The 1997 Toyota Corolla has never failed me. I believe in that car like I believe in breakfast. It has been faithful to me, enabling me to flee, find, and roam since my junior year of high school. It often pops up in my personal essays and short stories as an instrument of freedom. I wouldn’t say driving it is a sacrament, but through it I do experience a kind of grace that says you did not design me, build me, buy me nor pay for the gas that is inside of me, but I will go because you say “go” and I will stop because you say “stop” and I will heat you when you are cold and cool you when you are hot, bring you news when you are detached from the world and sing to you when you are sad. The word “love” means many things in the English language. I think it would accurately describe the appreciation I have for the Corolla.
The neighbors across the street love their cars, too. When my family moved to Michigan, we were quite impressed by the intimacy our neighbors share with their automobiles. They know everything about their cars’ inner workings and how to fix them when they fail. I, on the other hand, know nothing about what goes on inside the Corolla. I know how to put gas in it, which is more than I can say for most of my friends from Oregon, and I know how to pop open the hood—what the British call the “brassiere,” according to one of my middle school teachers. (I had to google “brassiere” in order to spell it properly. Lord have mercy.) Once the brassiere has been popped open, I know how to stare at its contents while looking completely lost and confused. I’m an English major.