I Will Always Write Back: How One Letter Changed Two Lives

by Caitlin Alifirenka

  December 2000

  Caitlin

  THE PHOTOS WEREN’T WHAT I EXPECTED. Yes, Martin was the same smiling person I had grown to love like my own brother. In these images, he looked like a more grown-up version of that little boy in kneesocks whose photo remained beneath my glass desktop, but I was expecting sunny, bright blue skies, and tall, bleached-out grass. I imagined his mom and dad wearing colorful traditional clothes—made of hand-dyed fabrics. The dark and grainy photos Martin sent me were the opposite of those Technicolor images. In one, Martin was leaning against a building that looked like a wooden shack—not the thatched-roof hut in my mind. My first thought was, That can’t be his home. Our backyard tool shed looked bigger and sturdier. I flipped through the pictures several times, though, and realized, that is his home. The ground around it was packed dirt scattered with jagged gray pebbles. There was a tree off in the distance, the only green spot in an otherwise bleak field of beige and gray.

  I studied the shot of Martin sitting between his parents on a bed in a dark, cramped room with all his siblings gathered around. I figured that must be his parents’ bedroom. There was another shot of Martin and Nation on the same bed, and then another of just his parents with the youngest boy, George, again on that bed. I read the letter to see if it referenced the photos. That was how I learned that this was not their bedroom. It was their entire house. Martin wrote that he and his siblings had to move pots and pans in order to make space beneath his parents’ bed to sleep.

  I went through all the photos again, looking for more clues about Martin’s life—none of the kids were wearing shoes, including Martin.

  Does Martin even own a pair of shoes? I wondered, flipping again through the stack, looking for proof that I was wrong. Nothing.

  I looked up from my bottom bunk, stunned. My biggest complaint for the past year had been “Why did Richie get the bigger room?” I could never imagine having to sleep beneath my parents’ bed. As for shoes, my closet door could barely close from all the pairs I had piled up in there, most of which I never wore. It seemed wrong that I had so much, and Martin and his family had so little. I felt it was my responsibility to share my good fortune with my best friend.

  I showed the photos to my parents that evening. They, too, were shocked by how hard his life looked.

  My mom kept shaking her head, saying, “Wow,” over and over.

  “It’s time for another care package,” I said.

  My dad agreed. “How can we help?”

  I went to get the list I’d been compiling.

  “They’re in the rainy season now,” I explained. “They experience something called monsoons.”

  “Like heavy tropical rains?” my mom asked.

  “Exactly,” I responded. “But look at their house—you can practically see the gaps in the walls.”

  “What are you proposing?” my dad asked.

  “Tarps,” I said.

  “They sell them at the army-navy store,” my mom added.

  “I also want to get them collapsible water buckets,” I added. “His mom can use them to collect rainfall.”

  “Smart,” my dad said.

  “We’ll go shopping tomorrow,” my mom said. “Meanwhile, let’s all clean out our closets.”

  I used to give all my hand-me-down clothes to my two cousins who were several years younger than me, but my uncle Jim and aunt Kim could afford to buy them new clothes. Martin’s family could not. I selected several pairs of shoes from my own: sneakers, flip-flops, and a pair of sandals. I realized they would only fit a few family members, and so I wrote a note to Martin asking him to send me everyone’s shoe size, so no one was left out.

  The following day, we went to the army-navy store, run by a guy wearing camouflage pants, work boots, and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt.

  “Hi, Jeff,” my mom said as we entered the store, Richie’s favorite shop.

  I explained what we were looking for and Jeff selected several large tarps, two collapsible buckets, and rain ponchos in sizes small, medium, and large.

  “Do you have water purification tablets?” I asked as we piled things on the counter to buy.

  “Right on!” Jeff said, grabbing four bottles of iodine tablets called Potable Aqua.

  “They’ll kill whatever is gnarly in the water,” he said. “Guaranteed.”

  Next, we went to Ross to get rain boots for everyone—we still did not know everyone’s size, but these were easier to guesstimate than actual shoes. My mom also grabbed an umbrella. Back home, we added batteries for Martin’s Walkman, lotions, pens, notebooks, and envelopes to the box, which Mom set up in the dining room.

  By mid-December, it was full. We included our family Christmas card, though I knew it wouldn’t get there in time. It didn’t matter. I just hoped it got there.

  I woke to familiar sounds and smells on Christmas morning, but when I got to the kitchen, my dad said, “Santa left your present outside this year.”

  I was still in my PJs when I went outside to find a dark green 1996 Acura Integra with brand-new shiny silver rims in the driveway. The license plate said C8LIN.

  “She’s all yours!” my dad said, handing me the keys on a red ribbon.

  I started screaming, which prompted Mom to tease, “Don’t wake the neighbors!”

  I had a hunch I was getting a car: My dad promised me I’d have something to practice driving by my sixteenth birthday that March. I didn’t think my Christmas could get any better, but then back in the house and beneath the tree, there were still mounds of presents to open. That year, I got clothes, jewelry, socks, pajamas, and a dwarf white bunny. I decided to call her Lois, after Martin’s adorable little sister.

