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ROCKFORD, ILLINOIS, SEPTEMBER 1974 — The bright, colorful poster beckons from the corridor wall:
Discover excitement and adventure!
Live in a far-off land!
Become an American Field Service exchange student!
Apply now for the 1975 AFS summer program!
The picture of a magnificent tropical beach stirs
my imagination. Why not? WHY NOT ... ME? Maybe I'll get to
go to ... SOMEWHERE! But the voice of reason intrudes, insisting
that my chances of actually being accepted are as remote as
the beach on the poster.
Still, the dreamer within refuses to yield: By tossing my name into the hat, at least I have a chance. It's a small chance, but it's a real chance, like playing a slot machine or buying a raffle ticket for a shot at the grand prize. Winning, however unlikely, is possible. And that possibility alone is exciting enough. It's my license to fantasize about going Somewhere. Regardless of where this leads, I must take this chance.
I'm 16 years old, a junior at Thomas Jefferson High School. As the business manager for the school's student publications department, I sell advertising and subscriptions to pay the bills for the yearbook and school newspaper. Outside of school, I earn my own spending money — and keep The Tank, my ‘67 LaSabre, running — by bussing tables and toting trays at a local cafeteria.
But my passion is drama. I love the school plays. I live for the school plays! Nothing matches the camaraderie that develops as cast and crew spend weeks rehearsing and building sets, everyone pulling together to whip the production into shape. Then comes the crowning moment — show time. Under the spotlights, we become stars, performing before audiences of people who applaud regardless of how good we actually are. After the final curtain of the last performance, we always throw a huge party to celebrate our triumph.
In retrospect, I never would have gone down this path if not for Eloise Dettmer. Two years ago, I was one of the few freshmen in the Miss Dettmer's geometry class. Although I had little trouble in mastering the material, I shied away when Miss Dettmer sought volunteers to work out problems on the board in front of the class.
By nature, I've always been cautious and reserved — some might call it shyness — especially in groups and among strangers. I prefer to fade into the background, where I can observe and analyze situations before doing anything that might attract attention. When called upon, I'm quite capable of rising above my reticence, stepping forward and taking charge. Among friends and acquaintances, in fact, I'm pretty out-going, a bit of a joker. But when risks outweigh necessity, I usually retreat to the security of silent observation, as I did in Miss Dettmer's class.
For Miss Dettmer, a stern-faced, no-nonsense lady who's been at Jefferson for years and years, it wasn't enough to merely point out my deficiency. She insisted on escorting me to my counselor, who in turn introduced me to the drama teacher, Gordon Odegard, who suggested that I get involved in the fall play. I went to one set-building session, then lost interest. Still, taking heed of Miss Dettmer's message, I pushed myself to take to the stage in geometry. In fact, I pushed so hard that I ended up with an A-plus in the class.
Mr. Odegard, however, didn't let me off the hook so easily. A couple of months later, he recruited me for a small part in the spring musical, Camelot. He was having a hard time finding enough boys willing to appear publicly in white tights and red taffeta tunics. This time, I stuck with it, and became infected with the drama bug. The following year, I plunged into the plays, both on stage and behind the scenes. Eager for even more, I got into Mr. Odegard's drama class this year. That's where I met Nicholas J. Cooney.
Nick Cooney, Jefferson's AFS exchange student for the year, is a brash, gregarious lad from Adelaide, Australia. Instead of laying low for the first few weeks, as most AFS students do, Nick immediately made his presence known at Jefferson by reading the morning announcements over the public address system, an honor usually reserved for dull-toned school officials. Nick's booming, Aussie-accented voice grabs everybody's attention and his quick wit charms students and staff alike. Nick Cooney has arrived at Jefferson and everyone knows it!
In drama class, I sit next to Nick, and both of us have roles in the fall play, a British farce called Charley's Aunt. From my vantage point, I can see that Nick, although half a world away from home, is having the time of his life. Seeing the AFS poster in the hall made me think of Nick Cooney. I'm also intrigued by the poster's unspoken promise of adventure. When I was younger, I loved to read adventure stories, often imagining myself as the main character— like Jim Hawkins trying to outwit pirates in Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island or as Johnny Tremain in Esther Forbes' book about the Boston boy who witnesses the start of the American Revolution. All along, I've secretly dreamed of living a great adventure all my own — and now see my opportunity.
