What Papi Taught Me

A story for teens about growing up and maintaining parental bonds through cultural and generational differences; a story about moving on and living life.

What Papi Taught Me

            My stomach flipped as I sat nervously in the crowded airport. People of all different walks of life walked past without noticing me. I had just one bag of luggage gripped in my sweaty right hand. I swallowed the lump in my throat as I heard: “Flight number 103 to Dhaka, Bangladesh now boarding.” I pitched out my iced coffee as I rose out of my seat. My legs were cramped from sitting and my heart was racing. I was finally going but was I even ready for this? Would I ever be ready for this?

            When I was 14, my father was such a nuisance to me. After my mother’s death, we moved from our big house in Buenos Aires to a small town called Las Flores just one hour south of Argentina’s capital. Born in Cochabamba, Bolivia, my father grew up in poverty as an orphan raising his younger sisters and brother on his own. Although he had told me the story of how he raised his siblings a million times, it never really sunk into my brain when I was a teenager; I was too caught up in the social scene. My father was extremely traditional and old-school and for me, this was the barrier that ruined our relationship when I was younger.

In Latin America, when you turn 15 you have what’s called a quinceanera, which is sort of like a Latino version of the sweet sixteen birthday. For a girl’s quince, she has a big party and wears a beautiful white dress. It was going to be the most important night of my life and I had invited the only American boy from my school as my date. His name was Eddie, and I was ecstatic. Every girl at school wanted him because he was not only the cutest boy in the school, but he was also the only one with blond hair and blue eyes. I had went shopping with some of my amigas and bought the most amazing white dress to impress him.

            The night of my party, I looked beautiful with my black hair curled and falling past my shoulders.  Eddie walked in the door and eyed me from across the room. My cheeks were scarlet as he took my hand and whispered something cute in my ear. Then, something happened that ruined my party and the relationship I had with my dad. I saw my father marching across the dance floor with a jealous look in his eyes. I knew he was thinking that I was going to trade his first dance for one with Eddie. “The premier dance is for Papi!” he stated firmly is strongly-accented, broken English. “Hola, Senor Rodriquez, my name is Eddie and I think your daughter looks very beautiful tonight.” I translated what Eddie said so that my father could understand. “Yes. She too much beautiful for you!” my father said, sounding like a child throwing a tantrum. Blood rushed to my cheeks and I told Eddie in English that I was embarrassed and I was going to the washroom. My father looked confused at this so Eddie said to him, “Ella esta embarazada. Va por el bano.” which to Eddie meant, “She is embarrassed; she is going to the bathroom.” In Spanish, the word embarazada sounds like the English word embarrassed but it actually means pregnant. My jaw dropped and it took me a moment for the confusion to register inside of my brain. My father’s eyes widened like jaw breakers and I swear I saw smoke come out of his ears. He swore and gripped Eddie by the lapels and dragged him out the door, all while Eddie was completely confused about the whole situation. I cried and all my girlfriends came running over to wipe the running mascara off of my face. I didn’t speak to Papi for weeks.

I held onto my carry-on bag tightly as I searched for my aisle seat. I passed an old coughing woman, and a foreign couple speaking a language that to me just sounded like clicks and hums. I gulped nervously at my first experience of culture shock. I found my seat and sat down beside a man in his mid-thirties. I adjusted my sweat-shirt and shoved my carry-on below me under my seat. Thoughts of my home in Argentina swirled in my mind. How could I leave my normal life of being a typical Argentinean girl? In my mind, I had serious doubts of whether or not I could do this.

A few years later, I was on speaking terms with Papi, but we were not very close. He was wide and short and he waddled around the house like a chubby, annoying little penguin. “Mija!” he called through the halls of our house. “What you want for eat?” I told him that his English was bad and that he should just talk to me in our native language, but he insisted on practicing English even though he never improved. “Mija, I need practice English because it just one difficult thing,” he said. In Spanish he continued, “Difficult things are like a grain of sand because on a beautiful beach there are millions of them. To have a beautiful life, one must go through many hard things to gain wisdom.” I nodded absentmindedly, not knowing how much this small and seemingly useless piece of advice would mean to me in the future.