  It took a few weeks for me to finally write Martin back about the photos he had sent. I didn’t mention them in my care package letter. Honestly, I was still figuring out the best way to even talk about them. I knew Martin was poor, but I had never seen that kind of poverty. I certainly didn’t judge him for it. Instead, I was in awe. He remained so hopeful, so hardworking, so kind. My love and admiration for him grew even deeper.

  January 7, 2001

  Dear Martin:

  How are you doing? I am fine and so is my family.

  For me school is going really well. I have lots of homework and enjoy the whole process. How is school going for you? Have you heard about your O-level exams yet? How was your Christmas?

  I hesitated telling him about all the presents I had received. But then I realized that he had been totally honest with me. I needed to be honest with him as well. I knew our friendship could handle it. I wrote about the small stuff first, and then:

  The biggest surprise for me was a CAR!!!! Now everyone in my house has a car.

  I also told him about Lois.

  I got a dwarf white bunny and I have named her Lois. I selected that name because she is sweet, cute, and little, like your sister! I hope you and your sister don’t mind! She is now about ten weeks old and she joins Louis, my male medium lop bunny. I keep them in the house because we have about twelve inches of snow and it’s too cold for them. Anyway, I can pet them all the time and carry them around.

  I still had not mentioned the photos. I wasn’t sure what exactly to say about them, so I decided to speak from my heart.

  Thank you so much for the photos! It was wonderful to see you and your beautiful family. It is sad that in this world you must still live in poverty. I understand this is, unfortunately, commonplace in many nations. We do have poverty in the US, but our government is frequently able to rescue the needy, but not always.

  I wished there was more I could say on the issue, but truthfully, Martin was the reason I was finally opening my eyes to the fact poverty existed—not just in Africa, but everywhere, including Pennsylvania. He was opening my eyes to so many things that had always surrounded me, but that I never noticed until he came into my life. He was the reason I tried to join the African American Awareness Club earlier that year. Lauren came with me. Our friend Tina had just st
arted dating Brian and it bothered me that everyone referred to him as a “black guy.” I always corrected them with, “Why not just Brian? Why does his skin color matter?” By then, Lauren had finally stopped teasing me about dating Martin. We both were interested in learning more about African and African American culture, so we were excited to join the group.

  When we showed up at the first meeting, there were already seven or eight kids there. They were all black, and older than us. Not one said hello, or welcomed us. Instead, they just turned and stared. One girl glared. She didn’t say one word, but her look said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I immediately felt out of place. Lauren and I quickly found seats and listened to the organizer—a senior who wore wire-rimmed glasses and a button-down shirt—talk about his goals for the club. “We have to empower young African Americans to rise up,” he said. “We are not a minority anymore. And we need to show white people that we matter.”

  I was so confused. Of course he mattered. Everyone matters. But he certainly did not feel that way. He seemed so angry. And he never once even looked at me or Lauren. It was like we were invisible. The meeting adjourned, and no one asked me or Lauren why we were there. If anyone had, I would have said, “My best friend is African.” But it was clear that no one was interested in me, or what I had to say. I don’t think they were interested in Africa, either. They just kept talking about empowerment. After we left, I said to Lauren, “That was awkward.” She agreed, and added, “So much for joining that club.”

  I didn’t include that in my letter, though I did tell Martin that I had joined the Break Dance Club. That also lasted one session, as when Lauren and I showed up, once again we were the only white girls. Everyone else was Asian.

  I also told him about the mix tape I was making for him. I’d been making lots of mix tapes for my friends that year, so it was fun to make one for Martin, especially since he might not know all the music American kids were listening to.

  I had this radio cassette player with a microphone attachment, so I could tape-record my own voice as well as music. One weekend, I spent two hours making a recorded letter, introducing all my favorite songs along the way.

  “And now, here’s Pink singing ‘Most Girls…’” I’d say in a goofy fake radio voice, and then hit PLAY and, “Most girls want a man with the bling bling” filled the space right behind my voice. I also included “Who Let the Dogs Out,” which had become a huge hit that summer, and Eminem’s “The Real Slim Shady,” my latest obsession. His photos, torn from magazines, were quickly replacing the Backstreet Boys on my bedroom wall.

  I ended the letter asking Martin about his father’s employment status, and catching him up on the latest drama in our home: namely that Richie had moved back in:

  Richie felt as though he was making poor decisions at California University and needed to be home to have my parents guide him back to make the right choices.

  That was code for Richie preferred partying to going to his classes and so my parents refused to pay for another semester until he straightened out.

  I included some candid shots from Christmas, including a photo of my new car, and one of me with Lois.

  I have enclosed a few photos for you. I hope you like them! I feel pictures help us “know” each other better. This is important when you come to the US to study!!!!

  Have a wonderful summer (winter in Hatfield) and give your family lots of hugs and kisses from me.

  Love Caitlin.

  PS Here’s some of my Christmas money for you, too.

  I didn’t tell my parents that I sent Martin cash this time, but I knew by now they would not mind one bit.

