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

by Caitlin Alifirenka

  The next night, I was up in my room studying when I heard my mom’s car pull into the driveway. I ran down the stairs. She had barely opened the door when I started pummeling her with questions.

  “How was it?” I asked. “Did you take any photos? What’s he like? Did he tell you about Martin?”

  “Why do you want to know?” she teased.

  “Mom!” I said. “I need to know everything!”

  She told me that she arrived at his dorm room and was stunned to find his side practically empty.

  “His roommate had a comforter and matching sheets, posters on the wall, and a computer set up on his side of the room,” my mom said. “And Wallace had nothing—not even a pillow or sheets.”

  Her description reminded me of the photos Martin sent of his family. I wondered if Wallace’s family was too poor to buy him things as well.

  “I don’t think he knew what he was getting himself into,” my mom said. “So I made a list.”

  My mom spent a week gathering things on her list and by Friday morning had several shopping bags brimming with linens, clothes, and toiletries. We’d deliver them that night.

  That day dragged on. My last class ended at 3:15. I watched the clock throughout the ninety-minute lecture, convinced it was broken. It took forever for the bell to ring.

  Damon wanted to come as well. I wish I could say it was because he was sincerely interested in meeting Martin’s dear friend. Honestly, I think he was just being protective and even a bit jealous.

  Dad came home early from work and we all piled in Mom’s Jeep Cherokee. My family rarely went to Philadelphia, so it always felt like an adventure. Temple was like a mini city itself. As we walked toward the dorm, we saw college-aged kids hanging out on building stoops smoking cigarettes, or playing Hacky Sack. It was Friday evening, so everyone was in a good mood. The security guard called up to Wallace’s room to say he had visitors, and within minutes Wallace emerged through a door tentatively. He walked toward us with his shoulders hunched around his ears, his neck disappearing into his polo shirt like a turtle about to retreat.

  “How do you do,” he said, extending his hand toward me.

  “I’m Caitlin!” I said, bursting inside, like I swallowed a firecracker.

  “Yes, I know,” he said. “Martin has shown me your photos.”

  I couldn’t contain myself: I threw my arms around Wallace and said, “It’s so amazing to meet you!”

  I felt his body stiffen, so I pulled back to introduce him to Damon and my dad, each of whom were holding two huge shopping bags.

  “We’ve already met!” my mom said, opening her arms to give Wallace another hug.

  She must have felt his body tense up, too, because she said, “Wallace, one thing you’ll learn about us quickly is that we’re huggers.”

  His eyes grew wide and he let out a nervous laugh before saying, “That is fine. Would you like to see my room?”

  “Lead the way,” my dad said. “And Wallace, I’d like to clarify, the women are huggers in my family. When I set these bags down, I’ll give you a proper handshake.”

  “Good,” Wallace said, sounding relieved.

  We entered his room to find his roommate lying on his bed listening to his Discman. He barely acknowledged us, or Wallace, as he rolled off the bed and walked out the door. I could tell from that short interaction that he was a total jerk.

  Mom wasn’t exaggerating: His side of the room was totally set up. He had tapestries on one wall, and photos of his grungy friends back in Seattle on his desk. His closet door was open, and stuffed with clothes. I opened Wallace’s closet and saw that he had exactly two pairs of pants neatly folded on a shelf, and two hanging shirts.

  My mom started unpacking bags.

  “Damon, unwrap the comforter,” she said. “Rich, the rug goes there. Wallace, this is an alarm clock. Do you know how to use one?”

  I started hanging up the new clothes she bought for him, and was relieved to see that she had brought hangers as well.

  Meanwhile, Wallace stood in the center of the room saying “Thank you, thank you” over and over again.

  “You don’t need to thank us!” my mom said. “Martin is like our son. And since you’re his friend, that means you are part of our extended family as well.”

  Wallace bowed his head and said thank you again.

  “How are things going at school?” I said, hoping to get him to open up.

