The car was borrowed from my grandmother, my mom’s mother-in-law. It felt like it was about 900 feet long and, to add to our discomfort, it lacked air conditioning. We would roar down the highway with all the windows rolled down, and the wind gusting through the car turned our hair into wild, tangled messes.
In the back was a rear-facing seat that my cousins adored but I absolutely loathed. I wanted to see where we were headed, not where we had just been.
We dubbed the car “La Bamba,” not for its lively connotations but because it was a total wreck. Every time my mom dropped me off in front of my school, I could sense her understanding of my disdain for the vehicle and everything it symbolized.
The first car she bought after her divorce was a secondhand ’79 Mercury Cougar. It was white with maroon pleather seats and an alternator that left us stranded more times than I can count. This was the car she chose for my driving lessons.
The first time I attempted to back down the driveway at my grandparents’ house, the rear wheels plunged straight into the shallow drainage ditch across the street.
“Mom, this is pointless! I’m never going to learn how to drive,” I exclaimed.
“Yes, you will. Just pull forward and give it another go,” she encouraged, insisting I keep practicing until I could turn the wheel just right to align with the street.
During my sophomore year of high school, my mom treated herself to a shiny new blue Toyota Corolla—the first car she purchased all by herself. Her joy was contagious as she hopped out of the car in front of our small apartment.
“Let’s go for a ride!” she exclaimed, practically dancing around the vehicle. I felt the excitement in the air, but my heart sank when I realized she had bought a stick shift.
“Uh, Mom, this is a manual,” I said, dread creeping in.
“I know!” she replied enthusiastically. “Isn’t it awesome?”
The Cougar had been an automatic, and I knew nothing about driving a manual transmission. With my license just a few months away, I was not convinced it was awesome at all.
“But I can’t drive a stick,” I protested.
“Don’t worry,” she said confidently, shifting into gear and pulling out of the driveway. “I’ll teach you. Every girl should know how to drive a standard.”
She recounted a news story about two girls who had been abducted, emphasizing that one of them couldn’t drive a manual and ended up in the trunk. “I never want you to be that girl,” she said, and my lessons began.
While I mostly learned to handle the stick shift, my experience with the speedy little Corolla was tumultuous. I scraped the side on a guardrail while reversing, knocked off a bumper section by running into a fence, and once, I even collided with a car full of guys who definitely weren’t interested in my report. The final straw was when I ran a stop sign, colliding with enough force to require a tow truck—though, in my defense, a tree was blocking my view of the sign.
When my mom arrived to assess the damage, I handed her my driver’s license, my face stained with tears.
“What’s this?” she asked, her voice edged with anger.
“My license. It’s clear I shouldn’t be driving,” I murmured.
She pointed at the plastic card with resolve. “Put this back in your wallet and don’t ever let me hear you say that again.” Her tone softened. “Now, let’s figure out the car.”
Family lore includes the tale of the time my dad bought a brand new pickup truck with a manual transmission, knowing full well my mom couldn’t drive it. Undeterred, she taught herself, fueled by determination and a fierce “I’ll show you” attitude.
For my mom, driving symbolized control over her life. It meant safety. It meant freedom. It meant never being at the mercy of others, such as being trapped in the trunk.
Though she may not have turned me into a stellar driver, she instilled in me the values of perseverance, independence, and fighting for what matters.
During my senior year of high school, my mom gifted me a ’79 Monte Carlo, and I took it with me when I left home that summer. For the next five years, I drove it back and forth on Interstate 10, windows down, hair flowing in the wind, always focused on the road ahead.
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In summary, learning to drive with my mother was about more than just mastering the road; it was a journey of resilience and independence, shaped by the challenges we faced together.
Keyphrase: Learning to Drive with My Mother
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