This week we’re looking at the tail end of things as yesterday (May 14) Papito celebrated his birthday giving us good reason to follow his journey as he went scholarship hopping from Bolivia to the United States and France, and back to Bolivia again and Mom and Dad celebrated their anniversary, an excuse to meet my parents as college sweethearts and see how Dad had to prove himself in his career before he’d marry Mom.

We need to hear these stories because let’s face it, we’re all in the process of re-envisioning ourselves–at least one aspect of our lives has been upended (and probably more). We’ve got to have a clear head to get through this.

But how can we think with a clear head if we’re filled with, oh-so-much-negativity? Just look into the future…It’s okay. It hasn’t happened yet. Deep breaths.

Now that the hard part is over with, we’ll take this in hind-site. Nothing’s ever so bad when we’re looking backward. I promise, there’s a happy ending and there will be for us, too.

Let’s go back to 1963. That’s where we find both of today’s stories, but we’ll start with Papito.

Btw, when Alex and I first got married, I didn’t call my father-in-law Papito, or my mother-in-law Mamita, for that matter. That’s what Alex called his Dad and Mom, but me? As the only American on that side of the family, we call ourselves the United Nations, I turned to my Hungarian sister-in-law. Newlywed as well, she said, “I just call them Mamita and Papito.” So that’s how he became Papito.

Before anyone called him Papito, people called him Erwin. The little town that he came from in Bolivia, Santa Cruz, was just that, small. It wasn’t even a city. He needed to think big to get out of there (kind of like we have to think outside ourselves today).

He was an English teacher giving kids private lessons by day, while he studied English and German at the same time, hoping one of them would lead to a scholarship so he could study abroad.

One scholarship to study in the United States would be awarded to the 50 Bolivian candidates who applied. The written and oral exams took place that April in his hometown. Since Papito had just finished his thesis on Bolivia’s historical rights to recover access to the ocean, he had a lot to say.

He had to wait for the results, so he continued to study for the German exams which would take place in July, it would require him to travel to La Paz. By the beginning of June, as he was preparing to go to La Paz, he got word that he had received the US scholarship instead. “I was lucky,” he said. “I never wanted to go to Germany.” And good thing for that, if he had, I never would have met Alex.

In July, he traveled to the United States to be one of fifteen foreigners studying at Southern Methodist University in Dallas, Texas. Despite being an English teacher in Bolivia, his English couldn’t pass in the United States. He had to work double hard to study his English and not get sent back by the end of the summer. But with the grit to learn English anew, he was one of five of those 15 foreigners who graduated with a master’s degree.

Upon graduation, Papito convinced his tutor that the international law degree wouldn’t help his country unless he studied economic development. So off he went with a new scholarship to George Washington University, where it was much easier since he knew English, and he studied another year.

But Papito said, “I didn’t want to go back to Bolivia yet. It was amazing to see a new world. It changed me; the way of thinking and doing things.”

Someone suggested that the Government of France had two scholarships for all of Latin America, so he applied (under the assumption he didn’t need to know French), and he was awarded that along with a girl from Hawaii. Only one week before the scholarship closed, he learned the truth: he needed to take a French test to secure the scholarship (and, btw, the Hawaiian girl had already passed the test).

He vividly remembers hearing the news on a Monday, “I sat on a bench at Lafayette de Plaza. The world fell on me. I was so desperate. I didn’t know French. What could I do now?”

He could get swallowed up by that bench, or think his way out of it. More than anything, he knew what he didn’t want to do, and that was to go back to Bolivia. So he invented something else.

He called the French consul in New York and introduced himself as the scholarship winner. He said he had a horrible cold and asked to reschedule the test the following Monday.

He bought a record player, a French record, milk, bread, chocolate, coffee, and everything he would need for a week. He holed himself up in his apartment and listened to the record 24 hours for seven days.

That next Monday he took the train to New York and went to the consulate. He spoke in rudimentary French and tried to get by with Spanish and English. And when the French consul asked, “how long have you been studying French?” Papito said, “six years” and then he quickly explained that it was only one hour a week in high school.

Papito hadn’t slept for a week and tried to end the meeting, but he still had to pass the written exam. Papito did whatever he could, and after a half-hour, he handed in his paper and said to the man, “Please excuse my French; it’s very bad.”

The man turned to Papito and smiled and said, “Pas de tout,” which meant not at all. And then he sat there and wrote something. It was Papito’s certificate. Papito couldn’t contain his gratitude, he gave the man a huge hug and thanked him profusely.

And as the story goes, Papito went to France, and yes, it was just like when he came to the US, only this time he had to learn French.

So when he finally returned to Bolivia, he had charmed himself through two languages and three life-altering scholarships.

You have to push yourself to extremes and be empathetic to the people you deal with, but in the end, he said, with luck, it all seems to work itself out. “All of these big puzzles in your life fit together.”

Let’s add a few more pieces of the puzzle and go back to 1963 again. It was March 2nd of Dad’s sophomore year. The day after Carolina lost in the ACC Tournament to Wake Forest. Most of his teammates were graduating, and it was their last game at Carolina, but it also happened to be a big party weekend. “We were crying in our beer, but we needed dates to go to the parties.”

The way Mom always told us when we were kids, Dad planned on asking the first pretty girl he saw. She was that girl; only Dad called her a lady. Dad asked her out, and she said yes.

