myself mouthing the word “pineapple” without understanding what it was or why I had once liked it.

Do I even recognize this? I didn’t even know what it was referring to. So, it was a horrible time. Amid the sadness and contemplation, my refuge became learning. My refuge became understanding.

But then, obviously, there is a limitation to learning, data, and information.

So, I ended up working on myself in such a way that I matured at a young age. I had to grow up quickly. I found myself always gravitating toward timeless and traditional things in their worth or value. But always, and still to this day, I have maintained an open mind. I have wanted to be someone who is never limited in their perspective or friendships and does not lead with a closed mentality.

Even when I went into high school, my life after that point was different. I was the guy everybody wanted to know. I started working out when I was 12 or 13, lifting weights and playing soccer. That became an outlet for me, a way to boost my morale and find another hobby. Because, let’s be honest—it was frustrating. There was much anger and much energy, all stemming from being bullied.

And no matter how much you stand up for yourself when you have two, three, or four people against one, you are going to take a beating. You are not going to win every fight. My mentality was that I did not want to go down that route perpetually. I did not want to be the guy who was always fighting back. I wanted to stand up for myself and push myself forward—to build character, integrity, and perseverance.

Those are valuable skills, no matter who you are, where you are in the world, and what you are going through—externally or internally.

I made a conscious choice: I would not let all this negative energy, frustration, or sadness consume my thoughts and dictate my days. Instead, I would allow myself to focus diligently on things that propel me forward, both educationally and personally.

That brings me to where I am today. When I look back at everything, I do not take any of it for granted. Every opportunity that I create, every person I am lucky to call a friend or colleague, humbles me.

I am more humbled by everything that has happened than by having a mindset of, Oh, of course, this is happening for me. Look at everything I have done to achieve it.

I could say that, but I still find myself saying, Wow. I remain humbled because I know what could have been had I not pushed myself. No matter what someone is going through, they can have a good network of friends and family around them. Still, if they do not have the will to push themselves forward, if they do not have the will to create who they are, then they will remain stagnant.

Everyone wants to discover who they are, but that is a lost cause. You have to create the person you want to be. And that comes from every situation you are involved in, every context you experience, and every obstacle you face.

Instead of simply overcoming obstacles, I am a big proponent of pushing through them—using those obstacles to my advantage.

Whatever might seem like a hiccup, a handicap, or a limitation in a particular time and place could be an advantage, depending on how you perceive it.

Even to this day, I still have some lingering issues from my head injury. But thankfully, it is nowhere near as bad as it once was.

But it is head to hand.

When it comes to writing—anyone who knows me well knows I am a walking conundrum. The most arduous things are often the things I love the most. Getting my thoughts from my head to my hand in writing is a challenge. And, to make it even harder, I most often write in cursive.

I had to relearn how to do that. It isn’t easy, but I have learned to love it. I have a vast collection of fountain pens, so I can enjoy the process and make sure I am always practicing. Although it is easier to express myself through speaking, even typing can sometimes be difficult. But I never allowed these obstacles to become real limitations.

I pushed through them, worked through them, and found ways to adapt. If there was a hiccup—if something was not my strength—then I asked myself, “What is my strength?” My answer was my oral abilities, my ability to express myself through speech, and my ability to take complex ideas, explain them to others, and also explain them to myself before articulating them clearly.

At the time, even doctors—renowned not only in Ontario or Canada but across North America—told my family that they should, quote, think of Matthew as a child who is dead. This is a new person.

According to them, there was no hope for me. If I was lucky, I might finish elementary school. But beyond that? High school was out of reach. College or university? It was not even a possibility. It was not in the deck of cards.

And yet, I proved them all wrong.

I graduated high school—not just barely, but successfully in every way: socially, academically, and personally. With a high GPA, I went on to university. I pursued my passion in the humanities, classics, and philosophy—something unheard of, given what had been predicted for me.

But then again, I never allowed other people’s labels or narratives to limit me. I wanted to be expansive.

I wanted to try.

I wanted to see it.

As with everything in life—yes, it may sound cliché—but you do not know what is possible until you try. I approached everything with the mindset that I could do it to the best of my abilities. I refused to half-ass anything. To this day, I still want to throw myself into things to see what I am capable of.

Jacobsen: Were there any particularly Italian family tales of travelling to Canada and becoming multigenerational Canadian families?

Giagnorio: Well, that is interesting.

Like many Italian-Canadian families, we have a lot of stories. I am a fourth-generation Italian—well, at this point, I suppose you could call me Canadian-Italian.

