S
ometimes I dim my computer screen
and meander down the streets of my
hometown via the panoramic lens of
Google Street View. This is a pathetic confes-
sion, I know, but also an unexpected remedy
for the occasional pangs of nostalgia.
In my head, I relate these virtual escapes
to the same sort of self-reflection preached
by Henry David Thoreau and his transcen-
dentalist clique. I’ll pause for a second and
admit that this analogy would have undoubt-
edly yielded a sarcastic red pen comment
from my high school literature teacher, but I
couldn’t resist the opportunity.
Anyhow, I bring this guilty pleasure of
mine up not to embarrass myself, but rather
to provide the context for how I found my
2007 Subaru Forester parked in front of my
high school on Google Street View. That is
right, my car has preserved a high school
legacy that beats any state championship
trophy or school newspaper byline.
I am rather proud of this accomplish-
ment. Not just because securing this park-
ing space likely required pressing the
snooze button only once and successfully
parallel parking. But also, because my car
is scrapbooked into the town’s internet
identity — an achievement much more
impressive than any yearbook superlative.
Before I go any further, I should clarify
that while I will refer to the car as “mine” for
simplicity’s sake, it is not. It is my parents’. I
didn’t sign the check at the used car dealer-
ship. It was my dad who spent hours perusing
Craigslist and chatting with car salesmen.
And it was my mom who researched “safest
cars for teenage drivers.” This is how it was
decided I would drive a Subaru.
Subaru. The car breed synonymous with
Vermonters who I would imagine spend
Saturday mornings loading their mountain
bike into the trunk along with a packed
lunch of Clif bars and Soylent. Subaru driv-
ers wear flannel, don handlebar mustaches
and will likely be the first ones to slap on
a Bernie 2020 bumper sticker. In other
words, my L.L. Bean cable knit sweater
probably isn’t enough to earn the distinc-
tion of an archetype Subaru driver.
Yet, the transaction that resulted in me
driving a Subaru eerily resembles the sig-
nature “precious little girl” trope beloved by
the Subaru marketing team. This probably
also explains why my parents affixed a “Cau-
tion New Driver” bumper sticker to the rear
window. I think that is all the evidence you
need to confirm I was the oldest child.
My car is named Silvia. I am not sure
what prompted my 16-year-old self to
select that name. Most obviously, the nick-
name aptly matches her grey exterior and
silver spray-painted rims –– the handi-
work of her previous owner.
Assigning a name to your first car was a
routine practice among my high school peers.
Silvia’s friends included a sedan named Ruby
and a Jeep named Conrad. I think the tradi-
tion humanized the metal frames of our lit-
eral high school ride or dies.
Silvia’s upholstered seats reeked of chlo-
rine from all the swim team carpools where
we opted to not change out of our swimsuits.
Her glove compartment housed a collec-
tion of guilty pleasure CDs that would likely
cause embarrassment if my Spotify account
now showed them as recently played. Besides
the sticky residue of unidentifiable liquids
from can drive fundraisers, the trunk stored
a snow scraper that was tossed between my
sister and me after removing the inches of
overnight snow accumulation.
As I would often explain to my mother
when justifying Silvia’s unkempt nature, the
cleanliness of the car often correlated with
the stress I was experiencing that particular
week. The ACT was looming that coming
Saturday? Please excuse the loose practice
tests strewn across the backseat. Oh, the AP
Spanish midterm was tomorrow? Look for
the dozens of subjunctive verb flashcards
crammed into the center console. It was peak
swim season with 14-hour days? I am sorry,
Dad, for the six water bottles that never
seemed to return to the dishwasher.
I admit that the first time I shifted Sil-
via’s gear into drive I felt like I had finally
earned the classification of a true Ameri-
can teenager. The mobility allowed by
the automobile had propelled generations
of teenagers to engage in the most lauded
pop culture shenanigans. I felt empowered
by the possibility of cutting class like Fer-
ris Bueller, dancing with the T-Birds to
Greased Lightning or speeding down main
street like in “Herbie: Fully Loaded.”
For a moment, a limitlessness to my exis-
tence was introduced. An existence beyond
hometown borders or parent drop-offs.
However, in reality, Silvia’s rebellious pos-
sibility was quelled by my own conserva-
tive personality. That is, I can count on my
fingers the number of times she reached 60
mph while I was driving. In fact, her driv-
ing record while I manned the wheel prob-
ably more closely resembled a car parked in a
Florida condominium.
Silvia rarely traveled more than a few
miles at a time. This is evidenced by the rare
occasions that the heater would actually
warm up before reaching the destination.
Most subzero mornings were spent driving
with mittens and relying on the liquid heat of
Earl Grey tea to warm my body.
So, unlike what the ’80s movie canon
had led me to believe, my car did not deliver
many crazy adolescent escapades. It did not
cruise rural Michigan till godless hours of
the night. She never went to a drive-in movie
with a boy. Nor was the hiding place for illicit
substances. I guess sometimes I swore in the
car, but that doesn’t necessarily qualify as
material for the next teenage flick.
I occasionally dwell on the rather pla-
tonic highlight reel of my high school
years. But then, I remember perhaps the
most valuable tenet of Silvia’s companion-
ship was beyond the coming of age narra-
tive we liken to teenage car ownership.
Silvia listened to me rehearse Spanish
oral conversaciones. She patiently endured
the endless duets of “Wicked” with a best
friend whose friendship later crackled
amidst the changing leaves of our first
college semester. She guarded the confes-
sions that were divulged during gossip ses-
sions about school dances. I opened college
acceptance emails in Silvia. I slammed her
door when group projects failed miserably.
And she comforted me when the lingering
goals of high school slipped away from the
window of attainability.
Our first cars see us at our most raw
moments of adolescence. They are our
most intimate confidants throughout high
school. For those of us without cars in col-
lege, the discretion that a high school car
was able to provide is no longer guaranteed.
Emotion is harder to conceal with the per-
petual company of 28,000 undergraduates.
I think that is why I take comfort in the abil-
ity to plug in an address and see sweet little
Silvia right where I remember her the most.
Just waiting for a hometown visit and the
chance to plug in the aux cord for the best
type of high school reunion.
Wednesday, November 28, 2018 // The Statement
2B
RUCHITA IYER/DAILY
BY SHANNON ORS, DAILY STAFF REPORTER
Our high school cars deserve more
credit than we give them
Managing Statement Editor:
Brian Kuang
Deputy Editors:
Colin Beresford
Jennifer Meer
Editor in Chief:
Alexa St. John
Photo Editor:
Amelia Cacchione
Designer:
Elizabeth Bigham
Managing Editor:
Dayton Hare
Copy Editors:
Elise Laarman
Finntan Storer
statement
THE MICHIGAN DAILY | NOVEMBER 28, 2018