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" Oh my god! It was a bachata-scored nightmare. There I was, in a public park with my entire extended family surrounding me, pointing, laughing and gaily singing, &amp;quot;No Speak Spanish My Love!&amp;quot; AT ME! I was mortified.  I smiled a strained smile and laughed a fake laugh, &amp;quot;Ha, ha, ha! Yeah, I can&amp;#039;t speak Spanish. Hi-larious!&amp;#039; My admission served to break the bachata-and-alcohol reverie, prompting relatives to laugh a few more chuckles at my expense and carry on with their dancing, eating and making fun of other people&amp;#039;s children. My cousin Charlie stayed behind, slapping a meaty hand on my shoulder. I glared at him. &amp;quot;You started this!&amp;quot; I accused. It was true. He&amp;#039;d been asking me a series of questions in Spanish and I kept answering them in English. Finally, he asked, &amp;quot;\u00BFQu\u00E9, usted no habla espa\u00F1ol?&amp;quot; No, I answered\u2014in English (ha!). At which point, he literally pointed, laughed and waved over others to share my despicable admission with them. After which point, well, you know what happened. Charlie wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his massive hand, and looked up at me. &amp;quot;No, I didn&amp;#039;t. YOU started this when you decided not to learn Spanish.&amp;quot; He punctuated his statement with a quick poke of his sausage finger to the side of my head. Point made. I started to protest, &amp;quot;My parents never taught\u2026&amp;quot; but he interrupted. &amp;quot;Didn&amp;#039;t you take Spanish in school?&amp;quot; he asked, knowing the answer. I nodded. &amp;quot;Y, your abuela, didn&amp;#039;t she speak to you in Spanish?&amp;quot; Damn! Yes, she always spoke to me in Spanish. &amp;quot;Y, todav\u00EDa, you never learned.&amp;quot; He slapped his hand onto the table, heaving his heavy body up from the tiny picnic bench. &amp;quot;Tanisha, you had every opportunity to learn Spanish. If you wanted to learn, you would have.&amp;quot; He walked away, whistling &amp;quot;No Speak Spanish My Love&amp;quot;. Ay, callate, I thought.  But Charlie was right. I&amp;#039;m a third generation Puerto Rican who, at 29 years old, still doesn&amp;#039;t speak Spanish fluently. For a long time I blamed my parents. &amp;quot;They didn&amp;#039;t speak to me in Spanish,&amp;quot; I&amp;#039;d say, but as my cousin Charlie pointed out, that was a weak excuse. The truth is: I did want to learn Spanish, but my skin just wasn&amp;#039;t thick enough to learn it around my family. Growing up, my family made a pastime of making fun of me, and nothing was as ripe for fodder as my &amp;quot;gringo&amp;quot; accent when speaking Spanish. I endured it because I had to learn Spanish for school. As I struggled to conjugate verbs and memorize which words ended in an &amp;quot;a&amp;quot; or an &amp;quot;o&amp;quot;, my Spanish-speaking relatives would pat me on the head and say, &amp;quot;Yo pensaba que era el inteligente de la family.&amp;quot; Hardy-har-har! Spanish was the first thing I ever failed at, and my family was reveling in it. So, I gave up. In hindsight, I regret giving up. These days, I&amp;#039;m taking steps to learn Spanish all over again. Sure, people still make fun of me, and yes, family still pats me on the head when I conjugate a verb incorrectly, but ultimately, I feel empowered by my growing Spanish skills. As a media professional, I understand just how important it is to be able to communicate with a wide range of people. But also, on a personal level, it&amp;#039;s great to be able to tell my family where to shove it\u2014in Spanish! Ha! "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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