May 1999

Caitlin

I CONTINUED TO CHECK THE mail every single day for weeks. And then one day, I saw an envelope so completely covered with stamps it barely had space for my name and address. Martin was alive! I ripped it open, thrilled. But when I unfolded the actual letter, I gasped. My friend was writing to me on trash.

As I read his small cramped words explaining why he had disappeared, I felt a crazy mix of relieved and confused. He wrote that he had been kicked out of school because he didn’t have enough money to pay the fees. This made no sense—couldn’t he switch to a public one? It was illegal in the United States to just not go to school—wasn’t it the same in Zimbabwe? I read the next line: I’ve been carrying luggage and pouring tea just to make money so my family can eat. The pressure that had been building in my chest left no room to breathe. He was a kid! He should be in school! Not working to feed his family. Still, I was so relieved to get his letter that I ran into the house shouting, “Mom, Martin is alive! He’s alive!”

“Thank God,” she said, rushing to my side. “Is he okay?”

I tried to answer, but the tears that started in the driveway were now washing over my words.

“What is it?” she asked, concerned.

“He’s not going to school,” I managed to say before another wave of tears took over. I sunk my head into my mother’s soft shoulder. “Mom, he’s pouring tea and carrying luggage to help feed his family.”

“Now, now,” she said rubbing my back. “Martin is a smart boy. He will find a way to get back in school, Caitlin.”

I tensed up. She had no idea what he was experiencing. I could barely grasp it. And as much as I wanted to believe her, I knew he could not do it on his own. I wanted to help, but how?

I did not tell my mom any of these thoughts racing through my head. I did not want a lecture about how I needed to concentrate on my own life first. Or about how Zimbabwe was not the United States. I knew that. I had been reading everything I could find online about the country—story after story of poverty, starvation, and disease. It seemed so illogical, so wrong. I had been so worried about Martin for the last two months that I had stopped thinking about much else. My grades started slipping as a result. I had the luxury of not being interested in school, while Martin was actually unable to go. It seemed so unfair.

“I have to study,” I lied. I just wanted to be alone.

Upstairs, in my room, I pulled all of his letters out of my desk drawer, looking for clues that might help make sense of everything. All these lines I had glossed over before jumped out: high-density suburbs, ten people per bed, greatly increased my wardrobe. There were so many clues that he was struggling, but I never paid enough attention to figure them out until now. I felt like an idiot.

Immediately I pulled out a piece of stationery. The words gushed out of me:

Dear Martin,

Thank goodness you are okay! I was so worried!! I thought something terrible happened to you. For some reason, I thought you may have drowned! I know that is crazy because Mutare is nowhere near the ocean or even a lake, but still, I had nightmares about it. I have been reading so much about what is happening in Zimbabwe and so I am especially glad you are not hurt. But I am so sorry that you are not in school. I don’t understand it. And I cannot begin to imagine what that is like. Here in the United States, we have to go to school. It is the law. Everybody goes, regardless of how much money you have. Of course, there are kids who drop out, or don’t care. But I have never heard of someone who wants to go not being able to.

I had so many questions for Martin, like How can you get to go back to school? What are your parents doing for money? How are you paying to live? And why are you working to buy food for your family? But I didn’t want to overwhelm him. What if he did not have any answers? It would just make him feel worse.

Instead, I wanted to write something that might give him hope. And I wanted to do something to help—really help. That sparked a thought: I’d just earned twenty dollars from babysitting, which I was planning to spend on silver hoop earrings. Martin needed the money way more than I needed another pair of stupid earrings. Twenty dollars couldn’t possibly get him back into school—but maybe it could buy food for his family? Or at least stamps and stationery so he didn’t have to spend his money to correspond with me? I stuffed the bill into the envelope and wrote: I am enclosing some money and hope it helps somehow. Your best friend FOREVER, Caitlin.

The next morning, I handed my letter to my mom at breakfast and asked her to mail it that same day. I didn’t tell her or my dad that I was sending Martin money. I didn’t want them to tell me not to.