I’m 22 years old and I have a deep flaw. So egregious and socially unacceptable is my flaw that people feel no shame in making jokes about me, in front of me.
I can’t drive.
Though I’m not alone, for my age I’m in a minority. Nationally, in 1993 there were 3,339,120 22-year-old drivers and 3,576,454 23-year-old drivers. That means only about 177,334 more people become licensed drivers between the ages of 22 and 23, according to the Federal Highway Administration.
Well, this summer I have a reporting internship and no choice but to learn to drive. I have to get over six years of mental blocks, get behind the wheel and learn the rules of the road.
And what a road it will be. I’m from a family of five driving age children. Only one of five has a license. My sister is 26 and blissfully license-free in Portland.
I wish I could follow in her footsteps. But unfortunately, in the world of newspaper reporting, footsteps just aren’t good enough — you have to have wheels.
The powers that be at The News Tribune in Tacoma, where I will work this summer, don’t know how driving-impaired I am. They don’t know that I’ve been traumatized by almost every male I have dated and/or befriended who thought he was going to “be the one” to teach me to drive.
It’s a beautiful story really, one I’m sure I will be delighted to tell to Letterman or Leno in a few years when I’ve hit the big time.
The story starts with asking my friend, “Why is the car stopped?”
“You are going to drive,” he would say, never knowing how unoriginal, and ineffective this tactic is.
I’d usually go for a block or two before freezing up. They would always yell things such as “Don’t run into the mailbox” at me, which would really stress me out.
Or they’d coax me: “C’mon, can we please get out of first gear?”
Weren’t they listening in high school physics when we were warned about the higher rates of death associated with driving faster? It just plain scares me to go fast. It scares me to be in control of a machine that, if I misuse it, could run over a child or damage someone’s midlife-crisis-mobile.
I’ve always had a fear of traffic. My first memory of this was when I was seven and lived in west Eugene. I’d always drag my friends two blocks out of the way to use the crosswalk to go to Waremart.
I realize that part of the reason it has gone on this long is that Eugene coddles a non-driving lifestyle. The buses are reliable and only marginally frightening, and sidewalks and bike lanes line most streets. Eugene is also small.
But for as long as I’ve been focused on journalism (about six months now), I have been coming to terms with the fact that not driving will certainly crimp my journalistic style.
For example, I was in Irvine, Calif., in March for a job fair. The fair (at which I did not mention to recruiters that I couldn’t drive) ended and I still had half a day to kill. So I strolled out into the city to find something to do. Before long I was at a busy intersection and faced with a crosswalk with two stops. I could barely see the other side of the street.
At that point it was scarier to be without an automobile. I was a little vulnerable mosquito in a campground full of near-sighted campers. They didn’t seem to see me, or have any reserve about squashing me. After all, the city cares not for pedestrians.
Southern California is different. People who live there are irrevocably dependent on cars. That is not a good thing. Aside from the physical fear of driving I am afraid of being sucked into the driving culture.
In California, teens represent 4 percent of licensed drivers but are involved in 9 percent of fatal accidents, according to the California Highway Patrol.
So, as a burgeoning driver, I am pleased that many states, including Oregon, are making it harder for teens to get their licenses — that way they can’t kill me.
In 1999 the Legislature passed laws requiring teens younger than 18 to hold a permit for six months, complete 50 hours of parental supervised driving and take an approved driving course before they can get a license.
I’m glad I don’t have to do all that because my internship start date is contingent on when can make it through this cultural rite of passage — the faster the better.
A couple weeks ago I had my first decent driving experience. My instructor let me drive wherever I wanted and only gave instruction when I asked questions or put our lives in danger.
I started to get a feel for what all the fuss about driving was. I went 45 miles per hour. I felt this freedom everyone had alluded to.
I drove her to all of my high school friends’ houses. I pretended to pick up all of my friends who had so willingly given me rides for so many years. It made me feel like a grown-up. I was sold.
For me it has been a long overdue task to learn and I have just never been stimulated. I don’t feel bad about it. The lesson is that people pick up different things, for different reasons, at different times. And although driving is one thing that most learn as soon as they can, it doesn’t mean that they should.
I’m glad I waited this long. I wouldn’t trade all of the interesting conversations I have heard on the bus, or the leg muscles I have maintained from walking and biking, for six years of driving experience.
But all signs point to me joining the major0000000000000000000ity. And I can do without seeing the greasy beard imprints on Tacoma bus windows. Folks, within a month I will be a licensed driver.