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

