The bus was small, but many white people filled the bus. I ran along the bus with my fellow villagers. We were all kids expecting something exciting. White people visiting our village was not usual. The bus stopped in our little field with our mud-dirt houses on all sides. We surrounded the bus and were waiting for the doors to open. When the doors opened, I wove my way to the front as the white people came out. I grabbed hold of a white guy with blue letters on his back spelling, “Thompson”. I held onto his hand as I led him out of the crowd. All I wanted to do was play with him, but it was complicated. My Dominican Republic village spoke Spanish, and he spoke only English. For some reason, I still blabbered in Spanish and waved my arms. I found a ball and tossed it to him and he threw it back. I was having the time of my life and the white man’s face had a big smile on it. I shouted out to my friends to join and we played keep-away. We played with him and the other white people. I thought they would leave soon, but they didn’t. They stayed the whole afternoon, which made my day and all the other villagers’ too. At the end of the day when the sun started going behind the trees I walked into my house and saw my mom in tears. I asked why are you crying. She replied, they gave us a week’s worth of food, baby; we can save this week’s money for once.