My Car

Recently, I got into a minor car accident. Nothing much: a typical rear-end collision while waiting at the stoplight. As my car jumped forward, I sat in my seat in disbelief and surprise. Thoughts of “Why me?” and “What did I do?” and “Are you serious?” and “Are you kidding me?” and “What the hell?” filled my head and I didn’t know how exactly to process the incident. As the car behind me pulled forward, I immediately thought that he might try to escape. That was what happened at my last rear-end collision: the teenage driver of that car sped away after he carelessly apologized. When he ran off, I began to hate humanity, especially irresponsible teens who drive without licenses.

But not this driver. He pulled up beside me, rolled down his window, and asked if I was all right. I said I was a bit shaken and shocked, and he suggested we pull over to the side of the street. The young man immediately came out of his car and humbly and respectfully apologized. He checked the damage of my car and his car. He apologized so many times and then offered his insurance information. We talked for a brief moment, and he admitted that he wasn’t paying attention. In my gut, I knew he was sincere. After we had exchanged information, I arrived at work and tried to forget about how my day started, but in the back of my head, I kept thinking how much this accident was going to inconvenience me in the next few weeks.

The last time I got into a major accident, I had to make appointments for my car to get it fixed, rent a car and pay out of my own pocket, and make phone calls to adjusters to make sure paperwork was filed. These were hassles. These were extra errands that were added to my day that I did not need to do. But the whole day of this new collision, I wasn’t worried about that. I was worried about the young man who hit me. I knew he was probably feeling guilty. I knew he was a good person, and for some reason, I felt bad if I decided to call up my insurance company and tell them that this good young man was irresponsible. Like a teacher that I am, I did not want to see a good person get into trouble. Initially, I hated all young irresponsible drivers who caused accidents, because they reminded me of that one teenager three years ago who hit my car and then ran off. I promised myself that if an irresponsible driver ever crossed my path, I would THROW HIM TO THE INSURANCE COMPANIES AND FILE POLICE REPORTS!!!

But this driver was nice, he was polite, and he was responsible. I didn’t want to get him in trouble. He would not be the scapegoat for the previous driver who hit me three years ago.

Later in the afternoon, I got a personal call from a woman—the driver’s grandmother. Even she apologized and offered more information as well as reassured me that her grandson was really a good boy. I believed her. We actually had a short conversation and even laughed together. She informed me that she would report the incident with her insurance and she encouraged me to do the same with my company. Then she reassured me that there would be no hard feelings or grudges. She said that this was a lesson her grandson needed, for he shouldn’t have been driving too fast anyway. After I hung up with her, this great weight suddenly lifted from me. Her grandson was in trouble, but not because of me; he had his grandmother and mother to face. He suddenly had more financial responsibilities to be accountable for, and according to his grandmother, he was still feeling guilty about the accident that morning (eight hours earlier). That guilty feeling of getting someone in trouble vanished. Even though my day started with an accident, it ended with comfort and smiles. It is quite unfortunate that I had to meet very nice people in what could have been a potentially litigious scenario.

The next day, I called my insurance company. When the other insurance company called me, they offered a few places to get my car fixed. I took the addresses down, but only recently did I decide to get my car even looked at. Why did it take me so long to even get an estimate?

My car is old. The clear coat is faded, the paint has begun to oxidize, there are dings and scratches everywhere, and recently I found gang tagging written on the dust of my trunk. The hubcaps are all gone. There are hard-water stains everywhere. When my students see my car, they either make fun of me or ask me why I didn’t just go buy a new one.

I don’t like to admit that I’m a materialistic person, but when it comes to my car—I’m very materialistic, maybe even to the point of Seven Deadly Sin status. In fact, I used to be quite vain about my car when it was first new. I washed and cleaned it every weekend. I was careful when driving in parking lots. I bought cute accessories to personalize it. When I got into my first accident, I did not hesitate to call up my insurance and get my car fixed immediately. My perfect car was going to stay perfect. No dents or scratches or mess ever. It was the perfect car for my perfect life.

Over the years, my car has grown with me. For every car payment, I learned financial responsibility. For every ding and scratch, I have learned to accept that my life will also have bumps and troubles. For every engine breakdown and flat tire, I have learned to appreciate my own physical health. For every accident, I have learned to roll with the punches. I have learned many lessons from my car. It may be hunk of junk to some, but to me, this car is a huge part of my life. This is not a car that I can easily throw away just because it’s old. It may even be considered ugly, but it’s mine and it’s still going strong. I am loyal to it because it has been loyal to me. I have had many accidents with this car—and that is not to say that I’m the bad driver--but at each accident that I have been in, I have never been to a hospital. My car took a beating so I didn’t have to. I love my car.

I kept the name of the body shops in my purse for about a week. It took me a while to set up an appointment just to get an estimate. I thought that my car was so old that it would look odd to get a new shiny bumper while the rest of my car was oxidized and faded. That would be like getting four out of five nails done at the salon. That new bumper is going to look odd.

