I have been instructing my 15-year-old daughter in driving with a standard transmission and, when asked how things are going, can respond truthfully that things are going about as well as can be expected.
Which is to say: She is now capable of shifting into the five forward gears of my 1998 Honda Civic hatchback, of driving in reverse, of parallel parking, and of coming to a complete stop (most of the time) without lifting her left foot from the clutch, thereby abruptly shutting off the engine and launching my forehead into the right-side visor.
The only problem is that if, in the course of these maneuvers, I should make any sort of friendly suggestion–especially with a note of urgency in my voice–I am accused of “yelling” at her. On a few mortifying occasions, my suggestions have even reduced her to tears. Of course, that was never my intention–nor was I “yelling,” dammit–but she is persuaded otherwise, and our relationship has suffered a little.
Anyway, during one recent session in a neighborhood church parking lot, it occurred to me that fatherhood has certainly furnished its share of awkward moments over the years. And more than a few of those have taken place in automobiles.
Two, in particular, come to mind. The more excruciating was the experience of driving babysitters home late at night. Fortunately, most of the young girls we engaged to take care of our children lived within easy driving distance of our residence. But no matter how short the excursion, they were among the longest, and most uncomfortable, minutes of my life.
At first, I thought it was the polite thing to do to engage them in conversation, or ask innocuous questions: How is school? What’s your favorite course? Do you think it will snow tomorrow? Sometimes I would relate an anecdote from earlier in the evening, or even commiserate with them: “Mrs. Terzian and I were sorry to read about your dad’s indictment.” Nearly all these approaches were met with something close to embarrassed silence, or a monosyllabic response.
Being the self-conscious sort, I was genuinely puzzled, and not a little hurt, by their obvious discomfort and (as I thought) rudeness. So at some point I mentioned the curious case of the stoic babysitters to my wife, who suggested I consider the circumstances from the sitter’s perspective. Here she was, in the full flower of adolescence, sitting alone, very late at night, beside a talkative gentleman who might or might not have consumed a cocktail or two, and who might or might not consider himself God’s gift to teenage girls.
From that point of view, of course, their silence was comprehensible. They were probably feeling something akin to terror. Which, in turn, was equally painful for me: Any question or comment would have the earmark of an opening gambit. In the fullness of time I solved the problem by turning on the local classical music station and humming contentedly along. Better to be thought an oblivious eccentric than an aging groper.
Now, thankfully, both my children are long past the babysitter phase; but since my daughter is not driving on her own, yet leads a varied and active extracurricular life, I am frequently called upon to serve as chauffeur. I use the word “chauffeur” advisedly, since she often travels in the company of a friend–sometimes two or three friends–and they insist on sitting in the back seat.
Once again, this puts me in something of a dilemma. On the one hand, my daughter is (perhaps understandably) horrified by my attempts at intergenerational conversation–or, worse, humor–and on many occasions, when driving her home alone, I have been gently lectured about the necessity of keeping my mouth shut. But on the other hand I feel slightly silly, and not a little annoyed, to be driving my daughter and her voluble friends while maintaining a mandatory silence behind the steering wheel.
So, to balance the scales, I resort once again to the classical music station. If I am forbidden to interject while listening to their adolescent chatter, then I’ll let Beethoven speak for me. Or, better yet, Arnold Schoenberg. My daughter knows the rule about listening to hip hop in my car–She who plays crunk / Shall sit in the trunk–but her complaining about string quartets on the radio allows me to respond. Dialogue ensues, and before you know it, her friends are giggling at my diabolical wit.
As easy as downshifting from fifth to fourth gear.
PHILIP TERZIAN
