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

  I stood in the driveway reading as Kava and Romey did their welcome dance around me. I felt the same kind of jittery excitement that I experienced every Christmas morning in anticipation of all those gifts. I had a new friend, his name was Martin, and he lived thousands of miles away. I ran into the house, clutching my letter like a winning lottery ticket.

  “I got it!” I shouted as I plopped my book bag down on the kitchen floor and waved the letter in the air. “It finally came!”

  My mother was in the kitchen, unpacking groceries. “What does it say?” she asked, leaving the bags on the counter to sit next to me at the kitchen table.

  I read it out loud—and looked at her with wide eyes when I got to the names of his brothers.

  “The only Simba I know is from The Lion King,” I said.

  “I don’t think he’s named after a cartoon lion cub, Caitlin,” my mom said.

  I didn’t either, but I wanted to know who he was named after—and Nation, too! I immediately whipped out a piece of college-lined paper from my English folder to write him back: Dear Martin, thank you so much for your letter! It was so great to get it!

  I paused, stumped. I assumed Martin was black, because I thought everyone in Africa was black. And so I figured that Martin was like the black kids who went to middle school with me, kids who lived in houses and listened to music and ate pizza and did homework, just like me. I didn’t have many close black friends, though—not since Marlena. We were best friends in kindergarten—until I got in trouble for messing up her hair. It was always done up with either elaborate braids that zigzagged over her scalp, or teeny poofy ponytails that sprouted all over her head, bound by bright pink and orange elastics with marble-size pom-poms. Intrigued, I pulled one off and watched in amazement as her hair slowly uncoiled. I thought it was the coolest thing, until she cried, “Don’t touch my hair!”

  Her small face crumpled as I saw tears spring from her eyes. She was upset. And I was confused.

  “But you braid my hair all the time!” I protested.

  “But my hair is different,” she said, before stomping off to tell the teacher.

  That afternoon, my mother had to explain to me that I was not allowed to touch people without their permission.

  “Marlena braids my hair every day at recess,” I replied.

  “That’s fine, if you don’t mind it,” my mother said. “But it probably takes much longer for Marlena’s mom to style her hair—and so she doesn’t want you messing it up.”

  I had never thought about race until that moment. And even after that, I didn’t want to see Marlena or any of the black kids in Hatfield as any different from me, nor did I see Martin that way. I know it may sound naïve, but I thought then, as a twelve-year-old girl, what I think now: Regardless of the color of our skin, we’re all the same.

  I wondered what Martin looked like—and how I could find out. And then I had an idea: I’d send him my photo and ask him to send me his.

  I had just had my photos taken earlier that fall. My mom took me to a professional studio, at the mall, right after I got my hair cut—a shoulder-length bob. I was wearing my brand-new blue-and-white-striped button-down shirt. The photographer had me sit on a high black stool, and do all these poses, like I was modeling. I selected a wallet-size picture and wrote on the back: Please send me your photo so I can see what you look like, too!

  When I was finished writing the letter, I used my Crayola Stampers to decorate the margins. As I pushed the different tips onto the page, each left its own mark, either a small smiley face, a heart, an exclamation point, or, my favorite, a pair of puckered lips. I then placed my photo and letter in an envelope and used my markers to make small hearts and stars to spell out AIRMAIL on both sides of the envelope. I ran downstairs and handed it to my mom, who promised to send it off first thing in the morning.

  At school the next day, when Mrs. Miller asked, “Did anyone get a reply?” I jumped from my seat and walked proudly up to the front of the class, holding my letter as if it were a rare artifact. As I approached the blackboard, I could not help but think, Africa is way cooler than Europe.

  November 1997

  Martin

  MRS. JARAI WAS SMILING AGAIN. As everyone took a seat, I could see she was holding a very festive and colorful letter in her hand.

