I wasn't always so distrustful. There was a time when gullibility ruled, and I'd believe just about anything that anyone told me. Driver's Ed in high school is a good example of how I allowed those in authority to control my fate. From the moment I squashed into the back seat of that white nondescript Ford compact that was the standard vehicle for school instruction, I knew I'd be low man on the totem pole--that is to say, I'd have to compete with two high normals, as in kids who were smart and didn't struggle with anxiety and worries as I did. There was Nancy from my junior high school sewing class who looked like she stepped out of Little House on the Prairie and Bob, a schizoid type personality who acted like a juvenile delinquent but scored high enough on SATs to get into Yale.
I intuited correctly that Nancy was a pro sewer. I knew this on sight because it was obvious from her demeanor and dress that Nancy had been sewing up a storm for years. She was the kid in grade school whose mother probably made all her gingham-style dresses and pinafores. She didn't even flinch a second when the sewing teacher asked her to insert the bobbin in the Singer. Meanwhile I shivered in fear in the back of the room, too scared to admit that up to now I hadn't ever touched a sewing machine much less used one.
The same could be said for my technical knowledge of cars and driving. While I observed my parents' moves on the roads, I was still recovering from the trauma of watching how my high school valedictorian mother handled my dentist-father when he taught her to drive on our old push button Plymouth. I can still hear them arguing about what direction a person turns the wheel while backing out of the driveway.
My mom correctly reasoned that to move the car to the left, you had to turn the wheel in the opposite direction. I knew what she was saying and agreed silently, but Despotic Dad disagreed, and in our family, if Dad said the moon was made of green cheese, you'd yes him and ask how you might get a piece. I don't know why I was in the car during those family driving lessons, but it only reinforced in me the fear that all complicated behaviors besides eating and drinking would be beyond my ability.
Seated in the back of the driver's ed car next to Nancy the Domestic Diva was Bob. Now Bob probably had been driving his family's car on the sly for about two years. "Borrowing" it when his parents were in Florida and he got the urge to pick up his buddies and cruise for girls in downtown South Orange. Those cruising jaunts never included me. Not only was I not one of the popular girls who the cool guys sought out for romance and back-seat wrestling, but I hovered somewhere in the high school hierarchy between Shy Girl with Pretensions to Greatness and Shy Girl who was an Out and Out Neurotic Mess.
Either way I was never a member of the group of elite pupils who spent their weekends chasing around the streets of Maplewood-South Orange in quest of social contacts and fun, fun, fun. In short, while the cliquey kids were up at Don's Drive-In, munching burgers and fries, I would spend the weekend memorizing the blueprints of Columbia High School for fear I might get lost on the way to French class. Anxiety attacks were my thing and nothing could persuade me to trade them for the comfort of being an average teenager.
So, as I said, here I was trapped in the back seat between two emotionally secure individuals who hardly knew me much less liked me.There is nothing so awful as a fully formed neurotic being forced to perform in front of the psychological healthy. The stress made me capable of forgetting everything like how to start the car or put it in reverse. Looking back on this pivotal time of my life, I can honestly say that I made every mistake a newbie driver could make, mostly because my behavior was observed under the watchful, judgmental eyes of peers and an obnoxious PE teacher who also taught driver's ed.
You probably know that in every class, there is one person singled out as a loser. If it's history class, it's the kid who hasn't cracked a book since Labor Day; if it's gym class, it's the kid with the totally uncoordinated limbs. Being the bookish perfectionist that I was, I had never until now been consigned to the category of "loser." But sure as the sun sets in the west, Driver's Ed gave me the unique opportunity to fill that academic omission on my resume. From the time in Week One when I almost stripped the gears to Week Six when I took the "practical driving" exam, the teacher, who resembled a vulture what with his beady dark eyes and habit of constant head jerks, treated me like a loser. He made sure to emphasize my mistakes and thanks to his sharp stabs at my confidence, I proceeded to get worse in my driving skills, not better. I not only lost trust in this teacher, who criticized my every move with the enthusiasm of a gestapo officer, but I lost trust in myself.
Meanwhile each time I had driving class I'd have to report in to my father about my progress. At a time when my father chose to bond with me, I was failing horribly. So I did the only thing possible. I lied. How was I doing? Fabuloso. I'd pass the state driving test with ease. Thankfully the class eventually ended. I was sure Nancy and Bob would pass the state test without a hitch. The gossip around school was that the test varied in difficulty depending on the site you chose. I was sure that Nancy and Bob could easily pass a truck driving test with flying colors if they had to whereas I wasn't so sure I could pass even the most watered-down test. The combination of Despotic Dad and the Driver's Ed Teacher from Hell had wrecked what confidence I might have gained.