  “Fine,” he said.

  “Have you made any new friends?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  The entire conversation consisted of me asking questions and Wallace offering one- and two-word answers. At least I was trying. Damon stood in the corner of Wallace’s room with his arms crossed. I wished he had just stayed home.

  Within thirty minutes, Wallace’s side of the room felt at least lived in, and my mom was making him try on the winter coat she found on sale at Ross.

  “It snows here, you know,” she said.

  “Have you ever seen snow?” Damon finally asked a question.

  “No,” Wallace said. “But I’m very excited to do so.”

  An eight-word answer, I thought. He’s opening up.

  “I’m starving,” my dad announced. “Let’s go eat.”

  We had already chosen the Hard Rock Cafe in downtown Philly because it was typical American food, and only a short distance from the campus. I had never been, so I was excited. We walked to the car, where I squeezed in the middle between Wallace and Damon.

  On our way to the restaurant, I interrogated Wallace about Martin.

  “He’s very smart,” Wallace said. “And so funny.”

  “I knew it!” I exclaimed. “I can tell from his letters.”

  “Did you know Martin is from the bush?” Wallace said.

  “I thought he was from Mutare,” I said.

  “He grew up there, but his people are from very rural areas,” Wallace said. “Mine are, too.”

  Just then, my dad pulled into a parking lot by the historic Reading train station where the Hard Rock Cafe was located. As we got out of the car, I wondered how many other things I did not know about Martin.

  Inside the restaurant, “Hot in Herre” was blaring on the speakers so loudly that the crystal chandeliers shook above us as we followed the hostess to the purple leather banquet reserved for our party. I slipped in first and told Wallace to sit next to me. Damon made a sour face, like he’d bit into a lemon. I didn’t care. I could talk to him whenever I wanted. Wallace was the only person I was interested in that night.

  Our waitress appeared with menus. She was wearing a short-sleeve shirt, which exposed the elaborate artwork that covered both of her arms.

  I noticed Wallace’s eyes widen as she passed him a menu. I leaned in and explained, “Those are tattoos.” The space between his eyes crinkled. He then opened his menu and looked startled. I understood why. There were three columns of different dishes per page.

  “Order whatever you want!” Damon said, finally trying to be nice.

  “Do you like cheeseburgers?” my dad asked.

  “I’ve never had one, sir,” Wallace responded.

  Everyone laughed at our table—except Wallace.

  “Well, there’s a first time for everyone!” my dad said.

  I pointed at the list of cheeseburgers—there were more than twenty to choose from.

  Wallace’s eyes grew glassy.

  “Do you want me to order for you?” I asked.

  “Actually, I’m not very hungry,” he said. “I had a late lunch.”

  “We’ll order a bunch of different things, and you can try whatever you want.”

  “That sounds fine,” he said, closing the menu.

  After we placed our order, I continued grilling Wallace.

  “How tall is Martin? What’s his best subject? Does he have a girlfriend?” Wallace knew all of the answers.

  “Quite short, math, and no, not to my knowledge,” Wallace said. “Nyanga is
an all-boys school.”

  Our food order covered the entire table. The cheeseburgers took up half the plate, and the French fries spilled over the sides. A slice of tomato was as large as the hamburger patty itself. Even I was shocked by the excess. Wallace had a bite of a cheeseburger, and tried a French fry and an onion ring. I think he liked all of it, but I could not tell if he was just being polite. My mom asked for all the leftovers to be boxed.

  “You can take it back to your dorm room,” my mom said.

  “That’s not necessary,” Wallace said.

  “I insist,” my mom countered.

  “I don’t have anywhere to keep it,” he responded.

  “That’s why we’re going get you a mini fridge after dinner!” my mom said. That was news to all of us, including my dad. We got back into the car and drove to the nearest Sears, where we purchased a refrigerator the size of a large TV set.