  “We have our first response,” Mrs. Jarai announced, handing the letter to me. A row of hearts and stars framed my name and address, each perfectly drawn in different colors—a rainbow of blue, red, yellow, green, and orange. I opened it immediately, careful not to rip the excellent artwork, as my desk mates leaned in for a closer look.

  When I unfolded the letter, a small snapshot fell onto my desk.

  I could not believe my pen pal would send me something so precious. Photos are very rare and quite expensive in Zimbabwe.

  I picked up her photo off my desk and was struck by how sweet Caitlin looked, like an angel. Her hair was so blond, it looked like gold.

  By then, other students were gathered around my desk, wanting to have a look.

  I handed the photo to Mrs. Jarai so she could hold it up for everyone to see, and quickly scanned her letter. My heart was racing as I read each sentence. Caitlin wrote about her hobbies and wanted to know mine. And then she asked about the climate in Zimbabwe. I was already thinking of how I would respond, when Mrs. Jarai returned the photo to me. That’s when I saw that Caitlin had written a note on its back. She wanted my photo in return.

  My heart went from sprinting to a standstill. This request was difficult, if not impossible. It worried me through all of my classes that day and all the way home, too. I did not know anyone who owned a camera. The only way to get a photo was to hire a professional photographer to come to your house. That cost a lot of money.

  I wondered if this was the same in America. Caitlin’s picture looked very professional. I couldn’t even tell where it was taken—somewhere inside? The background was sky blue, like her shirt. I was so touched that Caitlin would send me something so special, and I wanted to return the favor—but wasn’t sure how. And that was not my only worry.

  As I was leaving class, Mrs. Jarai said, “Martin, I’m so happy that your pen pal has written again, but the school does not have the funds to send letters for you anymore. I hope your parents will help you keep up this important correspondence.”

  I understood—stamps were expensive in Zimbabwe. But so were bread, tea, and milk, and many other things we used to eat regularly that were now rare treats. Inflation was continuing to rise, which meant my father’s paycheck bought less and less food. How could I possibly ask for a photograph to be taken, as well as stamps, when we had not eaten bread in more than a month? Since food had gotten noticeably more expensive, my mother started sending me to pick up my father’s paycheck every two weeks before he had a chance to spend it on Chibuku, a popular alcoholic beverage made from sorghum or maize. It came in a carton that you shake before you drink to mix the citrusy sediment that settles on the bottom. My father preferred beer, but Chibuku was cheaper and had the same effect. And he liked to have a good time, especially at the end of a long workweek. So my job was to collect his pay before he had a chance to celebrate. After my mother used it to buy food and pay our rent and utilities, there was no money for breakfast tea, let alone alcohol.

  I loved this task. It took my father an hour to walk to work every day, but if I ran fast, I could make it there in twenty minutes. The factory was in an industrial area outside of Mutare, as big as a football field. I always entered through the main office, where the men in suits worked. My dad worked on the factory floor, with all the big machines. He wore overalls and rubber boots that covered half his legs. The very first time I went, years before, my dad walked me through the entire paper-making process, starting with where the trees come in and are ground to pulp before being turned into paper. He worked the machines at the end of the line, where the paper is rolled into giant bundles. To do this, he had to run up and down a ladder attache
d to a huge machine, and push a variety of buttons that made gigantic cranes move like mechanical dinosaurs to lift the bundles. I was in awe.

  On this particular day, I found my dad in the break room with bunch of guys his age who were wearing the same overalls and helmets.

  “You must be Martin,” one said. “The clever one.”

  “He always brings your report cards to work,” another added with a smile.

  This made me happy.

  I liked my father’s friends, but I was more fascinated by the managers in the front. They wore suits and talked on the phone and typed on machines. On that visit, my dad introduced me to Mr. Stephen Mutandwa, the head of human resources. I was standing in front of a black man just like my father, but this one was wearing a tie and let me play with his computer. I punched a few keys, and some symbols came up. I had to stop myself from saying “How do I get to be you?”

  I got my chance later that morning. As I was running home, Mr. Mutandwa pulled up next to me in his rusty pickup truck.

