On cars and acceptance

When in Ithaca...

For those of you who know me well understand that I have a long history of owning crappy cars. In college I had a Ford Taurus (yes, a Ford Taurus, an abomination to the invention of the automobile), and each winter, it would slide down the snowy, Ithacan hills until I'd reach some sort of plateau in the Commons, and I'd thank God that I was alive another winter day. That sucker was begrudgingly by my side until graduation week when I sold it to some shady towny for $650 (I made $100 off of the sale). Upon returning to Santa Cruz, I purchased another gem: a BROWN1990 Honda Accord Station Wagon. The best part was the completely rusted hood. I felt a bit like those people that have serious hoarding issues; those such individuals always seem to drive some sort of floppy station wagon. It wasn't a good fit, and it sort of pathetically petered out one morning on my commute to Watsonville.  Most recently, I have my 1995 Honda Civic, manual transmission. Anyone who knows the Civic understands that it holds its value for a long time, and it's just an all-around solid, reliable vehicle. When I started driving this about two years ago, I was thrilled. It was no Audi, no Prius, but I almost looked like a normal, professional adult. I almost felt kind of cool in my car. This was a whole new experience for me. I could get in and turn on the heat OR the a/c for that matter. The speakers worked if I turned the bass off, and basically, I was on top of the world.

Then one evening after visiting my dear friend, Marisol, in Aptos, my car-lust was no more. As I was in the outside turning lane to get on the freeway at State Park Drive, the man on the inside turn lane decided to go straight, thus ramming straight into the driver's side of my little beauty. Only slightly shaky, (I've been in a major car accident before...)we pulled over at the nearby church and exchanged information. I almost cried looking at the smashed doors on the poor, innocent little body. After he informed me that it was his first day in the country and his GPS told him to go straight rather than turn, I gave him a little hug, and we chuckled about the strange layout of the ol' American roads....er...whatever, I felt bad for the guy.

So my brother and I end up exchanging cars, because as a student, he has a more flexible schedule to get my car fixed for me. I end up driving his equally sorry car--1995 Mazda pick-up truck (the hick brother to the Ford Taurus). As I begin my daily commute to Felton, I realize that it stalls in 2nd and the anti-freeze leaks into the car so that when I turn on the defroster, it smells eerily like maple-syrup flavored Quaker Oatmeal packs.  After a few weeks of driving his truck, I realize that I am frequently congested, and the anti-freeze may be giving me some rare form of lung cancer.

Long story short, my Dad decides it's not worth fixing my Honda, and the $1800 I got for the damage could go to something more practical. So there you have it--I drive the injured Honda to teaching each morning. My co-workers do a double take when I park in the staff lot, wondering if they should scold the student for parking in the lot.

So why have I told you about my complicated past relationships? Well, this morning on my way to work, I lower the visor and notice a little prayer card clipped to it with a binder clip. My dad must have borrowed the car when Nick and I switched cars. Anyway, I usually ignore his little religious icons because he likes to put them everywhere that you might possibly look (glove box, bathroom mirror, pillow, you  name it). When we were little, there was an average of five crucifixes hanging in each room, but that's a whole different topic. So I decide, hey I've got a few minutes, why not read this.

 It is titled "Acceptance," and I realize this is something that is so apt for me, so I pause before walking to class and take a moment to read it:

When I am disturbed, it is because I find some person, place, thing or situation -- some fact of my life --unacceptable to me. I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at that moment.


Nothing, absolutely nothing, happens in God's world by mistake. Unless I accept life completely on life's terms, I cannot be happy.


I need to concentrate not so much on what needs to be changed in the world as on what needs to be changed in me and in my attitudes.

As a bit of a control freak, this is something I have struggled with and continue to struggle with on a daily basis. But each day I focus on accepting, or going even further--embracing-- "life on life's terms," I am a little more content than I was the day before.  I understand my students better; I am more grateful for my relationships, and I am a little more forgiving of myself. And suddenly it makes perfect sense why I step into my car each morning.

