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

by Caitlin Alifirenka

  “Sir, if it weren’t for you, I’d be stuck in Chisamba Singles,” I explained.

  “Martin,” he interrupted me. “You don’t get stuck.”

  “I try not to, sir,” I said.

  “But you do succeed,” he replied. “I wish you continued success, wherever you land.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, bowing as I backed out of his office.

  “And don’t forget to keep in touch!” his voice bellowed down the hallway after me.

  Back home, I made daily trips to the only Internet cafe in Mutare to keep up my correspondence with Anne and Caitlin. Now with my A-levels and SATs behind me, I could concentrate on college admissions 100 percent.

  PART 6

  American Dream

  January 2003

  Caitlin

  MARTIN’S SAT SCORES WERE SENT to my mother’s e-mail address in mid-January. He did not do as well as we had hoped.

  “In an ideal world, these tests don’t matter,” she said. “But our world isn’t ideal, and this is bad news.”

  “They cannot be worse than mine,” I said.

  “That would be impossible,” my mom deadpanned. “But seriously, yours did not matter. His mean everything. He got an eleven hundred, which is great for a kid from Chisamba Singles but not good enough to get him that full scholarship to La Salle.”

  “What are we going to do?” I asked.

  “We need a new plan,” she said.

  We brainstormed ways to raise money for Martin.

  “You write the US embassy in Harare, and I will get in touch with Mr. Muzawazi,” mom said. “Two schools have already offered partial scholarships. Maybe we can get a Zimbabwean sponsor to do the rest?”

  I had a contact at the US embassy already, from when we were trying to figure out where Martin could take the SATs in Zimbabwe. Her name was Rebecca Zeigler Mano. It was ten thirty PM in the US, but I wanted her to read this as soon as she got to work the next day. I reminded her who I was, and my relationship to Martin. And then I cut straight to the point: We are searching desperately for scholarship money for Martin. My parents have two of us in college presently and are unable to take on the burden of a third tuition. They have paid all his application fees and arranged for him to take his SATs as well as forward those results to many different schools. They have currently spent over $1,000 and countless hours trying to help Martin receive a US education. But scholarships, both merit- and need-based, are rare.

  I asked her if she had any contacts or thoughts whatsoever as to who might be willing to help sponsor Martin. I signed off with Any help would be appreciated and then hit SEND.

  I heard the whoosh sound that e-mails make when they are soaring off into cyberspace and imagined a letter folded into an airplane shape leaving Hatfield and landing on Rebecca’s desk in Harare within minutes. Then I switched off the computer and bowed my head in prayer.

  “Dear God, please help me find a way to bring Martin to the United States.”

  I made the sign of the cross and hoped God would not think badly of me for suddenly turning to him at this moment. We needed all the help we could muster.

  January 2003

  Martin

  MY SAT SCORES ARRIVED FIRST, and they were not nearly as high as I’d hoped. This was bad news. I had one last chance. The SAT II was in mid-January, which was another version of the test, and so a second chance to do well. I took that and then I stayed on in Harare for another week to gather information about applying for an American visa. I was also awaiting my A-level results, which came around the same time. Finally, some good news: I received two As—one in math, one in chemistry—and one B for physics.

  I took these results to the Ministry of Education to apply for a temporary teaching position, a popular thing to do for students who don’t go straight to university. I wouldn’t hear from American schools until April at the earliest, and even then I wouldn’t have to leave until August. That meant I had eight months to start making money.

  “We have an immediate opening for a science teacher,” the minister told me the afternoon of my appointment.

  “Great,” I said. “Where?”

  “Chigodora,” he replied.

  I’d never heard of such a place.

  “It’s four hours west of Mutare, and another four hours south of Marondera,” he explained. “One school services a dozen or more villages. You’ll be a great asset to your students.”

  I thought of Rabbit, who had come from the rural areas and was just starting his second year at medical school.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  The pay was nominal but enough to cover my basic expenses. I signed the paperwork that afternoon.

  “Report as soon as possible,” the minister said. “They’ve been waiting for a science teacher for two years now.”

  I shook his hand. It felt good knowing I might have something useful to offer those less fortunate than I.

  Before I left Harare, I popped into an Internet cafe to let Caitlin and Anne know I’d be teaching in an area where there was surely no Internet, let alone electricity. I promised to keep in touch through letters. I also sent Anne the list of things I needed for my visa. I knew this was premature, but I decided it was better to plan ahead. I added, Well, this time I feel I did quite well on the SAT II. I think I made it this time. I love you all. I can’t wait to be on US soil. And then I signed off with my new favorite good-bye, a string of Xs and Os that Caitlin had recently taught me was American for hugs and kisses.

  February 2003

  Caitlin

  REBECCA ZEIGLER MANO RESPONDED THE very next day. She promised to keep her eyes open for opportunities, but made it clear that she did not expect any to present themselves.

  The economic troubles in this country are dismal, she wrote.

