June 2003

Caitlin

BY THE END OF APRIL, we had heard from all of the colleges Martin applied to: Five accepted him; three offered him partial scholarships, and two offered him a place but no money. The last letter came in from NYU—another rejection. That was it. We had reached the end of the road. I crumpled it up in the driveway and burst into tears. I’d failed my friend. I promised him we would find a way for him to study in the United States, but it felt impossible. The only thing I could do was work even harder and start saving money to bring him here myself.

“More bad news,” I shouted as I entered the house.

“What now?” my mom asked.

I threw the paper ball onto the kitchen counter.

“That’s it,” I said. “It’s over, Mom.”

“Not yet,” she said. I knew she was working on other avenues—she had reached out to local politicians and the papers. She was even organizing a bake sale to raise money.

“I sent Rebecca Mano an e-mail this morning,” she continued. “I’m going to see if we can get him here on a visitor’s visa.”

“How does that help?” I asked.

“He can accept the spot at Villanova, and then we’ll keep working once he’s here to raise money to cover the fees,” she said.

I knew this was a last resort for my parents. They were paying for Richie to go to Temple, and I was planning to continue at the community college in the fall.

In the meantime, my high school graduation was coming up, and my mom wanted to take me dress shopping. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I didn’t care about a new dress—or graduation, for that matter. I couldn’t wait to be done with high school.

The day my mother and I planned to go shopping, she surprised me.

“I wrote a letter to Father Dobbin this morning,” she said, sliding a piece of paper in front of me. I knew he was the president of Villanova because my mother had been talking about him lately. He was her last shot at a miracle.

“I wanted to make sure he realized what a big mistake Villanova was making by not giving Martin a scholarship,” she said as I began to read:

Dear Father Dobbin:

We are contacting you as our last resort for helping a young man from Zimbabwe. Martin Ganda is a twenty-year-old from Mutare, Zimbabwe, and has been our daughter’s pen pal since 1997. Our daughter initially paid for Martin’s schooling fees with her babysitting money until his family became destitute from declining economic conditions. At that point, we took over the support and tuition for Martin and his family.

Martin has been accepted at Villanova University for fall 2003. Unfortunately, our daughter and son are both college students, which means we are unable to finance Martin’s college education as well. Your colleagues at VU have been very supportive of our plight, yet we still do not have any funds.

Martin graduated from Nyanga High School with honors last fall. He secured a part-time teaching position and is currently working in a tourists’ cottage to earn money for his family.

Father, we know you have a very heavy load of responsibilities and we would never ask for our own children, but this young man has nothing. We are his only hope. Do you have any connections or programs seeking students like Martin to sponsor? Would you know of any other avenues for us to pursue? Please explore any resources you may have to help our dear young friend. His information should be available in Admissions and I have copies of the e-mails, including a story of Martin’s sad life and how he touched our hearts.

Thank you in advance for your help.

Sincerely,

Richard and Anne

Neville Stoicsitz

Tears were streaming down my face as I read my mom’s last-ditch effort.

“Send it,” I said.

“Let’s bless it first,” she said.

She placed it in the stamped envelope and held one end as I took the other. We both closed our eyes and said a silent prayer.

I leaned down and kissed it—for good luck.

In July we had our bake sale; we raised $350. I was working full-time at the pizza parlor and picking up any babysitting jobs I could, and had only saved another $900. I had another $28,750 to go.

Then I got an e-mail from Martin saying he was waiting patiently—but I could tell that even Martin’s optimism was wavering.

“How am I going to tell him that it might not happen?” I asked my mom, once again fighting back tears.

She stayed quiet as she considered my question. Usually, she’d snap right back and chastise me for a bad attitude. She’d say, “Don’t give up! That’s not going to solve this problem. Save all your energy for figuring out how we can do it, not how we can’t.”

Today was different.

“We’d better start thinking about how to break it to him,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.