  PART 4

  A Future

  January 2001

  Martin

  CHRISTMAS PASSED WITHOUT MENTION. We couldn’t even listen to music on Caitlin’s Walkman, as we wore out the batteries. While we still had money in our savings account, we knew better than to use it for batteries or even special vegetables or chicken feet. My mom wanted to guard every penny to make sure we had enough to cover our rent and school fees. She continued to look for work, as a maid or helping in someone’s garden, in exchange for food. My father kept looking for new employment as well, along with hundreds if not thousands of other men from Sakubva. It was bleak.

  By then, our American friends were literally keeping us alive. We were beyond thankful. So when another box arrived on January 10, everyone was surprised. Caitlin’s family had already given us so much. This package was totally unexpected and as large as the first one. I was most excited about the large pieces of waterproof canvas that Caitlin sent to put on our roof. The rains had been so heavy and unrelenting that year that water seeped through the floor and between several spaces in the walls. George caught a nasty cold—and had a cough so deep, I worried his lungs would collapse. His little body would convulse each time he hacked, which was so often, it kept everyone up at night. My mother blamed the dampness and tried to fill the holes with sticks and straw. That did not work. So when a neighbor suggested trying paper, my mother wound up using all we had: Caitlin’s letters.

  She didn’t tell me until after the fact. One evening in early January she pointed to the three spots where she used several letters to stuff between the slits. They were already mashed into a pulp.

  “I chose the shortest ones,” she explained, sensing my disappointment.

  “It’s fine, Mai,” I lied. I understood why she did it, but seeing Caitlin’s words used as wall putty hurt my lungs.

  So when I saw that Caitlin had sent tarps, and read why, I was elated. That same day, Nation and I spread one large plastic sheet over our roof and secured it with the strong elastic cords Caitlin had packed as well. We lay another tarp on the floor of our hut, and enjoyed our first dry night’s sleep in more than two weeks. The rain boots were also a big hit. There was a pair for everyone, including George, and ponchos, too. I had seen people wearing these waterproof capes in town before and thought they looked foolish, to be honest. Skin is waterproof. Soon I understood how nice it was to walk around in the rain without getting your clothes soaked. This was a revelation.

  As were the water purification tablets. So many people fell ill each year during the rainy season, as Chisamba Singles didn’t have a proper sewage system. The water overwhelmed the streams and ditches, which led to contamination and deadly cholera outbreaks. The newspapers ran weekly reports on the rising toll—thousands of people were becoming sick from unsafe drinking water. The buckets Caitlin sent meant we could collect rainwater, and the tablets ensured that it was safe to drink. That alone saved my mother hours every day and saved all of us from the threat of contaminated water.

  In that same package, I received my first pair of dungarees and my first pair of shoes: real Nikes. I could hardly believe my eyes. I tried to stay calm. The last ones Caitlin had sent were too small. If these didn’t fit, I would give them to someone else. I was giving myself this internal pep talk as I removed them from the box and unlaced them. When I slipped my foot in, and then tied the first one closed, my face broke into a wide grin. They were a little big, but worked. Wearing them and my new denim pants, I felt closer to Caitlin than ever. Like a real American.

  I wanted to send her something in return, but what? There was no news to report. Things in Zimbabwe were as dismal as ever and getting worse with the cholera outbreaks and increasing poverty. So I decided to wait for my O-level results to post. Hopefully, they’d offer a bit of good news and another way to thank Caitlin for all she had done for me.

  The morning that the scores were due, I headed to school early. There, I saw my friend Patrick.

  “Congratulations!” he said.

  That was odd, I thought. Results were not usually posted for everyone to see. Your teacher gave your grades individually. I passed another student on my way to the classroom, who said, “Way to go, Martin!” Another shouted, “Number one!”

  There was a line of students ahead of me when I arrived to colle
ct my results. When my teacher saw me, he stood up and said, “Martin! We’re so proud of you!”

  I felt the hair stand up all over my body.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “I’d like to know why!”

  “Because you got nine As,” he said. “Out of nine tests.”

  I was speechless.

  “Your scores were not only the highest at our school, but in the entire region,” he said. “You should be so proud.”

  Everyone in the class was applauding and some even started to ululate. I fought the tears that had flooded the backs of my eyes and made my mouth taste slightly salty.

  “You should become a doctor!” someone said. “Or a lawyer!” another chimed in.

  “Martin, this means you can be whatever you want to be,” my teacher said as he handed me the envelope with my scores. “Mr. Samupindi would like to see you before you leave.”

  I could smell the smoke through the headmaster’s door when I knocked.

  “Enter!” Mr. Samupindi said.

  He stamped out his cigarette when he saw me and let out a deep belly laugh.

  “Martin, you just set a record for our school,” he said.

  I was shaking from happiness.

  “You must go on for A-levels, of course,” he continued. “And I think you should consider doing them at Marist Brothers in Nyanga.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Mr. Samupindi told me it was a boarding school that was more like a college campus—students sleep, eat, and study there.

  I immediately thought of the kids I sometimes saw boarding a bus at Sakubva station when I worked at the market. They stood out in their matching navy-blue blazers with a golden crest on the front pocket. Some even wore cricket hats. I asked Nation why they were dressed like that, and he said they were students at a prestigious school—that must be Marist.