So I waste no time in tracking down Jefferson's AFS adviser — Miss Dettmer, my old geometry teacher — to pick up an application. Next, I have to convince my parents to sign. Mom and Dad aren't enthusiastic about the idea. I plead: "It would be a good experience." When I mention that the chances that I'll actually get to go anywhere are pretty slim, they finally cave in.
Three of my classmates also are applying. Because Jefferson's AFS chapter can submit only two names to the Rockford regional screening committee, a first cut must be made. That task falls to a small committee consisting of Miss Dettmer, a man named Jerry Frehse and his daughter, Becky. After enduring a couple of interviews. I figure that'll be the end of it, so I'm stunned, as are my parents, when I make the cut. Still, the idea that I might really go somewhere seems farfetched. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure I want it to go much further.
# # #
NOVEMBER 1974 — The driving force behind the Rockford area regional screening committee is Larry and Marlene Hand, a couple who have been hosts to several exchange students. The Hands are influential in AFS and take their roles seriously. These screenings, in fact, are at the Hands' home. When I arrive, I'm ushered into another room to wait with a couple of other nervous candidates. The interviews are running longer than expected and, thus, behind schedule. When my turn comes, I take my place in the middle of the Hands' large, well-lit living room. Even though all of the half dozen or so people facing me are smiling and speaking in friendly tones, I feel as if I've been brought before an inquisition. I'm the center of attention here and that's unsettling. Thrust onto center stage, I have no choice but to perform — without benefit of a script or rehearsal. I figure that here is where my chances of becoming an exchange student will end.
After the introductory niceties, the inquisitors
begin hurling questions from the right, from the left, and from
straight on.
"What would you do in a situation where ....?
"How would you handle ....?
"What if you had to ... ?
I field the questions as best I can. I think they like my answers. Many of the self-doubts I'd brought with me begin to fade, and my confidence grows. I can handle these situations ... Why shouldn't I be an exchange student? I'd come here content to be a contender, but that suddenly isn't good enough. Facing this trial has unleashed my desire to go all the way ... wherever that might lead. I CAN be a good exchange student. I WANT to be an exchange student! I must convince them that I AM READY!
# # #
Two weeks later, I receive word that the regional
committee has forwarded my application to American Field Service
headquarters in New York, putting the matter out of local hands.
Final decisions are weeks, if not months, away. I've
done all I can, so I turn my full attention back to more immediate
demands — bussing tables, making money for the newspaper
and yearbook and rehearsing for the next play.
Then one evening in late February, Jerry Frehse comes to my front
door.
"Word just came from New York," he says, with a dramatic pause. "You're definitely going. You've been guaranteed a placement. Get your passport and shots."
That's the news I've hoped for, but never expected. I've won the prize, hit the big jackpot! I'm definitely going Somewhere! But WHERE? On my application, I stated a preference for Australia or Japan, but I have no guarantees. Jerry hands me a copy of The List, with 60-some participating countries.
Until now, I'd fantasized vaguely about what could be. I'd imagined, never in any great detail, about living in a small village, always a small village, in rural Japan, near the Australian Outback, on the edge of a Latin American jungle, in the shadows of an English castle, or in an Italian villa on the Mediterranean. What makes fantasies so wonderful is the endless possibilities, and the absence of risks. In my imagined adventures, I never had to deal with real people and real issues of day-to-day life. Suddenly, it's time to wake up to reality, which so far remains more vague than my fantasies. Now, all I can do is stare at The List, nagged by that one unanswered question: WHERE?
In the meantime, I dive into the spring play, South Pacific, the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical about American military people in the Pacific during World War II. I'm cast as a sailor called the Professor. "Wouldn't it be something," I muse aloud during rehearsals, "if I'm sent to an island in the South Pacific?"
