Extraordinary, Ordinary People: A Memoir of Family

chapter twenty-six

I returned to Denver late in the summer of 1975, full of expectations that my new master’s degree would help me land an interesting job. My parents were delighted to have me back home, and invited me to redecorate my room. I did so in the style of the mid-1970s, complete with a gauzy red and pink Indian print bedspread and lots of candles purchased from Pier 1 Imports. Nonetheless, I told my folks that I intended to stay for only a year or so until I could afford my own place.

A friend from Notre Dame called to say that her boyfriend, who’d been drafted by the Denver Broncos, was planning to go out after the Broncos’ first exhibition game with some of his friends and wondered if I’d be willing to come along. I agreed to go, and after the game we met up with several of his rookie friends. The night was a disaster. The players were a bit loud for my taste—and cheap. We went dancing at a bar, but they ran out of money, leaving the girls to pay for the third and fourth rounds of drinks (though they seemed to find money for a stop at McDonald’s on the way home). The evening seemed to go on forever, and I was really glad to finally get home well after two in the morning.

The next day my friend called to say that one of the guys who’d seen me the evening before wanted to meet me. “You are just lucky that I’m speaking to you,” I told her, reminding her of how badly the night had gone. But she persisted, saying that Rick Upchurch hadn’t been among the offending group and was really nice. The four of us went out, and I found myself very attracted to Rick, who was a fourth-round draft choice from the University of Minnesota.

The next day I ran to the grocery store to look up his name in Street & Smith’s pro football guide. Frankly, I wanted to see if he was likely to make the team and stick around for a while. As I was returning home from the store, Rick drove up in his new blue and white Chevy. He met my parents, who were very impressed with his politeness. We started seeing each other regularly, almost every day.

Rick was a good guy, and for the first time I thought I’d found the man I wanted to marry. We were so in sync, and he loved my parents. I came home one evening to find Rick in the basement playing pool with my father. It wasn’t uncommon for Rick to visit my dad even when I was not there.

My personal life was very satisfying, but I couldn’t find a job. The economy was in recession in 1975, and I quickly learned that my Soviet studies expertise wasn’t very much in demand in Denver. I considered moving to Washington, D.C., but I didn’t want to leave Rick and my very happy life in Denver. I decided to teach piano, the one thing for which there was demand. The irony was not lost on me, or my parents, that the very thing I’d feared had come to pass: I was a piano teacher.

One evening my father came into my room where I was listening to sad songs and feeling very much the failure. He told me that he was sure the setback was temporary but wondered if I’d acquired enough education to do what I wanted to do. He knew that I’d applied to law school and been accepted at several, including Denver. “Do you want to be a lawyer?” he asked. I said no but that I was sure a law degree would mean something in the workplace. I certainly didn’t want to chase a PhD. I could have added, And end up like Aunt Theresa, reading the same book twenty-five times. “Well,” Daddy said, “your mother and I are ready to help you in whatever you decide to do.” He didn’t have to say it, but I was glad that he did.

Then one day shortly before Christmas I went by to say hello to Dr. Korbel. I hadn’t done so since returning from Notre Dame. The afternoon was snowy and cold and Dr. Korbel was sitting in his corner office in his cardigan sweater, smoking the pipe that he almost always seemed to have with him. He asked what I was doing and in an instant I poured out everything to him. I wanted to be a Soviet specialist, but I didn’t want to take on PhD work. Maybe I would go to law school, but I didn’t want to be a lawyer. “Frankly,” I told him, “I don’t know what I want to do.”

Over the years I’ve seen so many of my students go through this crisis of confidence. Having been through it myself has helped me be a better advisor. And I have told countless students what both my father and Dr. Korbel told me: “If you don’t want to be a lawyer, don’t go to law school.”

So I didn’t. Dr. Korbel helpfully suggested that I just take a few courses starting that winter quarter. I wouldn’t have to commit to a PhD program but could see if I still liked the idea of more graduate work. I learned that there was a master’s degree in public administration, which sounded practical, and I thought I might enter that program in the spring. I started classes and was so happy to be back in school.

That winter Aunt Theresa came to visit. One day she asked if I was happy doing graduate work, adding that I seemed to be even if it wasn’t leading anywhere. She related the ups and downs of her journey, including her experience as a visiting professor at the University of Liberia in 1961. It started to occur to me that she had indeed had an interesting career. And then she said something that had a lasting impact on me: “Condoleezza, if you don’t do the PhD you’ll always wonder how far you could have gone.”

I thought hard about it, consulted Dr. Korbel again, and before the spring quarter ended was admitted to the PhD program at the Graduate School of International Studies at Denver. And oh yes, I continued to teach piano, but with a new purpose: it helped pay my graduate school bills.