  I did not have the heart to share that news with Martin. Especially since his last e-mail to our family was so hopeful. The line I can’t wait to be on US soil made me tense up. What if we couldn’t pull this off?

  My mom was still waiting to hear from Mr. Muzawazi. She had sent him a similar request for Zimbabwean sponsors, thinking perhaps the Delta Corporation that sponsored Martin for Marist would be willing to do the same for an American university.

  He responded on January 30.

  My mother showed me the e-mail and I understood why she looked so defeated. I hope all will be well with Martin. He is a committed and hardworking student with outstanding performance in mathematics. Unfortunately, our contacts from here are limited and there is no one that we can recommend to assist Martin. The economic situation is very difficult.

  “Dismal” and “difficult” were the words swirling through my head that February as we waited for universities to respond to his application.

  Meanwhile Damon continued to pester me about the amount of time I was spending on my college courses.

  I finally lost it one night. He started picking on me again for not being able to go bowling with him and his friends on a Thursday night.

  “It’s a school night, Damon,” I said. “I have homework.”

  “Just blow it off!” he responded. “It’s no big deal.”

  “Dismal” and “desperate” started whipping around in my brain like empty plastic bags in a wind tunnel.

  “It’s a huge deal!” I shouted, stunned by how loud and angry my voice sounded. “I know I can blow it off, but I don’t want to.”

  “What’s your problem?” he said.

  “Seriously?” I asked. “You know how hard my mom and I are working to find Martin a scholarship. You know how upset I am at the thought that he may not be able to come to the United States to study and fulfill his dreams.”

  “Oh Jesus, not Martin again,” he said. “I’m so sick of your pen pal.”

  I saw red.

  “Well, guess what, Damon, I’m so sick of you.” I was shouting again. “Leave Martin out of this. It’s not about him. It’s about me. I don’t give you a hard time for not wanting more ou
t of your life. So why are you constantly criticizing me?”

  “You used to be more fun,” he said quietly. “I miss that Caitlin.”

  “Well, that Caitlin has grown up,” I said, retaining my composure. “And she cares more about college than bowling.”

  I held back from adding “and you.”

  I knew Damon was under a lot of pressure. His dad had taken a turn for the worse. There was talk that he would not live more than a few years.

  I didn’t judge Damon for deciding to stick close to home. But I was certainly not going to let him judge me, or hold me back.

  April 2003

  Martin

  CHIGODORA WAS EVEN MORE RURAL than Nyanga. The bus dropped me off at a small lean-to on the side of a dirt road. There was no town anywhere in sight. I saw smoke up in the distance and followed a path that led me to a small mud hut with a thatched roof. Two women were tending a fire, wearing only a scrap of material around their waists. Several children ran around nearly naked as well. Few had shirts on, none had shoes.

  “Manheru,” I said, “good evening” in Shona. The sun was about to set, and I was eager to get settled.

  I introduced myself as the new science teacher and one of the elder boys ran to fetch someone who could lead me to the school.

  He returned with an older man whose hair had gone completely white. He, too, was wearing just a pair of tattered shorts, nothing else. Poverty in the country was even more brutal than what I experienced growing up. At least in the cities, there were castoffs of wealthier people, whether used clothes or leftover food. But in Chigodora, there was nothing to cast off.

  The older man asked me to follow him past a few more mud huts much like the first one I had encountered. Finally, we arrived at the school, which was at least made of concrete. It had one room, with several desks and chairs that were so rickety and old, I thought it might be better to teach outdoors.

  There I met Frank, a teacher who was a few years older than me and had gotten his degree at Africa University, just outside of Mutare. He had arrived a few weeks earlier to teach history and invited me to stay with him.

  We went back to his place, another mud hut not far from the school. When I finally lay down on the packed earth floor beneath a roof that smelled like damp hay, I understood why my mother moved to Chisamba Singles. It was an upgrade.

  That night, I dreamed of my mother as a young girl. When I woke the next morning, I thought someone as smart as her could be in my classroom. That made me excited to meet my students.

  Frank was already tending the fire when I emerged from the hut. He offered me tea and some of his mealie meal. I was very thankful, not only for the food but also for his company. I had so many questions for him, starting with, Where can I bathe? He pointed down a dirt path.

  “There is a stream down that way,” he said. “I prefer to bathe at the end of the day after the sun has warmed the water a bit.”

  He told me this was also the place to fetch drinking water, so I grabbed a bucket and went on an exploratory mission. If this was my home for the next eight months, I had better get used to it.

  I reported to school an hour later and was excited to see a few students already there. Every school in Zimbabwe requires a uniform, and most of the kids in Chigodora had some semblance of one. One young boy, maybe fourteen, was wearing rags stitched together to resemble shorts. Another girl had a shirt that was several sizes too small. Clearly, she had been wearing it for years. My family was fortunate by comparison.

  I introduced myself and told my students how I got there. I could tell by their faces that they were impressed. None of these kids had ever left Chigodora, let alone visited Mutare. That was the big city for them.

  I went around the room and asked everyone to tell me his or her name, and where each lived, and what their parents did for a living.