  “Do you want a ride, young fellow?” he asked.

  I had never been in a car in my life. My heart was racing so fast from my excitement that I could barely breathe. As the car started to move, I grabbed the dashboard with two hands to steady myself. Overwhelmed, I began asking all the questions that had piled up in my head, like: “How did you get this car?” “And how did you become the human resources manager?” “Where do you live?” “Where can I get a suit?”

  “Martin,” he cut me off. “You are clearly a smart boy. You must go to university, like I did. That is the only way to truly succeed.”

  Neither my mother nor my father had finished secondary school, so university seemed out of the question. I knew I was smart enough to go, but I also knew it was impossibly expensive, way more than secondary school, which my parents could barely afford for me or my siblings. And yet, sitting in the front seat of Mr. Mutandwa’s pickup truck and watching the dust clouds kick up behind us, I thought I must find a way to go.

  “Where did you study?” I asked.

  “The University of Zimbabwe in Harare,” he responded.

  “I want to go there as well,” I said. Mr. Mutandwa smiled.

  “You will, Martin,” he said. “I know you will.”

  His confidence in me was contagious. If I studied hard enough and stayed focused, maybe I would get there.

  Receiving Caitlin’s letter gave me a similar confidence. It made me feel special. When I arrived home that afternoon, I showed it to my mother.

  “You will learn so much from her, Martin,” she said. Then I removed her photo from my pocket and watched my mother’s eyes widen.

  “Very pretty murungu,” she said, smiling.

  “Murungu” is Shona for people with white skin. None lived in Chisamba Singles, or anywhere nearby. Besides the teachers who had visited my school, I had only ever seen them on TV, or during a trip into the city center of Mutare, a thirty-minute bus ride from home. Even so, there were not many murungus. And now I had one as a friend.

  I was distracted all afternoon. How could I write Caitlin back without a photo? That would be rude. And then, as I was gathering wood for the fire, I heard my father singing in the distance.

  I ran to greet him, holding Caitlin’s photo in one hand, her letter in the other.

  “Baba, look,” I said. “Caitlin wrote back!”

  I handed him the photo first, which he admired. Then I showed him the letter. He took that, too, and started waving both in the air.

  “My son has a new friend in America!” he started shouting to nearby people, some neighbors, others strangers passing through. Chisamba Singles was like a small city—more than ten thousand people lived there, either in shared houses or small shanties built from scraps of metal and wood nearby. I felt a funny mix of embarrassment and pride as my father paraded through the narrow street, boasting of my faraway friend.

  “Look at how beautiful she is!” he said, stopping people to show them her photo. “Martin’s new friend looks like a movie star!”

  Most people smiled, others ignored him entirely, but I shared his deep enthusiasm. Something about seeing Caitlin’s face and sweet smile made me know she was a kind and good person. And to have a face to match her words made our connection seem that much more real. I felt in my heart that this was the start of a true friendship.

  That night, before I went to sleep, I pinned Caitlin’s photo on the wall beside the poster of Hulk Hogan.

  The next morning, I woke to see Caitlin smiling down on me. As happy as I was to have her photo there, I was also deeply concerned. I wanted to send her a photo of me as she requested. But how? Hiring a photographer cost the same as a week’s worth of mealie meal, the cornmeal used to make sadza. I wrestled with different ideas for a week or so before I finally shared my dilemma with my mother.

  Her eyes lit up.

  “Martin, do you remember winning the award at school?” she asked.

  Two years prior, I had scored the highest on a national placement test in my school. Everyone in Zimbabwe took this test at the end of primary school. At our graduation ceremony, the headmaster announced that my score was the highest not only in our school but in all of Mutare. There was a collective gasp in the audience, followed by an applause that thundered in my bones.

