So I walked straight to the back of the bus. There were at least three people in the back: one Latino, one African American, and one old white guy. The guy was staring at me for at least five minutes. Finally he spoke, “How would you like to be my personal gardener?!” he asked.
I said no. With anger I said, “Why would you say that? Because of my skin color?”
He said, “You’re brown and Mexican.”
I said, “No, I’m Nicaraguan.”
Then he said, “Do you want to make eight dollars an hour?”
I felt ashamed of my culture for a while. The old guy was still talking, saying, “Come on, I bet your family would do this.” I felt like punching this guy in the face. I was screaming inside my body, but I know not to punch somebody in the face.