But that won't happen, since no Pacific island countries are on The List.
# # #
MID-MAY 1975 — I'd been told that AFS probably
would begin making summer placement notifications in April, but
so far I've had no word. I've done everything I've been told —
got my passport and the shots that most countries require. To
make matters worse, I've been sidelined by chicken pox, so I'm
forced to sit at home and await the notification that never seems
to come.
Finally, the day before I return to school, it arrives — a big envelope from AFS in New York, stuffed with papers. The letter at the top of the stack has the official word:
MICRONESIA? I'M GOING TO MICRONESIA? That's not on the list! WHERE IN THE WORLD IS MICRONESIA?
I shuffle through the papers, until I come across a stapled bundle of sheets labeled "AFS AMERICANS ABROAD SUMMER PROGRAM HOST FAMILY APPLICATION." The family's address is a post office box in Saipan, Mariana Islands. Wait a minute! This letter says Micronesia, but these papers say Mariana Islands. Where AM I going? Where are these places?
I rush to the encyclopedia.
"MICRONESIA, see Pacific Islands."
What kind of country doesn't even have its own listing in the World Book?
"Pacific Islands .... Micronesia ... means small islands."
I'M GOING TO A SMALL ISLAND IN THE PACIFIC! ... Saipan, Mariana Islands, that must be the small island where I'm going!
"Saipan ... second largest island in the Mariana Islands in the western Pacific ... 48 square miles ... scene of heavy fighting during World War II ... capital of the United Nations Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands ... near Guam."
So this is IT? I must tell someone, but I'm the only one at home. Dad, who drives a tow motor on the second shift at a box factory, has already left for work. Mom, who supervises the order department for a glue and electronics company, isn't due home for a couple of hours. But this news can't wait, so I call Mom at work.
"Hey Mom, I'm going to Saipan, an island out in the Pacific ... near Guam!"
"WHAT? Don't go anywhere before I get home!" she orders. She sounds rattled, even more rattled than I am.
"But Mom, I'm not leaving until next month!"
Yes, I have a month, a whole month and just a month to prepare. That doesn't seem like much time. I must pack, yes, pack for the tropics. But what should I wear? And what is this place, this Saipan, like? Questions ... I have so many questions. The AFS packet includes information on travel preparations, getting to the orientation site and such, but next to nothing about my destination.
All I have to go by is my host family's application. The place at the top of the form designated for a photograph is blank. It says I'll be living with Herman Reyes Guerrero, a businessman, and his wife, Maria Tenorio Guerrero. Their children listed as living at home are Herman Guerrero Jr., Juan Guerrero, Margarita Sablan, Rudolfo Guerrero and Leonora Guerrero. Children listed as not living at home were Jesus Guerrero, Agnes Archibald, Florenso Guerrero, Annie Hayes and Joseph Guerrero. Ten children — now that's a big family! I have a brother, who is 12 years older than me, and two sisters, nine years older and five years younger.
The closest Guerrero to my age is Rudolfo, who
is about 11 months younger. The oldest is 30 years old, the youngest
14. So I figure that Mr. and Mrs. Guerrero must be close to 50
years old, about as old or perhaps a bit older than my own
parents.
According to the form, the Guerreros are Catholic, practice their religion weekly and speak Chamorro at home. Chamorro? What's Chamorro? "Mother speaks very little English. Everyone else speaks fairly good English." Good, then I should be able to communicate.
The form includes this description of the community, neighborhood and home:
"Saipan has a population of about 10,000. It is approximately 48 square miles. Majority of the people work for the government. Social activities center around events such as birthdays, weddings, christenings, novenas, which call for parties. The population is predominantly Catholic. The people are very relaxed.
"Most of the population of Saipan live in Chalan Kanoa, where we are living. It can be compared to a small town in the U.S. Our home is a two-story concrete structure. It has three baths, seven bedrooms, living room, dining room and a kitchen. The home is not fancy, but very pleasant. Our neighborhood is chiefly a residential and business areas combination. Our home is located near the main road, on which most businesses are located, such as the bank, post office, theater, stores, etc."