  Back on campus, we set up Wallace’s new fridge and then filled it with food once it was plugged in and humming.

  Just then his roommate walked in.

  “Whoa,” he said.

  “Yeah, whoa,” I responded. Then I turned to Wallace and said, “Anything you need, just call us.”

  My mom added, “In fact, we already set up the spare room in the basement and would love for you to come spend a weekend.”

  “I’ll come pick you up,” my dad said.

  I gave Wallace a hug good-bye and then glared at his roommate as I walked out the door. I was so angry that he had not done more to make Wallace feel welcome. But then I heard my mom behind me, and my heart swelled.

  “We’ll see you soon, Wallace,” she said. “Just think of us as your American family.”

  October 2002

  Martin

  WALLACE E-MAILED TO SAY HE had finally connected with Caitlin and her family. Wow, he wrote, what nice people.

  I laughed out loud in the quiet dark of Mr. Muzawazi’s office.

  So very true, I thought.

  I was gathering all of my teacher recommendation letters to send to Caitlin’s mom. My physics teacher and guidance counselor each wrote a letter for me, as did the headmaster. The first one I’d received was from Mr. Makunura, my chemistry teacher, who had handed me his letter the day after my request. It looked so official, typed on Marist Brothers stationery. Class was just about to start, but my curiosity was strong: I quickly scanned the letter.

  Academically, Martin is an outstanding student, the letter began. I looked around quickly to make sure no one saw what I was doing. It would be embarrassing to be caught reading about myself. I couldn’t stop. He mentioned my O-level scores, and said that I was in the top 5 percent of my A-level class. He spoke about my academic achievements at Nyanga but then he wrote something that made me feel so proud. Given his intellectual capability and motivation, I feel strongly that he will successfully go through the challenging course he has chosen. Martin is an exceptional student, one of the best I have come across.

  Mr. Makunura had started his lecture, so I quickly placed the letter in my folder and started to take notes, unable to contain the smile that was stretching clear across my face.

  I’d always called Caitlin’s parents Mr. and Mrs. Stoicsitz, but then Caitlin wrote me a letter in which she explained that her parents were informal and that most of her friends called them by their first names, Rich and Anne. She added, You’re not like most of my friends. You’re more like family. So my parents would like you to consider them your parents from another country. I hope that is okay.

  I flipped through all the letters that Anne had sent me, and the dozens of e-mails I had printed. In one she sent in September, she listed the more than twenty universities she’d already contacted on my behalf. On October 1, she wrote, Are you tired of me yet? and then went on to detail her efforts at new schools, including Drexel, Villanova, and Franklin & Marshall. On October 2, she sent another note recommending I e-mail a woman at a college in Pennsylvania, as they offered full funding for superior students. And then the very next day, she sent another e-mail in which she wrote: MARTIN!!!!! La Salle University!!!! Her father had gone there, and they offered full scholarships. She signed off with I have a good feeling about this one!!!!! I had never seen so many exclamation points in one e-mail. Her enthusiasm was contagious.

  Attached to that e-mail was information about the Christian Brothers Scholarship. It read: These scholarships cover full tuition and fees. Only sixteen are awarded each year. The average SAT score is 1350. I suddenly understood the importance of these SAT tests—and that Anne was doing for me what a mother does for her own child.

  So on October 15, when I sent Anne and Rich my recommendation letters and my personal essay, I addressed the accompanying note, Dear Mom and Dad.

  It didn’t feel strange writing such intimate words to people I had not yet met. On the contrary, it felt right. I ended the letter with I love you. It looked spare on the page, not as robust as I wanted it to come across. So I drew a big heart around it. That looked much better.

  November 2002

  Caitlin

  WALLACE CAME TO VISIT THE last weekend in October, and then every weekend after that. I could tell he was really having a hard time adjusting to life at Temple.

  “At Marist, we study on the weekends,” Wallace told us that first stay. “But at Temple, everyone just wants to get drunk. I don’t understand it.”

