My sister Yuki teaches kindergarten in Japan. Three years ago, a five-year-old boy from Texas joined her class for three months. His name was Wyatt. He spoke only English. The other twenty-four children spoke only Japanese. On the first morning, Yuki explained that in Japanese schools, you take off your outside shoes and wear indoor slippers. Wyatt looked at her very seriously and said, "A cowboy doesn't take off his boots." The negotiations lasted three days. In the end, Wyatt wore the white indoor shoes. But he drew spurs on them with a black marker. By week three, eleven boys in the class had spurs drawn on their indoor shoes. The principal came by to ask what was going on. Nobody could explain it. By week two, the entire class was saying "y'all." A mother called Yuki. "My son said to his grandmother, 'Howdy, y'all.' She would like to know what a y'all is." Wyatt taught them the song "Deep in the Heart of Texas." The part where you clap four times. Twenty-four Japanese five-year-olds learned to clap four times in perfect rhythm. They did it at lunch. They did it at nap time. One of them did it at his grandfather's funeral. (The family says the grandfather would have liked it.) Before lunch, Japanese children put their hands together and say "Itadakimasu." It means something like, "I humbly receive." On his first day, Wyatt didn't know that. So he closed his eyes and said grace, the way he did at home. "Thank you, God, for this food, and for my new friends. Amen." Nobody understood a word. But the next day, twenty-four children closed their eyes with him. By the end of the month, they were saying it together. "Itadakimasu." Then, all at once, very loudly: "AMEN!" The quietest girl in the class was Hina. She hadn't said a word at school in months. She appointed herself Wyatt's translator anyway. She didn't speak English. She translated by drawing pictures. When the class went outside, she drew him a picture of shoes. When it was time to clean up, she drew him a broom. Wyatt called her "partner." One afternoon in May, Wyatt sat in the corner and cried. He missed his dog in Texas. Hina sat down next to him with her crayons. Wyatt showed her with his hands. Big. Brown. One ear up, one ear down. She drew it. Big, brown, one ear up, one ear down. He held that picture for the rest of the day. Then Hina walked over to my sister, pulled on her sleeve, and said, out loud, her first words at school in months: "Wyatt is sad. His dog is far away." On Wyatt's last day, twenty-four children lined up in paper cowboy hats and indoor shoes with spurs drawn on them. They clapped four times. In perfect rhythm. And they shouted, all together: "Y'ALL COME BACK NOW!" Wyatt took off a tin sheriff's star his grandpa had given him and pinned it on Hina. Hina is eight now. She still wears it. Every April, Yuki's new class learns to say "y'all." Nobody remembers deciding this. It's just what that class does now. Last month, Wyatt's mother sent Yuki a photo from his school in Texas. It's lunchtime. Twenty kids are already eating. One little boy has his hands together, eyes closed. Itadakimasu. Nobody ever told those kids the world was supposed to be divided. So they never found out.