52 Cups of Coffee: Inspiring and insightful stories for navigating life’s uncertainties (12 page)

Abby Ward

Brother’s Coffee in Gillette, Wyoming

Small house coffee

Education is the best remedy for ignorance.

Just when you think you know someone, you learn something new.
Richard Ward works at the Public Library in Gillette, Wyoming with my mom. As I was growing up, the library was practically my second home, so I’ve known Richard and his wonderful wife, Rachel Nava, for a long time.

The family
member I did not know was Abby, the daughter they adopted from a Lakota Sioux tribe six years before. I had seen pictures, and even held her as a newborn, but I’d left for school in Michigan before she was old enough to know. When I was home for Christmas, I stopped by the library to catch up with Richard and see if he had recommendations for someone to have coffee with—he suggested Abby.

He
told me she had a very interesting perspective. Although she was just six years old, she understood that she had been adopted, and was knowledgeable about her Lakota heritage (Rachel was also in the Lakota tribe). He made a good point—and librarians have rarely led me astray—so I agreed and called Rachel to schedule a play-date with Abby.

* * *

A few days later, I found myself waiting at Brother’s Coffee
,
trying to calm my nerves. I’m not typically nervous in meeting new people, but I lived in a college town, which meant my world involved a disproportionate number of 20-somethings. I had forgotten how to relate to the
Dr. Seuss
demographic.

Abby walked in
, looking pretty harmless, but I was still nervous and didn’t know what to expect. Rachel asked if she should stay or leave the two of us alone to talk; I said whatever she felt more comfortable with was fine with me. She said she would run a few errands and be back. Abby and I said goodbye and walked to the counter for drinks. I ordered a coffee and Abby said, in a barely audible whisper that she’d like a Coke—with a straw.

I started the conversation by covering the basics: what Santa had brought for Christmas, what grade she was in, her favorite subject in school (answers: violin, first, science). She was adorable as she answered my questions, her legs swinging back and forth as she sipped her Coke
—the straw fitting perfectly into the space where her front baby tooth had been. I could tell she was growing more comfortable with the situation once her responses grew from a few words to full sentences and she started telling me unprompted stories about recess. I was growing more comfortable too.

W
hen I asked Abby what Indian tribe she belonged to, she said she was a Lakota. I asked her to tell me about some of the fun things she did as a Lakota Sioux. It was fun to hear the excitement in her voice as she told me about Sun Dances and Pow Wows (where she got to learn dances and wear costumes), her trips to visit her tummy (biological) mommy, and playing with her cousins at events like the Sweatlodge Ceremony. Richard had been right about her perspective—she had experiences that were certainly unique for a six year old.

I told her I thought it was cool that she got to do so many interesting things, and asked her if her friends at school thought it was cool too.

She replied, “Yeah, but sometimes they tell me that Indians are extinct.” I was trying to find a response, when she sadly said, “Some kids tell me I can’t be Indian, I have to be Mexican. But my friend who is Mexican says that I am an Indian, and Mexicans are better than Indians.”

Talking with Abby took me back to a time I had ou
tgrown 16 years ago. I had forgotten about the dynamic climate of recess; elementary kids could be a lot of fun, but they could also be very cruel. Sometimes they didn’t know any better while other times the behavior was intentional. Either way, it was painful to remember and painful to hear from Abby. The worst part was when she told me about the time some kids came up to her and teasingly said they’d heard that Indians cut people’s heads off. It was clear the incident had hurt her feelings—that she didn’t understand why people would say things like that.

I didn
’t know how to respond. I wanted to say it wasn’t her fault people were ignorant, but that’s not something you tell a six-year-old. Before I had a chance to answer, Abby started telling me a different story that took our conversation in a new direction. A few minutes later, her mom came back and joined us.

My conversation with Abby made me realize I had never heard the full story of how she had come into Richard and Rachel
’s life, so I asked Rachel a few questions. She was also Native American; however, she’d been born into an Apache tribe in Arizona. It wasn’t until she had gone to college and joined a student organization for Indians that she learned about the Lakota traditions. She’d felt a strong connection to many of the Lakota ways and spent more time with the tribe, eventually meeting an older Lakota woman who became like a second mother to Rachel.

She
explained that the Lakota have Seven Sacred Rites, one of which was the adoption of others into the tribe. The older woman had expressed interest in adopting Rachel into the Lakota family, and, after serious reflection and prayer Rachel had decided it was the right choice.

