Learning to Drive
My dad was the only parent who was patient enough to let me drive to church. We practiced in a big bodied 2008 sleek black Toyota Sequoia with no backup camera but a TV in the middle of the ceiling that played Finding Nemo and Lion King 1 ½ on rotation for my active eight year old brother. Through the truck's windows you would first see my daddy, whose arms looked like he trained bodybuilders; my mom, with her ready-for-church laid pixie cut inspired by Halle Berry from 007; a half-asleep teen full of teenage angst, with braids or a sweated out silk press; and my eight year old brother with his TV headphones, enamored by the sea creatures in Finding Nemo (he is a marine biologist now). From first glance, the Sequoia looked like a drug dealer car with a quirky family inside.
Regardless, I started to be the first one ready on Sundays because it meant I got to drive to church. I felt so big and powerful because I was so high up in that truck and had the reinforcement of my swole-ass daddy next to me, both directions, reassurance if I got too close to the curbs. Confidence was exuding from that vehicle. I don't remember any of the pointers, cues, or tips my daddy gave except "the right of way is yours to give" and his constant reminder to let up off my "iron foot." One day, high on my moving throne, it was time for me to learn how to put the car in the garage.
As I internally celebrated another successful trip home from church without hitting a curb or a median, I pulled the car into our driveway, stopped, and took the key out. Out of routine, Daddy looks at me through his low rider glasses with one bicep half out the window, and the other hand hanging on the car lever door (maybe he was bracing himself), and calmly says with a half smile, "OK girl, you let's see if you can put Sasha in the garage." (Daddy named our car after Sasha, the Russian name for a savior ship from the apocalyptic themed movie 2012.) Daddy usually had me pull Sasha up into our driveway, get out, and switch places with him from the driver's seat, so he could put her in the garage. But today was different. Today, somehow, I had built up enough of my driving skills to unlock a new level of "teen driver's trust." I giddily looked at him, and proceeded to pull the truck in before he changed his mind.
With the seat up as high and as close up as it can go (I am 5'2"), I rev up the engine with the key that seemed to go into the ignition like butter. (Sasha was the newest car we had, so she felt silky smooth in comparison to the 1994 non-named Toyota 4Runner I was raised in.) I was bubbly and excited because I felt that I was one step closer to becoming an independent driver.
I lightly tapped the gas after I checked the mirrors, not for anything in particular, just because I felt like that's what good drivers did. I wanted to prove that I was a good driver so I could stop asking my parents for rides that they hated giving out on behalf of my social butterfly, yes-to-anything, active schedule. I slowly eased the car into the driveway, mindful of my iron foot. I wanted to pretend like my foot was made of linen, so I was driving abnormally slow. I finally made it past the ten feet from our driveway to the garage, and that felt like ten miles.
Now, the Gaiter family are known for being "pack rats." We keep a lotta stuff. And we do a lot of different activities. So our garage had gardening utensils, Daddy's tools, bricks, my brother's football gear, and two refrigerators (we also like to eat). Everything was organized in a meticulous way so the two cars, Sasha and non-named, would fit perfectly. So I had to be mindful not to hit any of our precious family cargo with this precious shiny sleek black Sequoia.
I eased in and made it past the tools, past the random extra bricks aligned along our wall, and almost home free to the refrigerators. However, I wanted to prove myself, and the perfectionist in me backed out a tiny bit to assure I was in perfect alignment with the garage and non-named. Daddy glared at me from behind his shades but remained silent. As a teen, I remember being oily and sweaty, so I know my forehead by now was extra shiny and my hormone-induced sweat glands were pumping double time, staining my cheap polyester church shirt from Ross Dress for Less.
I gently re-enter Sasha's chamber, foot like linen, ready to line up perfectly with the tools, but as I enter, suddenly Sasha's right side view mirror gets lodged into the silver frame of the garage.
Now Daddy is alert. He looks at me and blurts out with a big ole smile, "Girl!"
He was used to the clumsiness of the women in our family, so after the hairbrush-in-the-toilet incident, or even the handsaw–mood ring incident, he found all of our mishaps hilarious and arsenal to add to his frequent roasting sessions we would have.
I, on the other hand, did panic, but being a perfectionist and a person who likes to be in control, I assured him, I, ready to become an independent driver, could get us out of this in no time. I nervously laughed and shrieked out a high pitched, "I got it, Daddy!" And turned my head to back up and try again. But Sasha will not let go of the garage.
Somehow I lodged her right rearview mirror perfectly in between the frame of the garage. So no matter how much I pulled out or in, she would not free herself.
If it's one thing my mom taught me, it was to know when to "let it go," or also known as "giving up," depending on how you frame it. I released the need to prove myself to be the perfect independent driver, and admitted defeat. I hopped out of Sasha, tuning out my daddy's half-joke-cracking, half-lecturing antics, and let him solve the problem before I ripped the whole garage out. I might have even gone into the house.
However, the following Sunday morning, he handed me the keys like our little "incident" never happened. I probably never thanked him for his patience. So I'd like to leave you all with this.
First: tell your guardians thank you for dealing with the teenage version of you. As a youth program provider, teenagers can be moody and fickle, but these are the formative years, so thank your people. Then: release yourself from perfection, and remember that independence is not a badge of honor. You also need to keep people around you who are willing to drive, help you course correct, so you can go inside and rest. And last, my dad was a very unserious person, and I love him for that. I love that he never took my mishaps or flaws seriously. He always remembered to laugh. So hold on to your joy, y'all, and give yourself permission to LOL.
With so much love,
Gabriell