We had interesting stories about family members who came over and the odd jobs they did to get by. Every family has those tales—about somehow acquiring property, building homesteads, and establishing traditions.

The family gatherings were big—really big—and they always came with elaborate stories. We grew up hearing about these moments that connected us to our family, our traditions, and, in many ways, our cultural rituals.

I was fortunate enough to know my great-grandparents. At the same time, they were still alive, and we shared traditions passed down for generations. These were small, meaningful cultural rituals—little moments where they would say, You are now a part of this. We are now doing this together.

You are not just observing it and coming along—we are a family. We are doing these things together now. It was always done in a way where you were not only enjoying the traditions at the moment but also learning them so you could carry them forward. You were experiencing, observing, and preserving them for the future.

There were some interesting stories.

My family comes from Puglia, in La Provincia di Foggia, in southern Italy. In contrast, most Italian families in Niagara come from Calabria, so that was an interesting distinction in itself. Our regional language is different from the Calabrese dialect and certainly vastly different from standard Italian. It has a significant Greek influence, as well as Spanish influences. That always fascinated me—where we came from and the stories that came with it.

Even our last name captivated me from the time I was maybe 12 or 13 and certainly from 13 or 14 onwards. I became deeply interested in the meaning behind our surname after hearing stories from my great-grandfather. It comes from the Roman god Janus, and our family name is an Italianization of Janus and its meaning.

We still have family in Italy, and even a street named after us in our hometown. Our name is rare—it is not Rossior Esposito or one of the more common Italian surnames. It is exclusive to that one area in Puglia, and I took great pride in that, particularly in a regional sense.

I often say that I am four generations removed from Italy. While I may not have fully understood what it meant to be Italian broadly, I knew what it meant to be Pugliese. I took great pride in that regional identity. In Italy, they have a strong sense of campanilismo—a pride in one’s region or town—and I felt that deeply.

There is a language connection, a cultural connection, and a connection through food, drink, and the little ways we do things differently. That was always important to me.

My appreciation and excitement grew when I spoke with my Italian friends and realized that many of them were generically proud to be Italian but often did not even know the village or city their family came from. Many did not speak Italian at all. That made me even prouder that my family had preserved our heritage.

My great-grandparents upheld the language and the traditions. Their children did not speak much of it because they wanted them to assimilate and speak English, but I was incredibly eager to learn. Every Sunday, we would go to my great-grandparents’ house. After dinner, we would drink coffee, play scopa, and talk.

I had the unique opportunity to learn Neapolitan from my great-grandmother—whose family was from Salerno—and Barese, the regional language of Puglia, from my great-grandfather, who had learned it from his father. The fact that my family stood out even within the Italian community in Niagara always made me proud. We were different. We were not just part of the general Italian diaspora—we had something unique to preserve and pass down. That always intrigued me.

I took—and still take—great pride in that. I am proud to be Pugliese. I am proud of our region’s history. Understanding where I came from helps me understand where I am going.

When I look at my family’s journey—where my ancestors came from, often from poverty—I see resilience. If you go back far enough, the entire south of Italy was under a feudal system. To know that my family, after traversing the world, has made a good life for itself means something profound.

To me, that proves that no matter the obstacles, no matter where your starting point is, you can achieve anything—if you put in the effort and cultivate the mindset that says:

“Yes. I can.”

Jacobsen: How do you feel that your time here has impacted your identity while living in Niagara? You have touched on this indirectly.

Giagnorio: That is a good question.

I have thought more about this recently, especially in conversations with friends who do not live in Niagara or are not originally from here. People take unique traits and commonplace customs for granted while living in Niagara—especially in Niagara Falls.

For example, the number of coffee drinkers in Niagara Falls outranks the national average. That is a tall order, but it is an interesting cultural detail.

Growing up here influenced me in many ways, particularly in my desire to understand local history, the history of Italians in Canada, and their contributions. I remember feeling slightly frustrated at times when people would say something well-meaning but overly simplified, such as:

“If you have Italian blood, you must keep up the culture.”

It is not an obligation to preserve the culture exactly as it was, but rather to understand it. The real responsibility is to understand Italian-Canadian culture because it is distinct.

This perspective shaped how I perceive complexity, evolution, and the distinction between culture and heritage. Heritage is not static—it is the adaptation and modernization of culture over time.

I became fully aware of the balance between embracing progress while still valuing traditions and rituals. Being open to the new does not mean wholly rejecting the old. It is possible to integrate traditions meaningfully—where they may not be exactly as they were, but they still exist in a form that allows them to be preserved.

