“We’d love to!” I said, before my mom could even say a word.
My mom looked bewildered.
“We can give it to that guy who lives in Lansdale, mom,” I said. “The Vietnam vet.”
There was a homeless man who lived in the nearby town. The rumor was that he had fought in the war and came back slightly crazy. Not in a scary way—more in a “he prefers living on the streets” way. I remember the very first time I saw him. I was in fifth grade and riding in the car with my mom. He was searching through the garbage outside of a diner dressed in very dirty jeans, an old stained sweatshirt, and an army jacket.
“What’s he doing?” I asked.
“Probably looking for food,” my mother answered. “Not everyone is as fortunate as we are, Caitlin.”
I had seen him a dozen times since then and he was always wearing that same jacket.
We looked in all his usual spots—the Shop ’n Save parking lot, the train station, the town park. I finally spotted him in the bushes behind the Burger King drive-through. Mom stopped the car, and I got out with the pizza boxes.
“I thought you might like this,” I said, handing over the boxes. “It’s really good pizza.”
He took the boxes without looking at me or saying a word.
I got back in the car with all these thoughts buzzing in my head, from How can a person be homeless in our country? to What happened to him in Vietnam that would make him choose that lifestyle? I didn’t have answers, but I made a pact with myself that I would never be mean ever again to anyone because he or she had dirty hair or smelled bad or was poor or didn’t have shoes.
I’d begin with Amanda. She sat in front of me in Mr. Sinkinson’s English class, so I could see that her scalp was covered with whitehead zits. Worse, she’d pop them during class, and then run her fingers down clumps of her already greasy hair. I tried to ignore it at first, but it was hard. To be honest, it made me want to puke. She only had two or three outfits, and didn’t wash them very often—on hot days, she smelled like salami. I never mentioned any of this to anyone, until one day a huge dandruff flake landed on my notebook. That afternoon, I ranted to a few friends about how gross she was. Later that week, I passed Amanda in the hall with one of those friends, who said, in a really sarcastic voice, “Um, have you ever thought about washing your hair?”
Amanda sunk her head into her shoulders and sputtered, “I do wash it,” before scurrying away.
Driving home with my mom, I started connecting the dots. Amanda had seven siblings, three outfits, and always ate the lunch plan, which was soggy canned vegetables and mysterious meat. I had a debit card that allowed me to buy anything I wanted from the cafeteria—pizza, bagels, sandwiches, or a salad. I had no idea what Amanda’s parents did, but I understood then that it was not her fault that she had zits on her head. If that was my problem, my mom would take me to doctor after doctor to make them go away. I vowed never to be mean to Amanda, or anyone else like her, ever again. If anything, I would stick up for her.
February 2000
Martin
MY MOTHER DIDN’T WALK IN her new sneakers. She floated. When people asked about them, she’d jump up and down to demonstrate how durable they were. She kept all our new gifts neatly stored in the same large box they arrived in, placed in the corner of our room, and would invite friends in to see them. This was new—she never had guests in our home, but my mom was very proud to have all of these things, and she wanted to show them off. We were, too, though the new clothes were complicated. We spent the first few days trying everything on seven or eight times in a row, swapping with one another, having fun. But then we realized that we couldn’t wear any of them to school, as we had to wear our old uniforms. We did not want to wear them when we got back home, to do our chores or play around, as we were afraid to get them dirty. Everyone wanted to save them for special occasions, and there were not many of those happening in our lives. So they mainly stayed in the box. My father, however, woke up every morning and put on his brand-new shirt and shorts to go look for work. It made him appear—and feel—less desperate.
I particularly appreciated the package of ten toothbrushes. Inside, there was a booklet that discussed “dental hygiene.” It said you should change your toothbrush every six months—I was shocked. I had had mine for seven years. The bristles were all beaten down. I was so happy to exchange it for a new one.
March 2000
Caitlin
WHEN MY GERMAN TEACHER, FRAU KANZ, had asked if anyone was interested in hosting a German exchange student in the spring, I had raised my hand.
I loved visiting Carola in Germany, and thought it would be fun to reciprocate. Frau Kanz told me to discuss the possibility with my parents, but I already knew they would say yes.
Later that week, Frau Kanz handed me a folder.
“Everything you need to know about Stephie is here,” she said.
I looked at her photo first—she had short, dark brown hair and almond-shaped brown eyes. She was wearing a jean jacket with jeans, and I smiled. She reminded me of Carola! I’d never wear denim on denim! But I’d never wear socks with sandals, either! I was excited to show Stephie how American girls dressed. I was excited to be her American ambassador.
Back home, I read Stephie’s bio to my parents. For fun, she wrote that she liked to “go to disco,” which cracked me up. There were no discos in Hatfield, and I had outgrown the Friday night roller-rink scene. I’d take her to school parties, and to the Cineplex near the mall. I’d also take her midnight bowling—which was what my friends and I did for fun.
