The vehicle was borrowed from my grandmother, my mother’s mother-in-law. It was nearly 900 feet long and lacked air conditioning. As we cruised down the highway, all the windows were rolled down, and the powerful gusts of wind blew our hair into a chaotic mess.
In the back seat was a rear-facing position that my cousins adored, while I found it utterly frustrating. I preferred to see where we were headed, rather than dwell on where we had been.
We nicknamed the car “La Bamba,” not for its cultural significance but for its dismal state. My mom would often drop me off at the long circular drive in front of my school, fully aware of my disdain for the vehicle and the changes it symbolized.
The first car she purchased after the divorce was a secondhand 1979 Mercury Cougar. It boasted a white exterior with maroon pleather seats and an alternator that frequently left us stranded. This was the vehicle she entrusted to me when she decided it was time for me to learn to drive.
On my first attempt to back down the driveway at my grandparents’ house, the rear wheels found themselves stuck in the shallow drainage ditch across the street. “Mom, I’m never going to learn how to drive,” I complained.
“Of course, you will. Just pull forward and try again,” she encouraged. She insisted I practice until I mastered the art of turning the steering wheel correctly and aligning with the street.
During my sophomore year, my mom bought a brand-new, vibrant blue Toyota Corolla—the first car she had ever purchased on her own. Her excitement was palpable as she jumped out of the car in front of our small apartment. “Let’s go for a ride!” she exclaimed, her energy electrifying the atmosphere. I felt a buzz of anticipation as I slid into the front seat, only to notice, to my horror, that she had chosen a car with a manual transmission.
“Uh, Mom, this is a stick shift,” I said hesitantly.
“I know!” she replied enthusiastically. “Isn’t it amazing?”
The Cougar was an automatic, and I had no knowledge of how to operate a car with a standard transmission. As I was preparing to obtain my license in a couple of months, I couldn’t see how this was a good idea.
“But I don’t know how to drive a stick,” I protested.
“I know,” she said, shifting into gear and pulling out of the driveway. “I’m going to teach you. Every girl should know how to drive a standard.” She recounted a news story about two girls who were abducted, emphasizing the importance of being able to drive. “I never want you to be the girl in the trunk.” My lessons began shortly after.
Although I mostly learned to drive a stick shift, my relationship with the speedy little Corolla was tumultuous. I scraped the side against a guardrail while reversing, knocked off a bumper section after hitting a fence, and damaged the passenger side by pulling out in front of a car full of guys who were uninterested in my request to call the cops. Eventually, I caused enough damage that I required a tow truck after running a stop sign; in my defense, a tree obscured the sign.
When my mother arrived to assess the damage, I handed her my driver’s license, my face streaked with tears. “What’s this?” she asked, her anger palpable.
“My license. It’s clear I shouldn’t be driving,” I said.
She pointed at the card, her voice stern. “You put this back in your wallet and never say that again.” Her tone softened as she added, “Now, let’s focus on the car.”
My family often recounts the time my father bought a new pickup truck with a manual shift on the steering column, fully aware that my mother didn’t know how to drive it. Undeterred, she taught herself, fueled by determination and a fierce spirit.
For my mom, possessing a car and the ability to drive symbolized control over one’s destiny, safety, and freedom. It meant never becoming a victim or being confined at home. She may not have made me an excellent driver, but she instilled in me the values of perseverance, independence, and the importance of fighting for what matters.
During my senior year, she gifted me a 1979 Monte Carlo, which I took with me when I left home that summer. For the next five years, I drove it along Interstate 10 to work and college, windows down, hair blowing in the wind, always focused on the road ahead.
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In summary, learning to drive with my mother was a journey filled with challenges, determination, and life lessons. Through our experiences, I gained not only driving skills but also an understanding of resilience and independence, shaping my approach to life.
Keyphrase: Learning to drive with my mother
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