The Bathroom Problem

Everyday it was the same routine, Luis played with blocks and I taught my students. It got so that I sometimes forgot he was there, as did the other students. The little boy in the back of the room blended in.
Luis never talked, and never asked me to go to the bathroom. It was like he didn't exist. Until one day, after snack time I smell something off in my classroom. I look around and there, in the back of the room is Luis, standing in a puddle, and he's peed in his pants.
"LUIS!" I yell. He looks up at me, and I can't help but feel bad for him for a little bit. Then I'm just angry, he ruined my carpeted floors. "From now on Luis, if you must go to the bathroom, you ask, 'May I please go to the bathroom' OK?" He just stares blankly and I get the idea he has no idea what I am saying.
The next day, when he has to go to the bathroom, he just runs out of the room.

Our Block Routine

   I gave up on teaching the Mexican boy almost the moment I lay eyes on him. The only thing I was able to find out about him was his name, Luis. He didn't speak english and he wasn't American, so I knew at once it would be a waste of time to teach someone so stupid. 

   I still had the responsibility to teach my other students, of course, which led to the need to distract Luis and make him entertain himself everyday. The first day we met, I sent him to the back to play with blocks. As I went about with my lesson, I almost forgot he was there. It was perfect.

   The next day, Luis went right to the back to play with blocks, while I taught the rest of the students. And thus, our routine was born. Every morning, the students would file in and sit in their desks, while Luis would walk to the back  corner, take out the blocks, and leave everyone alone.

   I never paid attention to what he built, at the end of the day I knocked it over and put those blocks back in the box, ready for tomorrows use. I was almost able to forget he was there. Almost.

The day the Mexican boy came

I remember the day perfectly. I was teaching my class of first graders, all of them white, clothed, and best of all, American. I was reading them a story book, and all of them were very interested, I remember seeing their eager little faces.
All of the sudden, our peaceful learning environment was disturbed by a knock on the door. I stood up, opened it, and there was the guidance conselor standing with a tiny boy.
I looked down at his dark eyes, brown skin and tattered clothes and knew immediately what he was. A Mexican. I looked at the counselor, shocked. Did they actually expect me to teach this illegal alien?
Apparently the school did. I let the boy into my classroom and closed the door. My poor students looked around confused at our strange visitor. I looked at him with contempt.
"What's your name?" I finally asked. He looked up at me and didn't say a word. I repeated myself, this time louder. He still looked up at me blankly. This was going to be trouble, I could already tell.
This boy couldn't even speak English. How was I supposed to even begin teaching him if he couldn't understand what I was saying? I decided I wasn't going to.
I sent him to the back of the room to play with blocks and went on with my lesson.