His name was Lupe. One day during second grade, I think perhaps in the fall, an administrator walked him into our classroom and, in a low voice, introduced him to our teacher. 

He stood in silence and looked at the floor, while we looked at him. Nikes or some similar 1980s tennis shoes. Dark jeans a little baggy on his slender frame. Leather belt. Tucked in neatly, a long-sleeved, western-cut cotton plaid shirt, pearl snaps fastened at the wrists and all the way to the neck. Black hair neatly cut and combed into place. 

In our classroom in the Nevada desert, the deep tan of his skin wasn't what set him apart. After all, generations of Mexican immigrants and Basque shepherds populated the valley and several of our classmates were members of the local Paiute tribe. 

Instead, what was different was his language. Lupe spoke no English. Only Spanish. The job our teacher gave us that day was to help him learn our language. She would help him with his schoolwork. We would be his friends. And that was that.

Everyone wanted to help Lupe learn his first English words. And we all wanted him to know that we were his friends. That we wanted to help. That we wanted to play. That we wanted to learn about him, whenever he could tell us something. 

It was no secret that Lupe was the son of migrant workers. After all, who else picked the alfalfa and onions and garlic that blanketed the fields around town? The grown-ups might have known whether his family had the right paperwork. To us kids, though, that didn't matter. He was our gift, and until he disappeared as quickly as he'd arrived, we had a job to do.

I believe in obeying the laws of the land. And I believe in the need for borders, as well as protection at those borders. I also believe that we have an awful lot in our country. More than we need. More than enough to share. More than enough to offer asylum to refugees fleeing persecution and violence in their home countries.

So, when I look at the faces of the kids in detention centers, whether with their parents or not, I can't help but think that they are our gift. 

And we have a job to do.