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“Stay away from them,” my colleague advised. She pointed out the cafe window. “The dark gypsies are dirty and lazy. They aren’t real Czechs.” I sipped my coffee and watched a Roma family trudge down the street. They had their heads buried in their jackets and were careful to avoid eye contact with anyone. Amongst them was a girl, maybe 13, wearing a black oversized hoodie with orange flowers on it. I walked through the city center on my way back. I came upon a gothic style church made of stone. Directly across stood a short clock tower where locals held town meetings. As I passed through I noticed a market and decided to stop. At the register, the cashier picked up my bag of apples and began to rotate it. She glared at me, handed me the bag, and pointed at the produce section. I hesitated, and then took the apples and stepped out of line, unsure of what I needed to do. “Scale,” someone mumbled. I looked back at the end of the line and saw a young Roma girl standing there smiling. She motioned for me to follow her. As we walked toward the produce section, I recognized the black hoodie with the orange flowers. I asked the girl her name, “Bara,” she said with a giggle. She popped the apples on the scale, printed a sticker, and placed it on the bag. I thanked Bara profusely and proceeded to check out. As I walked towards the exit, I turned back to give her a wave of gratitude. The cashier was examining the bill Bara had handed her. She kept flipping it over and rubbing it between her fingers as though she expected the ink to smear. Eventually, she spied a tiny tear. “Vypadni! Get out!” The cashier shrieked. I quickly made my way to the counter and handed the cashier a crisp bill. I picked up Bara’s groceries and handed them to her. Her lip quivered and her eyes started to water. Bara and I walked towards the exit together in silence. I could feel my face getting hot. I didn’t want our encounter to end like this. I reached in my bag and handed her a flyer promoting an English language workshop I was hosting at a local school. Her face lit up at first, but was quickly shadowed by disappointment. Using the English she knew, she said, “Mom...no let...worry...no let.” I asked her why, and she looked back at the cashier. It became clear to me that moments of confrontation and unjustifiable anger were common in her life. “What if I meet your mom?” I asked. Bara looked at the ground with a furrowed brow and narrow eyes. She took a deep breath and murmured, “Okay.” We continued to walk. As the sun set behind us I began to feel uneasy. Unfamiliar with the backroads, I tried to keep track of all the turns we made. The cobblestone became dirt and the town lights receded behind us. We approached an assemblage of small wooden sheds. The windows were nailed shut, plastic bags covered holes in the roof, and ripped-up tarps tied to poles stood in place of door frames. Piles of garbage lined broken fences and dirty clothes hung from unraveling twine. What was once a grassy field was now a ravaged lot. A small community built on unsettled dirt. A woman emerged from one of the sheds. Her eyebrows drew close together and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. The woman hounded me with questions, but I couldn’t understand. Bara interjected and started to argue with her mom. After five minutes of shouting, Bara looked at me teary eyed and told me I should leave. Feeling helpless, I looked at Bara’s mom pleadingly and handed her the flyer promoting my workshop. Then I nodded and left. Although I was saddened by the way events had unfolded, I went to my workshop the next morning with a positive attitude. While giving my introduction, I paused and smiled. I noticed a black hoodie with orange flowers. Bara sat in the back of the room, eager to participate.