  I was proud, but my father was even more so. He seemed to grow another inch that afternoon, walking around with his chest puffed out, his smile brighter and bigger than usual. He was so pleased that he asked the photographer who had come to the ceremony to take our photo. In it, I’m wearing my school uniform. My father is standing to my right and Nation is to my left, holding the certificate rolled up like a baton. They are both smiling, but I am looking very serious and staring straight at the camera. I had never had my photo taken before or since. To be honest, I was a little nervous. But when we got the photo back, I understood how special it was. The photo actually captured a very happy moment in my life and froze it forever.

  “Send her that,” my mother said.

  “Really?” I asked.

  It was the only photo that we owned.

  Instead of answering, she got the box where she kept all my report cards and certificates to get the photo. She also handed me money for stamps.

  “Your friend is waiting to hear from you,” my mother said.

  Elated, I went outside to write Caitlin a letter.

  6 December 1997

  Dear Caitlin

  Hallo! Many thanks for your letter. It was so great. My birthday is on the ninth of March.

  What do you know of Zimbabwe? Tell me about USA. Thank you for your nice picture. This is mine. On the picture, you look really beautiful. Keep up your smartness, cleanliness.

  Hope you are well and we will not let down each other by not replying letters. Say hallo to everyone! Bye. Hope your impatience on my picture has decreased.

  Your caring friend,

  Martin.

  Since the holidays were coming, I added: Have a wonderful and peaceful Christmas holiday and a prosperous new year. Let’s keep our friendship strong. It will never end.

  And then, just to be certain she would not get cross with me for taking so long to send her a photo, I apologized for taking so long to reply and promised to look for a better picture to send in my next letter.

  January 1998

  Caitlin

  MY CRUSH ON MATT GREW until I could not take the pressure that whirred inside me every time I saw him in algebra. Lauren was in that class and sat in the row next to me. One day in late October, I passed her a note that read MATT IS SO HOT. I AM FREAKING OUT!

  Lauren scribbled something quickly and threw the note back to me before the teacher turned around.

  I dare you to touch him. No, I DOUBLE dare you.

  She had a good point. What did I have to lose? I built up my courage, and then tapped him on his shoulder midway through class. Lauren almost fell off her seat.

  “Um, do you have an extra pencil? My ti
p just broke off,” I lied. I had at least a dozen mechanical pencils in my bag.

  He turned around and flashed me a smile that I thought might melt me.

  “Here,” he whispered, handing me his. He then reached into his back pocket for a spare.

  At the end of class, I offered him his pencil back. “It’s cool,” he said. “Just keep it.”

  “Thanks,” I said, hoping he could not feel the heat radiating from my body.

  That night, I was trying to concentrate on homework, but could not stop fantasizing about kissing Matt. Finally, I grabbed a black Sharpie and marched into my closet. There, on the wall, I drew an eye with long lashes, followed by a heart and a stick figure, next to which I wrote Matt Johnson and dated it: 10/29/1997. The very next day, he asked me out. It’s like I willed it to happen.

  That was October 30, which meant Halloween was our first real date. It was official. We were a couple. I made another note in my closet: Cait + Matt, October 31, 1997.

  Our school had a costume party, and I went dressed as a punk rocker. My mom bought me pink hair paint and I wore a blue sequined minidress and leather jacket. Matt borrowed his friend’s football jersey, and his friend wore Matt’s soccer shirt. I thought that was pretty lame. As it turned out, Matt was just really shy. Other than the Halloween party, we didn’t really do anything besides talk on the phone a few times—and even then, I did all the talking. We once met at the food court at the mall with a bunch of other friends but he barely spoke to me, and he never once tried to kiss me or hold my hand. I started to wonder if he even liked me. And then I noticed Drew, who played soccer with Matt. Frustrated, I wrote in my closet: I am still going with Matt, but I like Drew. By the time I dumped Matt, Drew was dating someone else, and I already had a new crush. Nathaniel. We started dating in late November, and then broke up a week later. I still liked him, but so did my friend Chrissy. It was just getting too complicated. By then I had filled up half my closet wall with boy-crazy confessionals. I needed a break.