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.