This reminds me of a famous quote from the Sicilian novel The Leopard (Il Gattopardo). The quote says:

“If we want everything to stay the same, everything must change.”

I am very fond of that line. It resonated with me deeply, not just in theory but also in practice.

If we want things to survive, we must adapt to the world as it is now.

A perfect example of this adaptation—one that seems universal among Italian Canadians—is how wine is diluted. In Italy, wine was traditionally mixed with water for children, and even during the Renaissance, it was considered safer for pregnant women due to its antibacterial properties. But Italian Canadians did something different.

Instead of diluting wine with water, as in the Old Country, they mixed it with Canada Dry ginger ale. I have always been fascinated by this. It is a small but telling example of how traditions evolve in new environments. There are so many facets of this that I find interesting.

For me, learning the Italian language, wanting to speak it fluently, and understanding the journeys that Italian-Canadians took became a way of wanting to understand Italian culture broadly, my regional culture specifically, and Italian-Canadian culture.

This included learning about both the joys and sorrows—the beauty, the festivals, the happiness, but also the struggles, such as the internment of Italian-Canadians during World War II.

I wanted to understand not just the story of my own family but the experiences of Italian Canadians on a broader scale. This was a deeper, more profound way to understand what it means to be both Canadian and Italian.

This holds true for anyone whose family has immigrated from another country. If you have been in Canada for multiple generations, it is important to understand what that means—what your family has gone through and what your people have endured.

This awareness has shaped me. I never feel far removed from my heritage. I want to understand it so I can appreciate the efforts, struggles, and contributions that came before me.

I also want to ensure that I never dismiss something simply because it is deemed “old-fashioned.” As I mentioned before, I believe that tradition and modernity can be merged.

That realization had a significant impact on me. It reinforced that life is not about unquestioningly embracing the new but about allowing the new to emerge while integrating the traditions of a people or culture.

This perspective also shaped my understanding of history. It made me want to explore history in a way that emphasizes continuities and connections, which are extremely important to me.

A lot of that comes from my background. To me, nothing is that far removed from something else. History is not a linear progression—it is more like a spiderweb of interconnecting points and departures.

This had a huge effect on how I view history, how I approach learning, and how I think about the past, present, and future.

Even my last name has had a significant philosophical impact on me.

Janus—the Roman god my surname derives from—is the god of January, the god of new beginnings, portals, and doorways. It is a dual-headed deity, symbolizing a balance between times. The younger, clean-shaven face looks toward the future, while the older, bearded face looks toward the past.

This is a constant reminder that I must live in the present moment. This is what is happening in the world. This present moment—this is reality. But I do not negate the future, and I do not dismiss the past.

Jacobsen: Have intellectual strands of Canadian and Italian niche culture influenced your views on freedom of expression?

Giagnorio: That is an interesting question. To some degree, Italian culture has not influenced me in that way. Still, my own family certainly has—especially my great-grandfather.

He only had a Grade 6 education, yet he was exceptionally insightful. He was largely self-taught—an overhead welder by trade—but I would put his intellectual aptitude up against anyone. He was a brilliant speaker, full of insight, and always asked thought-provoking questions.

One thing that always stood out to me was that, despite being born in 1920, he did not fully embrace Catholicism. That was profound to me.

Looking back years later, I realized just how unusual that was. He was critical and outspoken. I remember him telling me stories about how his friends in the community would mock him or dismiss his views—Oh, Joe…—and laugh it off. But he was serious.

He openly criticized the wealth of the Church, questioning why they wanted money from him when he was a working-class man—often struggling, at times below middle-class. He had no problem respecting tradition but believed it should be open to criticism. He did not see religion as something untouchable or beyond question.

That was fascinating, especially considering the period he grew up in when absolute acceptance, obligation, and devotion were the norm. For him, though, it was different.

He went to Church, but mainly for his wife. His criticism was not dismissive—it was thoughtful and academic. I say that as a compliment because he loved learning.

Despite only having a Grade 6 education, he spoke multiple languages and had a sharp intellectual curiosity. He constantly asked, Why? Why shouldn’t we question this? Why shouldn’t we criticize this? Who says we can’t?

In many ways, my great-grandfather was my first introduction to critical inquiry and free speech, as well as to Stoicism.

He was stoic—not in suppressing emotions, but in self-discipline, resilience, and wisdom. He knew how to feel, how to express emotion, how to love and be affectionate, but also when to be stern and assertive when necessary.

He was a full, well-rounded human being—a man who balanced strength and sensitivity, intellect and practicality. This had a deep impact on me in my early years, shaping my own understanding of what it means to be a well-rounded person in the world.

