Revision

Ditching Dependence

Long before the lawyers intervened and belongings were divided, the big black boat of a car was decidedly Dad’s; that and the corduroy chair, the stereo system, and the tools. Mom got the dishes, the coffee table, and us, the kids.

We, the kids, claimed the undecided stuff and each other.

But the car meant more to us all than any of the other belongings we wrapped in newspaper and packed away into boxes. I remember just how its leather seats singed the backs of my legs on hot summer days, the way it ran without a key in the ignition, and how, from the safety of its backseat, Dad taught me what it meant to “fishtail” the first time New York had enough snow for it.

Looking strictly at the numbers—monthly payments, insurance, tune-up fees—the car was Mom’s as much as it was Dad’s. Her refusal to drive tipped the scales.

At the time of her last attempt, we had been making our way down barren back roads near the state capital; the air was packed tightly, and humidity choked us. For miles now, a heavy breeze beat at my face, loosening my braids. When the thought dawned on our fearless leader, Mom, to open her own window, disaster was still well concealed from sight.

Using her left hand to manually roll down the window, and relying on her right to brace the steering wheel, it seemed the delicate wires of her delicate brain got crossed, forcing both hands to fall into a loop of circular motion. From there it wasn’t long—perhaps only a single rotation—before we, and the car, were launched into a ditch on the side of the road—the left side, the side with the now open window.

Were it not for the split-second of greater circulation inside the car, this afternoon adventure would be ruled a total lost cause.

With this failure, Mom took an oath against driving. She sentenced herself to the passenger’s seat, the suicide seat, throwing on the shackles of dependence every time she climbed in.

I, on the other hand, first promised myself I would drive only cars with motorized window controls. Second, I devised a plan to get my independent booty out of the backseat.

Without the convenient freedom granted by Dad and his big black car, Mom and us kids found ourselves relying on third parties for transportation. Visit Grandma, call a car service. Get to school, take the subway.

Sure, the situation and the city had its perks. By twelve, I had the subway map imprinted in my brain and could tell you how to stand clear of the closing doors in three languages. Still, the vulnerability that accompanies reliance is one I was eager to shake.

And shake I did.

But if learning to drive was crossing the finish line, there were enough hurdles in the way to blind the average runner. So, with great challenges comes great inspiration—right?

Attaining capitol and accruing life experience, breaking free from the bonds of dysfunctional family life, finding and claiming my own identity in a sea of conformity, and finally becoming self-sufficient (obviously, duh) quickly became my 8th grade goals.

And finding a job seemed a logical place to start.

From there, one dog-walking client soon grew into two. Three into four, and so on. It wasn’t long before a milkbone empire amassed itself before my glistening eyes, each pooper-scooped doodoo cha-chinging all the way to my piggybank, and I came to be known as “that girl with the dogs.” A sure sign of success, I was certain.

But then summer rolled around and my standing position at the tennis courts’ as official ball picker-upper, bench-painter, errand-runner, and assistant-assistant tennis professional availed itself to me. Slight inner conflict, but ultimately a no-brainer: hand off the empire to an underling, charge a handling fee.

Brilliant.
I didn’t even have to look outside my immediate family for an obliging minion; the younger brother was a perfect target—naïve, innocent, eager. We were slatted for great success.

Between basking in the undeserved glory of being a middleman and roasting away at tennis courts reminiscent of Southern plantations, I found time to squeeze in babysitting—if that’s what you want to call it.

“Five kids?” Please, give me all you’ve got.
“Oh, and you want me to walk your dog?” A breeze.
“Cook dinner?” Easy Mac it is.

My responsibilities quickly mutated into something more like zoo keeping.

And like the wolf to my own house, I huffed and puffed until there was straw everywhere.

Boy, did it fall apart fast. With chew marks on my sneakers (the ones I bought by myself with my paycheck), tan lines reminiscent of a trucker’s (not that there’s anything wrong with that), and baby food in my hair (absolutely not okay, not under any circumstances), I found that independence isn’t money, just like it isn’t simply the right to drive yourself around.

It’s a lot bigger than some tangible greenery in your wallet, and it means more than running your own schedule, especially when your schedule is running you into the ground.

For an eighth grader it means feeling free, thinking and believing you can do it better.

For a nineteen-year-old it means making informed personal decisions, like driving, and helping to empower those around you to do their independence better.

Not by pawning off a dog walking empire, but by teaching your younger brother to drive when he’s old enough to get a permit. After all, some other big black boat of a car will be ours one day. (God help us if we have to share.)