They went to the parties and must have had a good time, only she had to be back by 12, and he couldn’t remember her last name. (Some things never change). All he had to go with was Sondra. It was a big dorm, and he didn’t know what floor she lived on or who to call.

Sounds a bit like Cinderella, without the glass slipper?

“Eventually I ran into her at a restaurant, The Carolina Grill, she was with a group and he was able to figure out her last name. They didn’t stop dating after that.

Mom paved her two years at Carolina as the sorority girl and Dad, even as a sophomore in 1963, was referred to as “the greatest thing since chocolate bars,” according to the May 19 Daily Tar Heel.

The following year, in the 1964 yearbook, Mom and Dad had already been established as Sondra and “the Ham.” That was Mom’s graduating year. There were also two pictures, and both looked like Mom, so I had to ask her which was her.

It wasn’t as easy as being college sweethearts. Dad had one more year at Carolina, so Mom got an apartment and taught while Dad lived out his senior year. His senior year he only made the yearbook for basketball.

But just like Dad didn’t pose for his senior photo, it wasn’t cool back then, it also wasn’t cool to walk. He now can only scratch his head. He was young, what could he say?

But as humor would have it, as I was going through the yearbook, I noticed how once my sister or I must have had a project and needed a photo of Dad, so Mom suggested we cut it out of the yearbook. We managed to cut out half of Dean Smith’s head, too. So here it is, we defamed his yearbook anyway. (But, honestly, I don’t think it was me).

Dad had an important decision to make. The professional road didn’t fit all basketball players in 1965. The 76ers drafted Dad his senior year, but he had a few months to decide if he’d be a Phillips 66er instead. He had even gone out to Oklahoma to visit them. Grandpa wanted Dad to go that route because Dad could get trained and have the security of a lifetime job.

Even then, Dad lived his life asking, if I died, what would I regret? He made his chart weighing all the pros and cons, but his heart told him what he needed to do. He ended his so-called threat “to defect to the oil industry” (September 2, Philadelphia Inquirer) when he signed with the 76ers on September 1.

So that left Mom, his college sweetheart. “I didn’t know how I could support two people. We wanted to make sure after the first year of playing in the pros if this was going to work.”

“Cunningham politely said he had agreed to postpone the responsibilities of marriage until after the season…’I want to see what it’s like,’ said Cunningham. ‘I want to see if I can stick and if professional basketball will be my life.'”

The Philadelphia Inquirer, September 2, 1965

But it did and they got married the next May 14, 1966. And it’s been 54 years since.

That’s what I love about these stories. There is no fear or worry, not anymore, not that we know everything worked out.

Unbeknownst to you, Elizabeth Gilbert was here with us today from her 2009 TedTalk entitled, “Your Elusive Creative Genius.” She speaks to writers and creatives, but even Papito as a Diplomat and Dad as a basketball player had the same fight.

Everything we do, if we do it well and with loving intent, is creative. Just think of the check out worker at Wegman’s I spoke with the other day; he nearly had me in tears. He said he wasn’t concerned about himself, but his wife worried every time he left for work. He does everything that he can to stay healthy for her. So when his co-worker came up and asked him if she could get him some water, he hesitated, it was unnatural for him to accept the offer. I thought he was going to say no, but then he answered, “Yes. I would love that. Thank you so much for asking. I appreciate that.” And when she came back with the water, I knew how much that water meant. Now if you have to argue that man isn’t creative, then you haven’t given deep thought to creativity.

But I digress, Elizabeth Gilbert made famous the story of American poet Ruth Stone. It was a beautiful TedTalk and if you didn’t see it, it’s here.

I hate to take the story away from Elizabeth because she tells it so expertly of how Ruth Stone would be in the fields and she’d hear a poem thundering through the air and clamoring under her feet so she’d run to the house to “collect it on the page.” Unless she missed it, and it would “continue down the landscape looking for another poet.” Sometimes Ruth would almost miss it, and she could catch the poem by its tail and pull it back through her body; in those cases, she’d write it backward from the last word to the first.

So isn’t that what we are doing here? We’re reeling in the story, making it read from the beginning to the end again. Papito, without hope and a vision, he wouldn’t have left Bolivia to advance his education three times over and meet Mamita to see that he could become a diplomat, which got him back to the United States so I could meet Alex (and have that moment that I didn’t know what to call them).

And Dad had to become a 76er. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t try. He saw a future in basketball and with Mom, and he had to see if he could live it out. If he lost hope, he wouldn’t have even been a happy 66er!

I accidentally poked fun at my friend last week that he hadn’t done anything creative (the way his wife is creatively baking sourdough and muffins). He hadn’t played the bagpipes. He took us on a Zoom tour so we’d see what he’d been doing instead. He’s been making the most beautiful wood tables, each one a handmade gift of love.

It just goes to show, we’re all creative, no matter what we’re doing. One night my youngest couldn’t sleep, so she wanted to come up with a list of things that she’d do in quarantine so there’d be no regrets afterward. A great intention, only she fell asleep before she thought of anything.

There is no creativity test in life (though my niece gave us one for her class and I was happy to see I scored pretty high). Now, now. That’s not the point I’m trying to make.

If you’re in a coronavirus rut, use your creativity to get yourself out of it. You might find that if you apply some vintage grit, charm, love, and luck to the life that you’re living now, your future dreams will appear one puzzle piece at a time.

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