  Richie laughed. “Your way is better, Wallace,” he said. “Trust me.”

  “I think so, too, but my roommate says it’s why I am having difficulties finding friends,” Wallace said.

  My hatred of his roommate grew deeper that day.

  “Do what you think is right,” my mom chimed in. “You will meet people who feel the same way.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Wallace seemed so lost. I realized that we had to carefully choose the right place for Martin. Wallace seemed more introverted than Martin, but I still wanted to make sure that Martin went to a school that would welcome him. No one at Temple seemed to care that Wallace had come all the way from Zimbabwe to study there. That really upset me. It also reminded me of all the times my high school friends teased me about Martin. I wanted to shake all those idiots by their shoulders and shout, “You are missing an amazing opportunity right now!” People are so scared of what they don’t know. It’s a terrible mistake.

  Mom invited Wallace to spend Thanksgiving with our family, and we took lots of pictures to send to Martin. It was during that long weekend when we realized how badly Wallace was struggling. By then, Richie had been accepted to Temple to start in January. Since he was planning to commute to school and could drive Wallace back and forth, my parents invited Wallace to move in with us until we could find him better accommodations—and a nicer roommate.

  I wrote Martin to tell him the news, and to wish him luck on the SAT exams. I knew he was scheduled to take them on December 7 in Harare. I bombed mine, but it didn’t matter. For Martin, these tests were crucial.

  Break a leg! I wrote as my PS. Just in case he didn’t understand what that meant, I added, That’s American for “good luck”!

  December 2002

  Martin

  WE SAT FOR FINAL EXAMS that November in Nyanga and had to wait until January for the results. We would all be back home by then. There was no graduation at Marist Brothers. Instead, Mr. Muzawazi hosted a final party in early December.

  Most of my friends were headed to Harare for University that January. A few were going to England, and one guy was going to Canada. Two others had applied for early admission to American colleges, and had been accepted. I was the only one without a definite plan.

  While my friends all had their places secured, they also had opinions for where I should go.

  “Harvard is the place,” Bonaventure said.

  “I hear Princeton is even better,” Cornelius countered.

  They were both planning to study medicine at the University of Zimbabwe. At the party, they weighed all the pros and cons of my
options—Brown, UPenn, Stanford, Villanova.

  “Guys,” I said, interrupting their fun, “I’d be happy at any of these places. I just need one to say yes to a full scholarship.”

  Both friends fell silent. They understood how high the stakes were. I had not applied anywhere else. If none of the US colleges worked out, I’d have to rethink everything.

  Before I left Nyanga for good, I went to Harare to take the SATs. My American mother had arranged everything—she paid up front for the exam and then wired me money to the local bank in Nyanga so I had enough for the bus ticket and pocket money. I stayed with Alois and Sekai the night before the exam. I hadn’t seen them since they helped me get in to Marist.

  I arrived at the test site forty-five minutes early. I had been awake all night, whether it was from nerves or excitement, I didn’t know. But I knew taking this important test on no sleep could be a problem. I watched nervously as two dozen or more students entered the room. All of them came from wealthy families—I could tell by their shoes.

  The test was more difficult than I had anticipated. I had never taken an exam like that and worried I did not do well. The verbal section was very challenging. I struggled through it. But then I shook that thought from my head. There was no time to doubt.

  I took the bus back to Nyanga to gather my things, and then continued on to Mutare the next day. Before I left that majestic campus, I popped in to see Mr. Muzawazi for the last time as a Marist Brothers student.

  I was among the last students to leave, so the campus was void of the usual hum of student life. I knocked on his door and heard the thumps echo through the great hall I had first walked two years earlier.

  “Enter!” Mr. Muzawazi’s voice boomed from the other side.

  I opened the door and saw him sitting behind his desk. Finally, instead of having to convince him of anything, I simply wanted to thank him.