The car we drove was a true family relic on loan from my Granny, my mom’s mother-in-law. This beast was about 900 feet long and definitely didn’t come with air conditioning. As we cruised down the highway with the windows wide open, hurricane-force winds whipped through, turning our hair into a wild mess.
In the back seat, there was a rear-facing seat that my cousins adored while I found it utterly annoying. Who wants to look back? I wanted to see the journey unfold ahead of me! We affectionately named the car “La Bamba”—not for its rhythm but rather because it was a total clunker.
Every morning, my mom would drop me off at the long circular driveway of my school. Without needing to say a word, she understood how much I despised that car and everything it represented. The first vehicle she purchased after her divorce was a secondhand ’79 Mercury Cougar. It was white with a maroon faux leather interior and an alternator that loved to leave us stranded.
When it was time for me to learn to drive, that Cougar didn’t seem like the best choice. The first time I attempted to back down my grandparents’ driveway, the back wheels got stuck in the drainage ditch across the street.
“Mom, this is useless. I’m never gonna learn to drive!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, you will. Just pull forward and try again,” she encouraged.
She made me practice until I was finally able to master the steering wheel angles needed to align with the street. Then, during my sophomore year of high school, she surprised me with a brand new, bright blue Toyota Corolla—the first new car she had ever bought on her own. Her joy was infectious as she bounced out of the car, practically dancing around it.
“Come on! Let’s go for a ride!” she exclaimed, while I felt a jolt of excitement and dread simultaneously. Just then, I noticed the standard transmission.
“Uh, Mom, this car is a stick shift.”
“I know! Isn’t it fantastic?” Her enthusiasm was palpable.
The Cougar was automatic, and I knew less about driving a stick shift than I did about rocket science. Given that my license was just around the corner, I found it anything but fantastic.
“But I don’t know how to drive a stick!”
“I know,” she replied, popping the car into gear. “I’m going to teach you. All girls should know how to drive a standard.”
She even told a story she had heard on the news about two girls who were abducted, and the one who couldn’t drive a stick shift ended up in the trunk. With a determined look, she pushed in the clutch and switched gears. “I never want you to be that girl in the trunk.”
Thus began my lessons. While I mostly learned how to navigate the stick shift, my relationship with the speedy little Corolla was rocky. I scraped the side against a guardrail while reversing, knocked off a section of the bumper after a run-in with a fence, and managed to cause enough damage after running a stop sign that I needed a tow truck. In my defense, there was a tree blocking the view of the stop sign!
When my mom showed up to assess the situation, I handed her my driver’s license, tears streaming down my face.
“What’s this?” she asked, clearly angry.
“My license. It’s obvious I shouldn’t be driving.”
She pointed at the plastic card, her voice firm. “You put this back in your wallet and don’t you ever say that again.” Her tone softened, “Now, let’s deal with the car.”
My family often recounts the time my dad bought a new pickup truck with a manual shift. Knowing my mom couldn’t drive it, she taught herself, fueled by nothing but determination and a fierce attitude. To her, driving was synonymous with control over her life, safety, and the freedom to avoid being trapped—whether literally or metaphorically.
While she might not have turned me into the best driver, she instilled in me the value of perseverance, independence, and the importance of fighting for what matters. By my senior year of high school, she gifted me a ’79 Monte Carlo, which I took 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 flying, always focused on the road ahead.
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Summary:
Learning to drive with my mom was an adventure filled with clunky cars, stubborn determination, and life lessons. From mastering a stick shift to understanding the freedom driving provides, she taught me invaluable lessons about independence and resilience.