The unexamined

pluck and proceed.

Sometime around 6:30 AM, still shuffling around in my purple, fuzzy bathrobe and half listening to the coffee grinder downstairs, I methodically perform the grey scan.

Starting just below my left ear, I draw a sharp part, and I check for any newbies--the white, wiry little buggers that might have pushed their way through over night. Occasionally, I notice a veteran intruder--one that I missed from previous days. I pluck and proceed, moving faithfully over the arc of my head.

Three minutes later, and I have completed the Do and Die, and my head is back in harmony.

And then the morning unfolds: brush the teeth; throw on something I've worn only once this week; search for the keys; I'm out the door.


~~~

Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery" is a disturbing tale of human reluctance to question or reject tradition and routine. In her story, the townspeople partake in a yearly lottery. The reader expects that some glorious lottery--a large sum of money, a prize, or magic of sorts--will result. However, in the end, Tessie Hutchinson "wins" the lottery and is given the gift of death by stoning. Just like that, her dutiful husband, her young son, and the 300 expressionless townspeople become her executioners, hurrying to finish the process so they "can get back to work."

~~~

Following some gasps of shock and eyebrows wincing in disgust, my favorite 16-year-old cynic mutters, "Do you all seriously think this is shocking?"

"What do you mean?" I prod her.

"I mean do any of us really look at our routines...or anything we do..."

She's my student who scarcely remembers childhood innocence, who lost the manual to the game of "School" a while back, yet whose questions are so thought-provoking that her classmates often glance to me to see if I approve of the nature of her inquisitions.

I back-pedal to my corner stool and let her shake the classroom into a lively dialogue:

"What do we do everyday-- bad, good, whatever, but without thinking?"

The class mumbles:
"Eat."
"Crap."
"Yell at my mom."
"Get on the bus."

They all giggle.

"Um yeah," she responds, waiting for her classmates to draw the connection.

"Like how we bully the losers."
"....and smoke weed every day..."
"Follow a religion...."

And as the fervor begets Consciousness, our naked, unexamined lives begin to emerge from the glitter. And from the dust. Chuckling and gawking. Sitting there in the center. A dunce hat. A party cap. Thirsty, nonetheless.

"Whatever...or follow atheism..."

"Do what our parents do..."

"Eat too much..."

And absently, dutifully pluck grey hairs.

A song by the always lovely Kings of Convenience

but I do love David

David Sedaris. He’s #25 on the list of “Stuff White People Like.” The list is a magnificently accurate take on what “the white, hip folk” deem trendy, hilarious, and ironic (See stuffwhitepeoplelike.com). I characterize myself as neither trendy nor hilarious (self-deprecation should definitely make the cut, by the way), but I do love David.

Anyway, Sedaris once said, “He looked as though his life had not only passed him by but paused along the way to spit in his face.”

At the ripe ol’ age of 25, I find myself fearing this—both the passing of my life and the spitting in my face. I reminisce the days of puff painted shirts, pep ralleys, and everlasting summers. I pause to think about my failed romances, plausible careers gone awry, and other cosmic blips. It’s my life. I am in control I think, though the older I get, a future of “the original” and a path “not taken” mutter in a now distant past.

I never wanted to be a teacher. When I was ten, I wanted to be a surgeon. At 15, I wanted to be a professional runner. By the time I was 18, I still wanted to be a professional runner. When I was 21, I wanted to be a professor. When I was 23, I was destined to be a professional vagabond. And a writer. A travel writer.

At 25, I am a teacher.

I watch Grey’s for my bloody fix; I hobble a few miles to make sure I still know how to run; I still dream of being a professor; and my vagabonding days have come to a seismic close.

Here I am, talking to you on a very beaten path. I’ll share with you my minor and major struggles and triumphs, many of which you, too, will share. May life neither pass us by nor spit in out faces. Badabam. Let’s begin.