  Enough went first. She lived seven kilometers away.

  “I wake every morning at four to help my father with the cows,” she said. “I’m the eldest of five girls, so my mother needs me to prepare breakfast and clean the dishes before I can leave for school.”

  “How long does it take you to get here?” I asked.

  “If I run, I can do it in forty minutes,” she said.

  Givemore went next.

  “I stay with my grandmother,” he said. “I had to take time off from school when my mother fell ill, to care for her. I’m still catching up.”

  This explained why he looked my age or older. I didn’t ask what I knew to be true: that his mother no longer was alive. The stories continued, each one as difficult as the next, though none of these kids thought so. To them, this was normal.

  I started teaching that same day and saw how hungry they were for this knowledge. Givemore stayed after school that day, and every one thereafter, wanting to borrow my books, to take more notes.

  “You remind me of myself,” I said after several weeks. He was clever and hardworking. The biggest difference was that he had no support.

  After two months, I learned I had no support, either. Frank and I would take the bus to Mutare together every Friday to spend the weekends with our families—and check our bank accounts.

  We’d head back Sunday night, dejected.

  “Nothing,” I’d say as I boarded the bus to Chigodora.

  “Me either,” Frank said.

  Our salaries were already meager—just enough to cover food and bus fare and not much else. But neither of us had been paid since we started, which meant we both had to pay out of pocket to teach. I wanted to stay for my students’ sake. But I could not afford to. Frank felt the same way, but he didn’t have any prospects to return to in Mutare. Plus, he was older than me, which meant all of the women in the village wanted him to marry their eligible daughters. While food was scarce, Frank and I never went hungry. The villagers, despite their poverty, took great care of us.

  Leaving was a very difficult decision for me. I knew that college acceptances would start coming in and I needed to be accessible. I also had to focus on securing a scholarship. On one of my visits home, I learned that Temple University was one of the first places to offer me a place for September 2003—but they could only offer twelve thousand dollars, which was not even half the tuition. The same happened with three other colleges I had applied to. This was good news—at least I was getting accepted. I just needed proper funding.

  My last day of school was in April, right before the first break. My announcement was met with an eerie silence. I was not the first to abandon these students.

  Givemore stayed after school that day to speak with me one last time.

  “I just wanted to thank you,” he said.

  “For what?” I asked.

  “For coming,” he said. “And for giving me hope.”

  April 2003

  Caitlin

  ALL OF MARTIN’S COLLEGE CORRESPONDENCE was being sent to me, so I started checking the mailbox every afternoon that spring. The anticipation I felt reminded me of being in seventh grade, desperately waiting for Martin’s news.

  My mom still had her heart set on Villanova. She felt like the two women on the International Admission staff were the most sympathetic to Martin’s story. Her new strategy was to focus on one school versus dozens. She started calling Villanova every week.

  “Hi, Candice! Any news?” My mom’s chipper voice resonated through our house.

  Or, “Valerie? It’s Anne. I’m going to be on campus tomorrow and wondered if I could bring you lunch.”

  She was working every single angle.

  The rejection letters came first. His SAT scores were likely the reason, though his personal essay was also a bit difficult to comprehend. He wrote about his dream of becoming an actuarial scientist, which I had never heard of until then. When I looked it up in our encyclopedia, I understood why: It was “a discipline that applies mathematical and statistical methods to assess risk in insurance and financial fields.” The definition made my head hurt. I had just dropped a s
tatistics class at college because the number problems looked like Mandarin.

  The form rejection from an Ivy League college made me angry. I wanted to scream, “You are making a huge mistake!” It infuriated me that Martin’s fate was being determined in this cold and impersonal way. If any one of these college presidents could meet him or correspond with him, they’d be begging for him to come to their school! They would feel lucky to get him.

  Some schools saw this and offered him partial scholarships. Temple was one, but we already ruled that out after seeing Wallace’s difficult transition. Yale was another flat-out no. I knew Martin would receive all this news via e-mail and just wished I could be there when he did, to say, “This means nothing. They don’t know you. Don’t give up.”

  The problem was, I was starting to.

  Especially when I heard my mom talking to Candice one afternoon in late April.

  “Are you certain?” she said, her voice cracking on the last word.

  I walked into the kitchen.

  “So there’s nothing else we can do?” she added, her chin trembling. “Thank you, Candice. I know how hard you have been working on this.”

  After she hung up, my mother looked despondent.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “That was Villanova,” she said. “They have a spot for him, but no money.”

  She could not hold the tears back any longer.

  “I failed Martin,” she said. “And you! I’m so sorry, honey.”

  It was difficult to see my mother defeated. I wanted to comfort her somehow. This was not the end of the road. It couldn’t be.

  “Mom, you have worked so hard make this happen,” I said. “We cannot give up now! There has to be a way.”

  Mom just shook her head.

  “Have you heard back from Oprah?” I asked. I knew she had written her earlier that spring, trying to get Martin’s story on Oprah’s show to raise awareness—and hopefully funds—about his story.