In my life, I have crossed many geographical, linguistic, cultural, and even religious borders to the point where I often ask myself where do I belong, who am I really, and who am I becoming.

I grew up dirt poor on the Mexican-American border of El Paso, Texas, and went to Harvard and Yale. Although I was raised a Catholic by my Mexican parents, I now attend services for High Holy Days on Manhattan’s Upper West Side with my wife and two boys, Aaron and Isaac. Yes, I am a traveler between cultures and religions, but I do know who I am. The question that often burns in my mind, however, is why these border crossings are not attempted by more people. They should be.

I understand it is perilous to cross to the other side, whatever that “other” side is. You traverse into a no-man’s land. You leave your “home” and possibly risk alienating those who stayed behind. I have been asked, by many Latino writers and friends, if I am now Jewish. I know often there is an undercurrent of surprise and even anger, at least by the most weak- or fearful-minded, when I proudly tell them about my wife, Laura, and my children. I was at a Latino book festival recently, at a restaurant with four writers. We were discussing the links, and differences, between Judaism and Christianity, a discussion I had prompted. I turned to a poet, who had been quiet for most of the evening, and pointed out that the artist on her T-shirt, Frida Kahlo, was half Jewish and half Mexican. The poet, a proud Mexicana, seemed stunned at first, and then looked at her T-shirt as if she were looking at it for the first time. Yes, I said, we create pure beginnings to simplify things, maybe to build our self-esteem, but in reality we are interrelated, mestizo, in more ways than we can imagine.

The other peril to crossing borders is that you might not get accepted by your new family and friends. Laura and I met at Harvard, and after seven years together, when we announced we were getting married, let us just say I did not get a heroic welcome at her parents’ kitchen table. But I never gave up. Laura’s aunts and uncles, brother and sister, took me in almost immediately. But I think it took another 10 years before Laura’s father and especially her mother accepted me wholeheartedly. During that time, our two wonderful boys had been born, and Laura had survived a serious bout with breast cancer. In many ways, that horrible trial not only opened up old wounds, but also finally allowed them to heal forever. I was dedicated to Laura, and to our children, and Laura’s parents understood that’s what mattered most of all.

In this personal history of crossing borders, I have often admired Ruth and her dedication to Naomi. Ruth, a Moabite, married Naomi’s son, who soon died. When Naomi decided to return to Bethlehem, she urged Ruth to go back to her home and the gods of her people, but Ruth refused. “Do not ask me to leave you,” Ruth said, “Wherever you go, I will go, and wherever you live, I will live. Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God. Only death will part us.” Through hard work and perseverance, Ruth eventually found her place in a new land. The greatest king of the Israelites, David, came from a long line of ancestors beginning with Ruth. So, indeed, there are no pure beginnings, only survival, perseverance, dedication, and reaching out to the “other” side.

Sergio Troncoso is the author of The Nature of Truth (Northwestern University Press). His first book, The Last Tortilla and Other Stories (University of Arizona Press), won the Premio Aztlán and the Southwest Book Award.