As a result I put off taking the state test for a year. No one in the family knew why, but the fact that Despotic Dad also conveyed a distrust in my skills by never mentoring me was a big factor. When I finally took the test, I had no trouble, even with the parallel parking section, but Despotic Dad still wouldn't let me take the car out for a jaunt. I gave up and let him have his way with me. Besides it was hard to live up to the bench mark my sister had previously set. She had taken her state test in the pouring rain and had to use hand signals instead of blinkers. That was a hard one to beat.
My trust in family broke down even more when I realized my detractors were getting pleasure out of my trials. But this was only a hint of what was to come. As I got older I would learn that my trust in family and friends would further erode thanks to my personality quirks.
The same could be said for my technical knowledge of cars and driving. While I observed my parents' moves on the roads, I was still recovering from the trauma of watching how my high school valedictorian mother handled my dentist-father when he taught her to drive on our old push button Plymouth. I can still hear them arguing about what direction a person turns the wheel while backing out of the driveway.
My mom correctly reasoned that to move the car to the left, you had to turn the wheel in the opposite direction. I knew what she was saying and agreed silently, but Despotic Dad disagreed, and in our family, if Dad said the moon was made of green cheese, you'd yes him and ask how you might get a piece. I don't know why I was in the car during those family driving lessons, but it only reinforced in me the fear that all complicated behaviors besides eating and drinking would be beyond my ability.
Seated in the back of the driver's ed car next to Nancy the Domestic Diva was Bob. Now Bob probably had been driving his family's car on the sly for about two years. "Borrowing" it when his parents were in Florida and he got the urge to pick up his buddies and cruise for girls in downtown South Orange. Those cruising jaunts never included me. Not only was I not one of the popular girls who the cool guys sought out for romance and back-seat wrestling, but I hovered somewhere in the high school hierarchy between Shy Girl with Pretensions to Greatness and Shy Girl who was an Out and Out Neurotic Mess.
Either way I was never a member of the group of elite pupils who spent their weekends chasing around the streets of Maplewood-South Orange in quest of social contacts and fun, fun, fun. In short, while the cliquey kids were up at Don's Drive-In, munching burgers and fries, I would spend the weekend memorizing the blueprints of Columbia High School for fear I might get lost on the way to French class. Anxiety attacks were my thing and nothing could persuade me to trade them for the comfort of being an average teenager.
So, as I said, here I was trapped in the back seat between two emotionally secure individuals who hardly knew me much less liked me.There is nothing so awful as a fully formed neurotic being forced to perform in front of the psychological healthy. The stress made me capable of forgetting everything like how to start the car or put it in reverse. Looking back on this pivotal time of my life, I can honestly say that I made every mistake a newbie driver could make, mostly because my behavior was observed under the watchful, judgmental eyes of peers and an obnoxious PE teacher who also taught driver's ed.
You probably know that in every class, there is one person singled out as a loser. If it's history class, it's the kid who hasn't cracked a book since Labor Day; if it's gym class, it's the kid with the totally uncoordinated limbs. Being the bookish perfectionist that I was, I had never until now been consigned to the category of "loser." But sure as the sun sets in the west, Driver's Ed gave me the unique opportunity to fill that academic omission on my resume. From the time in Week One when I almost stripped the gears to Week Six when I took the "practical driving" exam, the teacher, who resembled a vulture what with his beady dark eyes and habit of constant head jerks, treated me like a loser. He made sure to emphasize my mistakes and thanks to his sharp stabs at my confidence, I proceeded to get worse in my driving skills, not better. I not only lost trust in this teacher, who criticized my every move with the enthusiasm of a gestapo officer, but I lost trust in myself.
Meanwhile each time I had driving class I'd have to report in to my father about my progress. At a time when my father chose to bond with me, I was failing horribly. So I did the only thing possible. I lied. How was I doing? Fabuloso. I'd pass the state driving test with ease. Thankfully the class eventually ended. I was sure Nancy and Bob would pass the state test without a hitch. The gossip around school was that the test varied in difficulty depending on the site you chose. I was sure that Nancy and Bob could easily pass a truck driving test with flying colors if they had to whereas I wasn't so sure I could pass even the most watered-down test. The combination of Despotic Dad and the Driver's Ed Teacher from Hell had wrecked what confidence I might have gained.
As a result I put off taking the state test for a year. No one in the family knew why, but the fact that Despotic Dad also conveyed a distrust in my skills by never mentoring me was a big factor. When I finally took the test, I had no trouble, even with the parallel parking section, but Despotic Dad still wouldn't let me take the car out for a jaunt. I gave up and let him have his way with me. Besides it was hard to live up to the bench mark my sister had previously set. She had taken her state test in the pouring rain and had to use hand signals instead of blinkers. That was a hard one to beat.
My trust in family broke down even more when I realized my detractors were getting pleasure out of my trials. But this was only a hint of what was to come. As I got older I would learn that my trust in family and friends would further erode thanks to my personality quirks.
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