By Grace Acosta
When President Bush appointed Norm Mineta to his cabinet, Jay Leno joked about the prospect of an Asian secretary of transportation. “What was Bush thinking?” he quipped. “Have you seen how old Asian guys drive?” My husband laughed loudly enough that it was almost insulting, but I stayed quiet because, unfortunately, I am the stereotypical bad Asian driver.
I have a terrible sense of direction, have no memory for landmarks and am generally unaware of what is going on around me. I have been known to stare at a freeway entrance sign clearly marked “south,” hyper-consciously aware that I need to head north, then turning in anyway. I’ve done the same for east and west, too. My only saving grace, if you can call it that, is that I actually drive better backwards than forwards, so if a driving test still required parallel parking, I’d ace it.
One time my daughter and I were on the highway, and we began to look for a place to stop and eat. I read a sign which indicated a rest stop 12 miles farther on. My daughter saw a golden arches logo marking an oasis just ahead. “Mom, I see it. There’s a McDonald’s right there,” she claimed. “No, honey,” I replied. “The sign said not for another 12 miles. There can’t be a McDonald’s there.” We argued until we passed the exit, and both saw that indeed there was a McDonald’s - and lots of other restaurants - right where the golden arches tower stood.
Since then, my daughter’s way of wishing me a safe trip is a polite but insistent, “Remember, Mom, if you can see it, it exists.” That single statement defies virtually all the metaphysical teachings I have studied and respected for many years. But for the sake of intelligent driving, I now throw them right out the window on road trips.
In a way, my driving instincts are an apt metaphor for how I maneuver through life. I seem to get where I need to go - good college, happy marriage, stable family relationships - but I take a lot of wrongheaded, indecisive turns throughout the journey and end up at my destination flustered and apologetic. And though I don’t cause any accidents en route, it would be nice if I could enjoy the ride a little more.
But things are changing, and I’m actually getting better at driving: I’m paying closer attention; I’m covering wider territory; I’m learning to trust my instincts, or in the case of highway rest stops, I’m learning to trust my optic nerve. I still arrive safely at my destination, and gradually I’m feeling more relaxed and confident about the driving responsibilities.
Whenever we see the scene in “Annie Hall” where Woody Allen bonks into every car in the parking lot, or the scene in “Austin Powers” where Mike Myers is trying to dislodge his sideways vehicle from an impossibly narrow hallway, my husband continues to guffaw. But that’s OK. I still drive backwards better than anyone in the family, and I haven’t lost a passenger yet.
