By Laura Bass
@laurapbass

She was reliable, a little quirky, and though she fit in fairly well, she was decidedly not cool. In our high school parking lot, filled with hand-me-down minivans, beat-up pickup trucks, and cars inherited from grandparents, a light blue Ford Taurus station wagon was nothing remarkable. I named her Bessie. The back was full of red YMCA staff shirts, editions of the latest school newspaper, and a handful of books. The doors were rarely locked, and sometimes I absentmindedly left my keys in the ignition; occasionally someone would bring them to me in class. 

She’d become mine when my grandmother gave up driving, and she is an accurate description of my high school self: president of the youth group, co-editor of the school newspaper, on leadership staff at my job, all-around reliable and dependable. My five-year plan was set by my junior year: apply early decision to Elon University, major in Leisure & Sport Management, graduate, and start a career at the YMCA.

Midway through my senior year, Bessie gave up on me. I was driving to work in the early-morning dark during Christmas break, and she started shuddering and shaking, seeming to be possessed by some strange force. I slowed to a crawl, thankful the road was deserted this early in the morning and inched into the parking lot. 

I dialed our home phone number as I walked towards the Y.

“Dad? Something strange is going on with my car,” I said, annoyed at the inconvenience.

He mumbled, half-awake, “What? Are you okay? What time is it?”

“I’m at work, but my car. It’s shaking and I had to drive really slow, like twenty miles an hour.”

“Okay, I’ll come look in a little,” he replied, snapping into dad mode. “You made it to work, right? Don’t drive until I can come look.”

Around lunch, he walked into the YMCA, waiting as I located kids being picked up early. When there was a lull, he informed me the car was done for, the shaking caused by a failing transmission, and the repair costs more than the car was worth. 

A few days later, we wandered the car lot to find a sensible, reliable used car. My parents had agreed on a budget and parameters for the car, but I was not deterred from using my most persuasive arguments to convince my dad that I should instead get a new car. My hand-me-down station wagon had been perfect for high school, but I was ready for a change.

With my early decision college acceptance in hand and graduation approaching, I was lost in daydreams about what the next year would bring; how I would change when I moved onto campus. I spent hours browsing the campus organizations, trying to decide which I would join; who did I want to be? I started imitating outfits I saw on the college website. I’d chosen a school that only two others from my graduating class of over five hundred would attend. For the first time, I’d be surrounded by people who didn’t know me–this was my chance to be someone new. 

The college-version me I’d started trying to piece together? She drove a new car.

“Yes, obviously, I’ll pay the difference between a new and used one. I have a job, I’m responsible. It will help me build credit.” Without waiting for a response, I launched into my next argument. “You don’t really know what you are getting with a used car, do you? I’ll be driving back and forth from college, a new car will be safer, it will have a warranty.”

When we walked away, I was the proud owner of a brand-new red Corolla.

The Corolla was still sensible and reliable, but it was a slightly cooler ride than the station wagon. The red made me feel a tiny rebel streak in my typically dependable, even-keeled personality. It seemed like a permission slip to try out being someone else. 

***

It was freshman move-in day and the line of cars was at a standstill as I waited for my turn to move onto Elon’s campus. I put my car in park and looked in my rearview mirror. My parents were behind me, their car full of everything that wouldn’t fit in mine. Every inch of my Corolla was packed with items carefully selected to fit the new college version of me.

Tapping my fingers on the window, I worried about whether I would get along with my roommate and how I would make friends. I reviewed the list of campus organizations I’d carefully studied for months, debating which I should sign up for. Would I rush a sorority? Should I look into the newspaper? Maybe I’d like to give campus tours or join the volunteer center?

I scurried around campus, putting my email down on the list for every organization that caught my interest. I tried on different identities and made new friends and when the possibilities and responsibilities of college life overwhelmed me, when I needed an escape, I slipped behind the wheel of my Corolla and drove with no destination in mind. 

Four years flew by, and once again I was standing on the edge of an unknown future. Everyone around me was confidently announcing post-college plans. Unsure of what was next, I spent hours driving my Corolla around the college town I wasn’t ready to leave, and wondered: did I want to stick with the plan I had set as a high school student, so sure of the future? Or was this the time to try something new, live somewhere else? I felt sure I could find a job with the same YMCA I’d worked for in high school, but should I? Maybe I should try a Y somewhere different? I was on student staff with Young Life—should I look into working for a ministry? 

After much debate, I sent in my confirmation paperwork for a year-long inner-city New Orleans ministry program starting in the fall, which meant I could spend one last summer working at the summer camp I loved. I packed my college life away, filled my Corolla with what I’d need for camp and scattered the rest in the attics of friends.