That had been over 20 years earlier, and Rachel had co
ntinued to be an important member of the Lakota family, a community of people that took great care of each other. That was why, when Abby (the biological granddaughter of Rachel’s adoptive mother) had been born to a mother who was unable to raise a child, Richard and Rachel had considered adoption. They’d known it would be a major change—Rachel had already raised two boys, and both Richard and Rachel were now old enough to be Abby’s grandparents—but they knew it was the right thing to do. And the decision has brought them great joy.

It
is a beautiful story—from Rachel’s journey into the Lakota tribe to the actual adoption—one that captured a culture rich in community, love, and tradition. It is also the kind of story that goes untold in typical, surface level, conversation where it is easier to ask simple questions than to dig deeper.

* * *

I asked Rachel how she had reacted to the things students said to Abby; she said it had been heartbreaking the first time it happened. She pointed out that she knew Abby wasn’t innocent, and was just as guilty of being bratty at times, but the fact she was being treated differently for being Native American had been difficult. She explained that she and Richard had tried to counteract the incidents with education. They wanted Abby to know as much about her heritage as possible, so that she could be proud of where she came from and teach others about her culture.

Th
is theory made sense—education is a good remedy for ignorance.

If people took
the time to ask questions and get to know each other, there would be less ignorance and discrimination. Instead, we make assumptions about who they are, what they believe, and what they are capable of doing—from religion and politics, to race and everything in between.

Th
ese assumptions cause two problems—they create unnecessary pain and prevent us from connecting with interesting people. I have known Rachel for many years, but it wasn’t until I sat down for a 15-minute conversation that I truly got to know her. Now I have a whole new appreciation for her and Abby.

That
’s what Cup 22 taught me: each person has a unique story, but you have to be willing to go beneath the surface level to find it. The real story is often very different from the story portrayed on the surface. It’s as true for friends you just met (like Abby) as it is for those you’ve known for a long time (like Rachel). Our meeting had me thinking I should take more time to get to know those around me a little better, to walk a metaphorical mile in their shoes.

I say metaphorical, because I could never squeeze my feet into Abby
’s little shoes. But there was a lot I could learn from her. The kind of lessons best learned in first grade.

Before the conversation ended,
Rachel asked, with perfect mom pitch, “Abby, what does your teacher tell you to do when people are mean?” Abby’s answer was simple, “Let your light shine.”

We can
’t control the way others treat us, but that doesn’t mean we let them stop us from shining. What a great lesson to learn from a six-year-old.

Barry Litwin

Wild Boar Coffee in Fort Collins, Colorado

Small house coffee

Life ain’t always beautiful, but it’s a beautiful ride.

I met Barry at a coffee shop in
Fort Collins, Colorado—a city just 40 miles from my grandma’s house, where I was staying for a few days during Christmas break before flying back to Michigan.

I
’d found Barry through my high school friend Emily. A few weeks earlier, she had emailed me with information about a friend of hers I had to meet: a former Wall Street man who had worked as a trapeze artist, and was now in vet school at Colorado State University. It was a recommendation I couldn’t pass up, so I sent him an email, and we set up a meeting.

I let Barry pick the location. He chose
Wild Boar Coffee—the epitome of a college-town coffee shop: friendly and relaxed baristas, with a slightly offbeat feel, crowded with students behind laptops or notebooks at every table.

It was clear Barry was a regular; he
’d saved a great table next to the fireplace. We sat down, and he got the conversation rolling.

“Okay, what did Emily tell you about
me. We’ll start with that, and then I’ll fill in the gaps.”

Sounded like a good idea to me. I told him the few facts I knew
, and he chuckled, “All right, you’re close.”

He paused, collected his thoughts, and started unraveling a story that began with him as a young boy in Pennsylvania. He was one of six kids, the son of a steelworker and a mother whose aspirations of college and
career had been cut short when the war had forced her to leave high school for a full-time job. Although Barry’s parents hadn’t had much money, they had exposed their kids to the arts and emphasized the importance of hard work and a good education.

It was
mandatory that all six kids would go to college, so Barry had worked two jobs—in the botany department of the Carnegie Museum during the day and a steel mill at night—to save money to go to Penn State, where he had met a girl he followed out to California after graduation.

