The car I learned to drive in was a relic, borrowed from my grandmother. It was a behemoth of a vehicle—approximately 900 feet long—without the luxury of air conditioning. We would cruise down the highway with the windows thrown wide open, the wind howling through the car, turning our hair into a wild mess. In the back, a rear-facing seat that my cousins adored was my personal nightmare; I wanted to see the road ahead, not reminisce about what lay behind.
We affectionately nicknamed it “La Bamba,” not for its danceable flair, but because it felt like a total wreck. My mom would drop me off at school, fully aware of my disdain for the car and everything it symbolized. Following her divorce, her first purchase was a used ’79 Mercury Cougar, white with maroon pleather seats and an alternator that seemed to have a penchant for malfunctioning. This was the vehicle where I was supposed to learn the art of driving.
On my first attempt, as I backed down the driveway of my grandparents’ house, the rear wheels careened straight into a drainage ditch. “Mom, this is pointless. I’ll never learn to drive,” I despaired. “Of course you will. Just pull forward and give it another shot,” she encouraged. She insisted on practice until I could perfectly align the car with the street.
During my sophomore year, Mom treated herself to a shiny new bright blue Toyota Corolla—the first brand new car she had ever bought on her own. Her excitement was contagious as she bounded out of the car in front of our tiny apartment. “Let’s go for a ride!” she exclaimed, practically dancing around the vehicle. But then I noticed, to my horror, that it was a manual transmission.
“Uh, Mom, this is a stick shift,” I said, panic setting in. “I know!” she replied with glee. “Isn’t it awesome?” The Cougar was automatic, and I felt as adept at driving a standard as I would at performing brain surgery. “But I don’t know how to drive a stick,” I protested. “I know,” she said, shifting into gear as she pulled out of the driveway. “I’m going to teach you. Every girl should know how to drive a standard.”
She shared a news story about two girls who were abducted; the one who couldn’t drive a stick ended up in the trunk. “I never want you to be that girl,” she insisted, and my lessons began.
While I mostly learned the nuances of a stick shift, my relationship with that speedy little Corolla was tumultuous. I scraped the side against a guardrail while reversing, and I tore off part of the bumper after colliding with a fence. I even damaged the passenger side when I pulled out in front of a group of guys who were less than sympathetic about my predicament. Eventually, I created enough damage to warrant a tow truck after running a stop sign—though, in my defense, a tree had been obscuring it.
When Mom arrived to assess the damage, I handed her my driver’s license with tears in my eyes. “What’s this?” she asked, clearly upset. “My license. It’s obvious I shouldn’t be behind the wheel.” She pointed the plastic card back at me. “You put this back in your wallet and never say that again.” Her tone softened. “Now, let’s deal with the car.”
Family lore recounts the time my dad bought a new manual pickup truck, fully aware my mom didn’t know how to drive it. With sheer determination, she taught herself, proving that she wouldn’t be sidelined by anything. To her, driving represented control over one’s path, safety, and freedom. It was about not being trapped or powerless.
While my mom may not have made me the best driver, she instilled in me the importance of perseverance, independence, and standing up for what matters. In my senior year, she gifted me a ’79 Monte Carlo, a vehicle I would take with me when I left home that summer. For the next five years, I drove it back and forth along Interstate 10, windows down, hair flying, always focused on the open road ahead.
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