My mom spent a week transforming Richie’s room for Stephie, since he would not be home from college until June. Once she removed the Star Wars wallpaper, she had to spackle all the dart-gun holes he had shot into the wall over the years. That took an entire day. Then she painted the room taupe and navy. I was jealous—Richie already had the bigger room, and now he had the nicer room, too!
Still, it was for Stephie, I had to remind myself. She deserved it—not Richie.
Only, she didn’t. I figured that out pretty quickly. When I first saw her, I thought she seemed fine. I was a little alarmed by how much stuff she brought: two huge suitcases stuffed with more clothes than even I had. We got home and I showed her the room Mom had worked so hard on. Stephie looked as if she had bitten a lemon. She did not say a word, so we left her to unpack on her own.
When it was dinnertime, I went upstairs to find her sitting in her room, her bags still packed, playing one of the video games she brought with her.
“Aren’t you going to unpack?” I asked.
“Don’t you have a maid that will do it?” she said, annoyed.
“A maid?” I responded.
“Back home, I have a nanny and a maid,” she said.
“A nanny?” I said, my voice high-pitched because I thought she must have been joking. “Very funny,” I said. Stephie didn’t laugh.
“Okay, well, we don’t have a maid or a nanny here,” I said, slowly realizing that maybe this girl was not as cool as I had hoped she would be. “But I do have a mom who made a really delicious dinner to welcome you to our home.”
I turned around to walk back downstairs, but Stephie stayed put.
I walked back to her room, now pissed. “Aren’t you coming downstairs?” I asked.
“I’m not hungry,” she said, and then asked me to close her door.
At dinner, I was fuming. My mom and dad ate quietly.
“Who does she think she is?” I asked, stabbing at the lasagna my mom had made especially for her. I was too mad to be hungry.
“Cut her some slack, Caitlin,” my dad said. “She’s in a new country and probably feels overwhelmed.”
“Or even homesick,” my mom added. “Let’s give her a few days to settle in.”
I agreed to give her another chance, but when I went back upstairs to apologize for being testy, her lights were out. Jet lag, I figured. Germany was, after all, six hours ahead of us.
“Can we go shopping?” Stephie asked.
“Yes,” I said, relieved. “We can go to the mall. That is a very popular thing to do!”
Soon I learned that was all she wanted to do. She wasn’t even interested in going to school with me, which was the whole point of the exchange program! When she asked my mother to make her breakfast in bed that first week, my mom finally lost it.
“Stephie, I appreciate that you have a maid in Germany who makes you whatever you want whenever you want,” I overheard my mom say one day. I was in my room, and Mom was standing in the doorway to Richie’s out in the hallway. “But in America, and specifically in my house, that’s not what we do. So if you want to eat, you are more than welcome to join us downstairs.”
Yes, I thought to myself. You tell her, Mom!
We learned quickly there was no telling Stephie anything. When she came downstairs for breakfast, she would barely pick at her food, and then she dragged herself out the door to get on the bus to go to school with me, complaining the entire time.
“Everything is so booooor-ing here,” she said. “Nowhere to have any fun.”
By the end of the first week, I realized I had made a terrible mistake by inviting her to live with us.
That Friday, all of my friends planned to go midnight bowling. Stephie will love this, I thought. There was even a disco ball in the alley, and they played music really loud. But when I told her what we were doing that night, she twisted her face into a knot and said, “Can you get beer there? In Germany, we can buy beer at discos!”
“This isn’t Germany!” I said, starting to lose my patience. “And it is illegal to drink beer in the United States until you are twenty-one.”
“Then I stay home,” she countered.
“Suit yourself,” I said. What I really wanted to say is, “Why don’t you just go home?” Instead, I had to tolerate her for another entire month. I didn’t think I was going to make it.
I gave up on trying to please Stephie, but my parents had already planned a trip to Washington, DC. I dreaded going, but we had a nice time. We even have a photo of the two of us standing in front of the Washington Monument, where we both are smiling, a miracle. Another weekend, we took her to Philadelphia to see Les Misérables. Those were the only times she seemed impressed. Meanwhile, I quickly appropriated the musical’s title: The Miserable. Starring Stephie.
My anger at Stephie was a good distraction from the fact we still had not heard from Mr. Samupindi. My mom was worried that Martin didn’t get the money for his exams and that he might not even be in school. It was like we were sending notes and checks into a big black hole. She kept checking her bank to see if her check had been cashed: nothing. I could tell she was getting frustrated, which broke my heart. I knew all this time and effort was worth it, that Martin was worth it. But Mom was losing hope. She sent him a postcard in late April, which she showed me before she posted.
April 25, 2000
Dear Martin,
We have not heard from you. Our letters of January 24, 2000, to you and your headmaster contained important documents. Due to political unrest in Zimbabwe, we are very concerned about you and your family. Please try to contact us with your whereabouts. We are unable to help if we don’t know where you are or what you need. Please contact us.