Jacobsen: Who are your intellectual heroes?

Giagnorio: Spinoza is one of my intellectual heroes. I am very fond of Spinoza. Christopher Hitchens is another. Yasmine Mohammed is an intellectual hero of mine. Ayaan Hirsi Ali as well.

Jacobsen: So, what led you to expand this pride and curiosity into the audiovisual realm for Modes of Inquiry and A Further Inquiry?

Giagnorio: Interesting. The basis for creating Modes of Inquiry came just after the pandemic. It was a difficult time for me—my mom passed away during the pandemic. She was everything to me.

I started Modes of Inquiry after several months of research and preparation. I wanted to figure out how to launch it and create it properly. A friend of mine, who has a background in radio work and DJing, encouraged me to try it. He said, “Just do it.” And I thought, “Why not? Let’s try it out.”

I started reaching out to people I knew. My academic background is in philosophy and classics; I love research—that’s my forte. I enjoy data and evidence-based work. I could divert the sadness and energy from those long, aimless walks and channel it into something positive. That positivity became Modes of Inquiry.

At the time, I referred to this as “junk energy,” like Christopher Hitchens described burning the candle at both ends. But I turned that “junk energy” into something meaningful. The joy and overwhelming response I received from this effort were exponential. It allowed me to connect with more people, expand my contacts, and gain recognition for my work in ways I hadn’t experienced outside of my academic or social circles. It continues to pay off.

Eventually, I thought, “I love writing—I’ve been published in places in the UK and Canada—why not try something on my own?” This idea connected to something my mom once told me. Before she went on a respirator, near the end of her life, she said, “Matthew, never stop. The world needs you, even if it doesn’t deserve you. Don’t stop.”

That has been my driving force—my fortitude. It’s pushed me to succeed for myself, discover my limits, create, and find joy in what I can do. I haven’t found my limits yet, and even when something doesn’t work out, I don’t see it as failure—I see it as learning how to reconfigure things.

This drive led me to launch AFI (The Further Inquiry). Initially, it was a solo project, but I decided to expand it into a magazine. I wanted to collaborate with people I knew, so I recruited Khadija Khan from the UK as the Editor of Politics and Culture.

And that brings us to the present.

Jacobsen: Some values there are freedom of expression and diversity of viewpoints. How does this approach allow for broad leverage regarding whom you can funnel into or recruit for publishing opinion pieces and news articles, or being guests on A Further Inquiry?

Giagnorio: That’s a good question. I enjoy fostering debate. I’d rather raise a pen and an argument than raise a fist. That’s a necessity we’ve lost.

I want to feature people who can present information and data and make a strong case—not just a series of opinions but well-supported, evidence-based arguments. It’s about showcasing what’s happening on the ground, whether it’s events in the UK, Canada, the US, or, more broadly, the Middle East.

At the same time, I avoid inviting fanatics. Fanaticism should not be conflated with heterodoxy or freedom of speech. If anything, freedom of speech allows fanatics to expose themselves for who they are, so you shouldn’t associate with them. This approach has enabled readers to explore their thoughts in ways they might not have been encouraged.

Jacobsen: How do you see these as cleansing agents—this combination of freedom of expression tied to liberalism and heterodoxy, positioned against extremism? While some might avoid certain conversations, you dive in at a fulcrum point to say, “Look at this and look at this,” providing not necessarily a balanced view but an evidence-based perspective.

Giagnorio: Well put—yes, it will be evidence-based. It has to be evidence-based. That doesn’t mean it will always be in the middle ground, but it will land where the truth lies.

As one of the mottos of Further Inquiry says, truth has no home. I’m reminded of what Oscar Wilde said to his son: the old Oxford model emphasized playing gracefully with ideas, which is a key feature here.

When you’re led by freedom of expression, guided by a liberal framework, and rooted in data, it becomes easier to discern truth from nonsense. This allows people to encounter ideas they might otherwise ignore, even if those presenting them don’t necessarily like each other.

It’s about exposing ideas to audiences who might not be aware of them, providing context, origins, and the controversies surrounding those ideas. This, in turn, fosters better ideation and the formulation of positive, well-grounded concepts.

When it comes to freedom of expression, I think we often forget it’s not just about my right to speak—it’s also about my right to listen and, indeed, my right to read.

Jacobsen: Any final thoughts?

Giagnorio: Love is the only subject. Allow truth, love, and understanding to be guides in your life. 

Jacobsen: Mathew, thank you very much for your time today. I appreciate it.

Giagnorio: Absolutely. It’s been a pleasure.

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