Outwardly, I was enthusiastic about my plans, but on the inside, I questioned why I ever thought this was a good idea. The rules of the ministry program were strict; I’d have to leave my car with my parents and live on $25 a week. I emailed the people I was supposed to be spending the next year with and felt nothing but panic. 

Camp ended, but I stayed around, working in the office until my scheduled departure. A few weeks before my flight, a hurricane struck New Orleans, and emails from the organization started pouring in, a new plan every few minutes. I panicked again, feeling certain this was a sign that this was not the right choice for me, but not knowing what to do about it. After work, I’d hop in my Corolla and drive down back roads, thinking about what it would be like to leave my car–my independence–at home, twelve hours away, while I lived in a place I’d never even visited.

I voiced my hesitation in the office and someone said, “Well… you don’t have to go.”

I didn’t have to go. This thought had never occurred to me. Following through on commitments had always been drilled into my head.

The girl who drove the station wagon would never have considered not going–she was too responsible. The girl who drove the Corolla turned those words over in her head and decided she wasn’t going. She was learning that the world wasn’t so black and white.

Relief washed over me. 

Instead of leaving the Corolla with my parents for a year while I lived in inner-city New Orleans, it carried me to my first full-time job at the YMCA, my first apartment, and through my early twenties as I became an adult. Those years were sometimes lonely as I struggled to establish post-college friendships and find my identity. I made missteps and learned about who I did and didn’t want to be. Every decision I made, from those first tentative steps towards adulthood after high school graduation, through getting married, becoming a stepmother, and bringing a baby home from the hospital were made with my trusty Corolla as my companion. 

I signed the title of the Corolla over to a new owner when my baby was eighteen months old. I felt unsteady on my feet as I walked into the bank for the transaction, knowing my time with my beloved Corolla was up. My hand shook as I signed the papers and I bit my lip, hoping to keep back the tears. When my part of the transaction was done, I felt the weight of the keys in my hand one last time, handed them to my husband—I couldn’t bear giving them to anyone else—and fled to his car where I sobbed uncontrollably.

Saying goodbye to the Corolla seemed like the final step in transitioning from a young adult to a real adult. It felt like letting go of one more connection with my dad, who had passed away six months earlier. I was quitting my full-time job at the Y, a place I thought I would work until I retired, so that I could work part-time and devote more energy to my family. 

I wasn’t just letting go of a car: I was finally letting go of the plans I’d established for my life at sixteen, ready to let go of who I’d thought I would be and embrace who I was.

***

“Can you help me countdown the stoplight?” I ask my boys in the back of the minivan. 

 

“10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5... 4… 3… 2... 1... Blast off!” they yell, squealing when the van starts to move. 

The giggles turn to tears when a snack drops on the floor. More goldfish that will become a permanent part of the minivan carpet. I sigh, thinking of how the minivan will never return to the clean state we purchased it in. No matter how I try to stay on top of it, every time a sliding door opens, I find trash and lost toys. It’s not just loose objects, of course. The coffee stains are my contribution. The pen marks on the back of the seat were a joint effort by the kids.

I notice the gas light is on, and as I step out of the car at the gas station, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. Leggings, Cheerio crumbs stuck to my shoulder, a messy bun—I am the picture of a “minivan mom.” 

Sure, the van is gold, not the color I would have picked, but as often in motherhood, practicality (low gas mileage! great deal!) won over preference. It has been dependable, carrying us up and down the East Coast, bringing babies home from the hospital. The seating arrangements have been reconfigured as our family has grown, just as my heart and capacity for what I can handle has grown with our family. It’s been my constant companion in these baby, preschool, and early elementary years. The leather seats have caught tears of frustration and joy and it has witnessed some of my best and worst parenting moments. 

A car is, at the end of the day, just a car. But my cars have been more—they have been an extension of myself. One day, I’ll trade in the minivan keys for a different set of keys. Maybe the new car will never see car seats and toddler tantrums. Instead, it will be witness to awkward conversations as my little kids turn into teenage boys. 

It will help me grow into the next version of myself. I wonder, for a moment, who I’ll be then.

A tapping on the window catches my attention. I make a silly face at my boys inside the minivan as I finish filling up the tank. I smile at my reflection, brushing the crumbs off my shoulder. I don’t know who I’ll be next, but for right now? A minivan mom is exactly who I want to be.

Guest essay written by Laura Bass. Laura is a native North Carolinian who lives in a house full of boys. She spends her days picking up Legos, encouraging creativity in her kids, and filling all her free minutes with words—both writing and reading them. She can be found blogging or on Instagram.

Photo by Neidy Hess.