Love, Rich, Anne,
and Caitlin
I flashed back to the months before I received the letter on garbage. What if he was back working at the market, with no way of contacting us? Hearing Stephie complain about doing her own laundry and dishes—two rules in my house—made me want to throttle her. I didn’t even go to the airport with her to say good-bye. But I did do a victory dance as soon as the door shut behind her.
By late May my mom finally said enough is enough. “Caitlin, I am just going to send a hundred dollars to Martin via Western Union and pray that it gets to him. What else can we do?”
She made all the arrangements, and then wrote Martin a postcard instructing him to go to his Western Union branch to collect the funds on June 5. When she did not hear from him that day, she was sick to her stomach. The next day, she wrote again:
June 6, 2000
Dear Martin,
By now we hope you have received the postcard indicating you are to go to the post office bank to collect your Western Union money. We wired the money to you on Monday June 5, 2000, as the postcard said. According to Western Union, US$100 is being converted at a rate of Z$37.07 as of today. But it may be converted to a greater or lesser amount on the day you arrive to collect the funds. In any event, at today’s rate, you will receive Z$3707.56. We tried to figure out how much money you and your family need for school and rent. We believe this amount will maintain your family for a few months.
We both crossed our fingers and said a prayer that the money would make it to him.
My junior high school graduation was only days away, but I was too concerned about Martin to get that excited. That changed two days after we sent that postcard.
“I did it!” my mom announced that afternoon. “I found him.”
She jumped up from her chair to wiggle her hips and wave her arms like a crazed cheerleader.
“Martin?” I asked.
“No,” my mother said. “Mr. Samupindi! I finally got through to the Sakubva post office and told the postmaster that I needed to speak to the headmaster at Martin’s school.”
“And?” I was on the verge of breaking into my own dance.
“And they promised to send word to him,” she continued. “So I’m going to call the post office at two AM and hopefully Mr. Samupindi will pick up.”
My head started spinning at that moment and did not stop until I heard my mom’s alarm clock go off hours later, at 1:55 AM.
I quickly got up to follow her downstairs.
“Hello, I am calling for Mr. George Samupindi,” she said after punching a long list of numbers into the phone. Her voice was calm and formal.
In the silence that followed, she winked at me.
“Yes, hello, Mr. Samupindi, thank you for taking my call,” she continued. “My name is Anne and I am calling from the US about Martin Ganda.”
I placed a chair next to her just as my mom’s face fell into a frown.
“Why?” she said.
By then I was close enough to hear Mr. Samupindi’s voice booming through the receiver. He seemed to be shouting, as if he thought that was necessary to speak to someone so far away. I was glad as I could hear every word: In a clipped British accent he said, “Martin is one of our brightest students.”
I caught my mom’s eyes and smiled wide. I knew it!
But then he said, “If he does not finish his O-levels and go on for his A-levels, he will rot and die in Zimbabwe.”
I covered my mouth but not soon enough to catch my gasp.
“What do you mean?” my mother asked, staying calm.
“Between poverty and AIDS, a poor boy like Martin doesn’t stand a chance,” he continued. “What makes his case particularly sad is that he is easily the brightest student we have ever seen in these parts—smarter than many of his teachers.”
My mom’s eyes started filling with tears. “Mr. Samupindi, how can we help Martin stay in school?” she asked.
She jotted a number down on her notepad, and asked, “What about his siblings?”
I sat back, so proud.
She wrote US$80 on her notepad and circled it twice, smiling so hard her eyes turned into happy slits.
“How can I get this money to you?” she asked. “I’ll send you a check today. Please keep Martin Ganda and his siblings in school. I will be one hundred percent responsible for their tuition.”
I heard Mr. Samupindi say “Happily” before he
hung up.
Tears were rolling down my mother’s cheeks.
“You did it!” I said as I squeezed her hard.
“This,” she whispered into my ear, “was a team effort.”
When I pulled back, my mom was sobbing and laughing at once.
“Mom!” I said. “This is no time for tears! We need to call Martin immediately!”
He had mentioned in a prior letter that we could call the post office in Sakubva for emergencies, which this was. News this good couldn’t wait for another letter.
June 2000
Martin
I WAS CLEANING THE MORNING dishes when a boy my age came running down the path shouting, “Martin, America is calling. For you.”
I started sprinting toward the post office and could hear both Nation and Simba running behind me.
Once there, I pushed through the heavy glass door and past the long queue of people waiting to send or collect packages. The phone operator was in the corner, holding the receiver in both hands.
“You must be Martin Ganda,” he said.
I took a deep breath before I placed the phone to my ear.
“Hallo?” I said.
“Martin?” a high-pitched and twangy voice responded.
“Caitlin,” I shouted. “Is this really you?”
“It’s me!” she answered. “I have good news!”
Goose bumps blanketed my body.
“My mom spoke to your headmaster,” she said. “You don’t have to worry about school fees anymore!”
By then, Nation and Simba were on either side of me straining to hear the conversation.
“Caitlin, this is the best news ever,” I said, fighting back the emotions swelling up in my chest and throat. I thought I might choke on them.
I Will Always Write Back: How One Letter Changed Two Lives Page 13