He had intended on marrying this girl, but—as it so often happens
—life didn’t go according to plan. Their relationship fell apart, and Barry had moved to Anchorage to be a flight attendant manager for a regional airline. He’d stayed for a few years before moving to the Caribbean where he worked as a dishwasher when he wasn’t busy swimming in the ocean or cycling along the beach.

His parents had been appalled that their college-educated son was washing dishes, but Barry needed time to think about what he wanted in
life.

He finally decided on law school—but stumbled on
to a different opportunity before he got around to applying. On his way home from the Caribbean, Barry had stopped briefly to visit a close friend, a doctor in St. Louis. Barry hadn’t thought much of the meeting, but a few weeks later the doctor had called to say one of his patients, a very successful stockbroker, was looking to hire an assistant.

The
broker was a brilliant older man who had gone blind from an illness. When Barry sat down to hear more about the available job position, he told the broker that, in exchange for the right salary, he would be willing to commit five years to the brokerage world before continuing with his plan of attending law school.

The
broker just laughed, which had caught Barry off-guard. It wasn’t a typical response after accepting a job offer. But, as Barry was about to learn, this man was anything but typical; he was a difficult and high-maintenance employer. One of his co-workers would later tell Barry no prior employee had ever lasted more than one year.

It
didn’t take Barry long to find out why. Barry told me that if I watched Scent of a Woman
,
followed by The Devil Wears Prada, I would have a good sense of what it was like working for this man. Despite the pressures of the job, though, Barry endured. He had committed to five years and he wasn’t about to leave early.

He had also changed his mind about law school; he deci
ded he wanted to be a stockbroker instead. After exhausting 12-hour days, he would spend his nights studying to earn a brokerage license. When his five years were up, he left his job, joined a competitive brokerage firm in St. Louis and built a strong clientele.

He continued on, saying that while he had been working as an investment broker, he bec
ame involved with a small regional high-end circus, through charitable and cultural volunteer work. One night, he asked if he could view the tent from the trapeze-platform after a show. Once up there, the performers, whom he’d gotten to know as friends, told him (as a joke) that they wouldn’t let Barry back down, unless he flew. “Okay,” he said.

They harnessed him in, gave him a few tips, and let him
fly. When he landed in the net at the bottom, the circus crew was in disbelief—he had perfect form, which Barry explained had come from his seven years of dance experience. The performers went on to convince him to start training as a performer. Barry was suddenly a successful stockbroker by day, and a trapeze artist by night. To top it all off, he met and married the love of his life.

Unfortunately, there was trouble on the horizon. His spouse of 12 years developed brain cancer, a battle that would
be lost. We didn’t talk much about their relationship or the cancer, but what Barry did have to say was poignant: having the love of his life die in his arms had changed the way he saw the world. He now appreciated life in a different way and savored each moment.

That was why
, when he realized he was no longer happy after post-9/11 regulations changed the brokerage industry, he decided to change directions yet again.

A few years earlier, he
’d taken a trip to visit a friend’s ranch outside of St. Louis, where he discovered he had a skill for working with horses, and he had always been impressed with how the trick-riders in the circus were totally dedicated to their horses. He had developed a strong connection when he began to work with horses himself. When he was ready to leave his job, he decided to follow his passion and find a way to work with horses full time.

To Barry, it didn
’t matter that he would have to go back and take undergraduate classes with students half his age. It didn’t matter that getting into vet school would be a major challenge, or that he would be in his mid-50s before even starting his practice. He knew with complete certainty it was the right choice, and he had the focus to make it happen.

* * *

After nearly an hour of conversation, I had finally found out how Barry had ended up in Fort Collins. His story was unlike any I had ever heard. Not only was it fascinating, he told it in a way that made me feel that anything was possible.

He relayed a piece of advice he firmly believes
: “Everything happens for a reason although sometimes we don’t understand the reason until much later.”

Barry
doesn’t believe in coincidence. It might seem like his life has been a series of disjointed events and strange twists of fate, but he said that all his unique experiences had been leading him to this point in his life. And his future will be the result of hard work, ingenuity, and the courage to be open to new people and experiences.

I left the meeting with an odd feeling of tranquility. Co
ffee with Barry was a reminder that my life isn’t going to be perfect; I will go through difficult times of uncertainty, experience painful loss, and encounter unexpected change. However, with persistence and the right attitude, life will go on, and get better.

Or as
the Gary Allan country song
says
, “
Life ain’t always beautiful, but it’s a beautiful ride.
”