Carro. Perro. Aburrido. These are common words in a language that is supposed to be mine, yet they evoke a dreadful feeling every time I have to say them. I am unable to create a basic sound that all Spanish-speaking people seem to do effortlessly: the rolled rr.

I try not to, but sometimes I can’t help but place the blame on my mother for my poor Spanish skills. She tended to talk to me in English in order to improve her imperfect command of the language, rather than teaching me her native Spanish first and letting me learn English in school. Perhaps the transition between the two languages as a little girl is what caused me to end up in speech therapy along with that wild-monkey boy who often thumped his chest, hollered “Eeek!” and threw our speech exercise book at the wall during sessions.

As a result of our lack of proper cultural upbringing, as perceived by family members and various people in the Hispanic community, my brothers and I were regarded as anomalies. People called someone like me, who is brown-skinned and “white” inside, “coconut.” The first time I heard the term, I recall my father reprimanding one of his own friends for the insult toward his daughter as I stood confused, wondering what was so wrong with being called a nut.

I learned at nine that my otherness was not limited to race or ethnicity. Up until my last year in elementary school, I had always worn either a Star of David or menorah necklace given to me by my father, a Messianic Jew. Our family attended a church that assembled a community of people who, like us, did not fit society’s expectations of what it means to be Hispanic.

When my Uruguayan best friend and I were sitting on our school steps one day, she suddenly asked me if I was Jewish. Surprised by the question, I told her yes, which caused her to scold me for “pretending” to be a Jew. I insisted that I was telling the truth, to which she replied, “No. I never met a Hispanic who was anything other than Catholic.”

Hearing her comment made me pause and think. I knew my best friend was not a liar, but I was telling the truth. So much confusion dwelled inside me that I did not answer her but instead ran home feeling miserable.

Thinking back, I am no longer surprised by others’ difficulty accepting me as more than a “coconut” or a “fake Jew.” It is hard enough to believe that there are Jews who are Hispanic, but the idea that there are Jews who are not only Hispanic but believe in Jesus takes an open mind. If there is one lesson I have learned, it would be that it is important to accept my own unusual background and not allow others to define who I am.