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.