And this description of a typical day at home during the summer:
"Most of the members of the family will be working during the summer. Daughter will probably get part-time job or just help mother with house chores, such as cleaning house, washing, ironing, cooking, etc. Mother sometimes takes siesta in afternoon. Late in the afternoon, she is usually busy tending to her flowers and plants in the back yard. Gardening is her favorite pastime. After work, the children usually help her in the garden. Watching TV, talking, reading, visiting relatives are some things we do after dinner."
WATCHING TV? Television on a Pacific island? How exotic can an island be if it has TV? Obviously, Saipan isn't quite like Bali Hai in South Pacific. When I applied, I imagined going somewhere exotic, the more exotic the better. But now, as my departure draws closer, I'm finding comfort in the knowledge that my destination has at least some modern amenities.
The notification from New York has left me starved for information, hard facts, photographs ... anything. From what little I have, I can't conjure up any mental pictures of Saipan. While digging through old issues of the National Geographic in the basement of the Rockford Public Library, I discover just one article on Micronesia, which describes the more exotic islands, not the one where I'm headed.
The first week of June, two letters arrive from Saipan, one addressed to me and one to my parents, both from my host family. Mine reads, in part:
"Mr. and Mrs. Guerrero are in the United States right now on vacation, so I am taking the liberty of writing this to you. They will be returning to Saipan in about one week. My name is Roberta and I am married to John Guerrero, Herman's son. We have one child, Tracy, who is nine months old, and we are living in an apartment on the second floor of Mr. Guerrero's house.
"There are ten other family members living under the same roof (if you can imagine that!), but there is always room for one more. Besides Mr. and Mrs. Guerrero, they are: Herman Guerrero Jr., 26; Bob Guerrero, 24; Rudy Guerrero, 17 (your roommate); Noring Guerrero, 14; Nita Sablan (Mr. Guerrero's daughter); Manny Sablan (husband of Nita); Philip Sablan, 1 year; Claudia Sablan, 3 weeks old.
"This comes to be quite a houseful of people, but we manage to get along all right. Mr. Guerrero operates a tour company that handles mostly Japanese tourists coming to Saipan. He also owns a bakery, which is managed by my husband, John.
"Chamorro is the main language spoken in our house, but everyone is fluent in English (with the exception of Mrs. Guerrero). I am originally from Nebraska, so English is my main language also. I'm sure that you'll have no trouble communicating."
To my parents, Roberta wrote:
"This will be quite an experience for Kerry and I know that you might be a bit concerned about his welfare. However, you may be assured that he will be treated as a member of our family during his stay ...
"From reading Kerry's personal data and statement, we got the impression that he is from a very closely knit family. We are much the same here on Saipan, where family ties are the most important consideration."
They know that I'm coming! The cordial tone of Roberta's letters, in contrast to the cold formality of the application, makes it crystal clear that the Guerreros are real people. And they seem to know about me, perhaps a lot. I wonder what they're expecting!
Days later, another letter comes, this one from Herman T. Guerrero, the Micronesian government representative for AFS:
"I would like to congratulate you and welcome you to Micronesia. AFS has informed us that you will be coming to Micronesia and will be on the island of Saipan. I can assure you that your experience here on Saipan would be a worthwhile one."
I'm puzzled by the name on the letter — Herman Guerrero. That's my host father's name, but he doesn't work for the government and he isn't even on the island. Comparing my information more closely, I note that my host father is Herman Reyes Guerrero and the AFS official is Herman T. Guerrero. They're probably related. How many Herman Guerreros could there be on Saipan?
Along with the official letter is the Micronesia Guidebook, full of information mostly for tourists. It still isn't enough, but, according to Herman Guerrero, the Micronesian official, material about Saipan and the Marianas is hard to come by. As I fill out the enclosed Entry Permit Application, I can't help but think about how, after months of waiting, everything is moving so quickly. Old doubts begin to resurface. Am I ready? Will I be able to handle this? Why did I ever do this?
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