But my car is loyal to me. It deserves a new bumper, even if the color is mismatched from the rest of the body. I drove my car to the body shop and the estimate was over $600. I informed the specialist that the last time I had a bumper replaced, it was only $500. Why was it so expensive, especially for an old model like mine? (Not that I was paying for any of it anyway, but I was still curious.) The specialist said that my car (this particular year and model), although old, is unique—especially its durable bumper frame. There are no “certified replicas” or parts of equal value. They have to order straight from the manufacturer. If the frame is damaged, it has to be replaced and they will have to order the part. If the bumper is still intact, they just have to repair the bumper cover.

I smiled at this bit of information. I got a tough car. I made a good investment. I should be proud of my car.

I have taken my car for granted in the past few years; maybe this accident is to remind me that I should not take my life for granted. People tell me that “it’s only a car” and it was made to stay safe; that that is its function. I don’t want to think of my car simply as an object. It has obviously saved my life plenty of times. The only way to thank my car and show gratitude is to make sure it’s always in tip-top shape, so nothing is too good for my vehicle.

I hope that I won’t have any other accidents—whether the driver is irresponsible or not. I value my life, which only makes me appreciate the durability of my car even more. I hope to keep this car for as long as I can.

Is the Grass Greener on the Other Side?

The school year ended more than a week ago. I have survived another year of budget cuts, professional setbacks and conflicts, hundreds of papers, countless immature attitudes and apathy, and final assessments. It was a successful year. Every August, I groan at the obstacles that I know I will face, but for now, I have two months to finally focus on something that is annually sacrificed while I focus on the development of young minds: me.

After overcoming my first year of teaching, most things come easy now. I have learned that, with time and patience, a task is not that difficult. I have plenty of time on my hands to do whatever I wish to do—decorate my apartment, write my novel, read some books, brush up on my photography, practice playing the cello, or take a dance lesson. I’ve always felt creative sparks inside me, so I’ve always known I was an “artist.” When I started photography, reading instructions from a manual and experimenting with f/stops and shutter speeds on a film camera was easy. It took me a month to understand the basic concept and I became comfortable with the process. When learned the cello in ninth grade, I learned to read music and apply my fingers to a fingerboard. That was easy. When I took a swing dance lesson, the steps came easy, and someone said I had natural rhythm. I think it was because I was good at following instructions and because I had a musical background. Although I have not mastered any of these talents, having the basic concept and knowledge has encouraged me to do better. I'm competent enough, and if I wish to pursue those skills, I know I can do it. I hesitate to call myself an artist in those fields because I'm not passionate about them, nor am I constantly trying to better myself in those fields.


Recently, I’ve been feeling incompetent, and it’s because of my writing. Why did my artistry take shape in writing? This is the question that has always left me feeling mixed about writing's relevancy as an artform. People say I’m good at writing, but I don’t really consider mastering the English language a gift. Maybe the manipulation of words is a craft, if I decided to write poetry, a song, or a story, but those activities fall by the wayside when I teach. Writing is so ingrained into my professional life that it has become part work for me. There are days when I enjoy spilling words onto paper, and there are times when it seems like such a chore that I dread doing it. I wish my creative spark ignited a different talent—specifically drawing.

I have so many images in my head, but they never truly come to life for me when I use words. Words are insufficient and incapable of depicting the scenes and landscapes, of giving a face to a character, of breathing action into a swordfight, or of creating awe into magic spells. Words slow me down. My hand can never keep up when I’m trying to describe gods torturing mortals, but my hand is incompetent when I’m trying to draw what torture looks like. It’s because my palette is an English lexicon that trying to use a set of shapes, lines, and colors is like using a different toolbox. I know the remedy for this incompetency is just to keep practicing, but this is daunting. I usually grasp concepts and skills within two months, less than that sometimes. With drawing, I'm starting from the ground. And I'm not talking about "hit the ground running;" I'm just on the ground.

I read comics, and I secretly wish that I could have drawn super heroes. I look at architecture, and I secretly wish I could have drafted the layout. I see a room, and I secretly wish I could have been the interior designer. I buy art books, but they frustrate me—I’m a perfectionist, and people look like aliens under my fingers. I go to museums to be inspired, but great painting make me feel that insignificant and that incompetent. I gaze upon messy paintings that look awesome, and I am awestruck at the perfect chaos rendered on canvas. A rainbow of emotions shock, surprise, or disgust me as colors and images flood my visual perceptions. Recently, I saw an exhibition on woodworking and wood-design, and I was just blown away at the geometric structures that a table can take, or the way a chest of drawers can curvaceously wave like crests of the ocean waters. Maple, pine, and oak are just trees. I never thought a swan-like coat hanger made with oak could be so graceful, or a vanity table with maple inlays could be so elegant.

I don’t really consider myself an artist because I don’t produce anything beautiful. If I were a true artist, I would be painting or sculpting or woodworking. If I were a musician, I would be composing and making music—classical or electronic. But as a writer… where’s the unique product? Words get trapped in books, and books have had the same physical structure for centuries. Words look the same, regardless of font and font size. Ideas aren’t beautiful; they’re just words. I wish I could create and produce something tangible that can be immediately appreciated or instantly reactive without having to think about it. I wish my ideas could be beautiful.

If writing is thinking, then I think I’m tired of thinking. I need to think in a different way, maybe in pictures.