As I helped him cook rice, beans and chicken for our supper, he began telling me about his childhood in Cochabamba. “I was only 12 years old when I lost my parents. They were killed in a car accident in the busy streets of Bolivia and I was devastated. I was left to look after my sisters and brother alone. It was a hard life and I had to work very hard and drop out of school to take care of them. When I was 16, I made the decision to move with my siblings to Argentina to find work. I knew we would have a safer and better life than we did in Bolivia. I loved my city but sometimes when you love something, you have to let it go.” So many years later, I look back on what Papi told me that day and cry, remembering the rich smells of rice and frijoles that lingered in the air.

When I was 19 and away at university, I received a phone call that a family friend had gone to our house and found Papi passed out on the living room floor. I was frantic and boarded the next bus to Las Flores as soon as I could. I called my sister and the two of us spent hours waiting for the doctors to let us know how Papi was doing. “Maria Ines Rodriquez?” a soft voiced called into the waiting room. My sister, Esperanza and I rushed over to the doctor anxiously. When the doctor informed us that Papi had a brain tumor, Esperanza cried and I just stood there stunned and broken. He continued to tell us that there wasn’t much to be done and that the tumor was already too far along to operate on. I refused to believe what I was hearing and I spoke rudely to the doctor, demanding to see my father.

We entered Papi’s room and he looked at us, his eyes brave and majestic. He looked older and weaker and I hated seeing him this way. “Mija,” he said with a light-hearted giggle, “Don’t worry! Everyone has their time, and I have lived quite a long and wonderful life. I have seen both of my girls blossom into beautiful women and I have enjoyed many fine meals and beautiful days at the beach.” How could he make jokes at a time like this? I never could understand how he could be so happy even in his worst hours. “But Papi,” cried my little sister, “I love you!” He just laughed calmly and rubbed her head. “Esperanza, sometimes when you love something, you have to let it go.”

            At Papi’s funeral, I cried one single round tear. It built up behind my eye and pushed its way to the corner and finally rolled down my cheek. As it dropped onto my hand, it reminded me of the analogy that Papi had taught me, all those years ago, about the grain of sand. I compared in to the sand, and knew that Papi would tell me difficult experiences are what made us grow as humans. We needed difficult experiences to make us wiser and stronger…so I hoped that I would get through this so that someday I could say that I survived and that it made me stronger. From here though, it didn’t look too good. I walked by his open casket and placed a note in the pocket of his suit. I caught a glimpse of his face and had to turn away. He looked so serene and sophisticated, just as he had in life. I grimaced and I felt like I couldn’t stand to stay in the room another moment. Eddie looked at me from the pews with a sympathetic expression on his face. Memories of Papi washed over my mind like a horrible flood. I remembered one particular day that he walked into the house from his time working in our garden, singing old salsa songs. He had his hands behind his back and strolled over to me singing, “Maria, Maria, Maria Ines…my beautiful flower, my beautiful rose!” He grabbed my hand and we danced in the kitchen as his voice floated into my ears and I giggled at him for stepping on my feet.

As we took off, I watched Argentina disappearing below me. I knew working with kids in Bangladesh was going to be a rewarding but difficult experience. I focused my thoughts on using this trying time to gain wisdom and put Papi’s advice into action.   I thought of all the things and people that I would miss: my sister, my friends, the cows trotting through our streets in the day and the Spanish music that echoed through them at night. Endless nights of dancing and drinking with my closest friends, the beautiful language that spewed from my tongue, and all of our creative art and jewelry. I would never find any of these things in Bangladesh. I put my fingers to my lips and blew a kiss to my country, my family, my friends and to Papi. I traced lines in the condensation on the window as I said goodbye to Argentina. I loved Argentina with all my heart, but sometimes when you love something, you have to let it go.

 

Reviews

[julian3]

This is simply overwhleming - it is not only a story, an interesting tale, a diversion for a few moments - no, this is an experience, this is a life with an open door which calls to the reader to enter, to sit with the family, and with the narrator, and to wear the hearts and emotions and thoughts of these people, as if one wore a wonderful garment. The descriptions bring all of the people to life, the words are economical and precise yet they flow so well that we actually hear the words being spoken, feel the emotions of the moments - we find ourselves present in the little home, feel ourselves in the waiting area of the hospital, and stand present at the casket for that simple and deeply moving moment of tribute and - for the moment - farewell. Exceptionally well done.