by Focus
© 2001 Focus, all rights reserved
In some places they cut with a sharp blade into the face of youth. In some places the youngster must survive alone in the wilderness for a week. In other places a certain age must be attained, skills mastered, and ceremonies endured. But every society has rites of passage from childhood to adulthood, from dependence to independence.
In the United States, youths are neither mutilated nor honored in elaborate ceremonies. Our youths celebrate their ritual of passage by passing the DMV test, getting a driver's license, and getting a car. Then freedom is theirs!
When my daughter reached the age of 16, I paid for professional lessons, then risked my own life and vehicle teaching her to drive - but her car didn't materialize.
We had a faded old '86 Dodge with her name on it, but my ex-husband killed his own vehicle (He skipped filling the leaky radiator with water, and skipped filling the leaky engine with oil. "I knew it was low, but I thought I could make it to town and back." He had to walk the last half mile, and his pickup will likely never run again.) Ex took our daughter's car for himself.
"I'll take the Dodge," he said, "drive it a week or two, until I get a new pickup, and meanwhile repair a few little things on the Dodge that need repair so that it will be nicer for our girl." Instead he drove it to death. Eight months later, the car came back filthy, smelling of oil and sweat, with the rear view mirror on the floor of the back seat, with a cracked windshield, and with the trunk full of water and moldy lumps. Worse, the car came back non-functional.
For a while I pouted, tried to get Ex to foot a repair bill, and worried about whether it was worthwhile to pay to have the thing fixed. For a while Ex made empty promises that he'd come over "soon" and do a little work on it, at least get it running well enough to drive to the shop. For a while weeds entwined themselves about its axles, and rats built their nest in the air filter. For a while the neighbor's peacock roosted on it and pooped.
For a while my daughter pouted. She sulked. She begged. She looked at that hulk wistfully, and made sad comments about how nice it would be for her to have her own transportation, and how convenient it would be for me not to have to haul her everywhere she needed to go. She shouted that life isn't fair. She cried. And, worst of all, she borrowed my car! So finally I gave in, called the tow truck, and took the Dodge to be repaired.
$700 and a week later that car ran! It was still peeling, ugly, stinky and moldy, but it ran. At age 17, my girl had a car! She was a little embarrassed by the fact that you had to open the trunk, pull a wire, and jimmie the gas tank lid with a screwdriver in order to fill the gas tank, but by golly she had transportation! My daughter washed the car. She sprayed it with deodorizer. She cleared the trash from the back seat, and the moldy things from the trunk. She hung a blue crystal heart from the rearview mirror. She bought a royal blue steering wheel cover. She started offering rides to every carless friend she had.
My daughter smiled at me, and waved good-bye.