A Right of Passage

by J.G. Fabiano

This experience did not begin with the day of the test. It started when she completed her driver's education course and received her permit to drive. From that day on I was relieved of my position as the driver of the family and was relegated to panic next to my daughter yearning to become an independent driver.

Now I don't want to give you the impression that my daughter is a poor driver. Before this experience began I can't remember when I sat in the front passenger seat. So my vantage point was changed where I did not know where my car should be. Telephone poles and other cars seemed so much closer. This went on for six weeks until my daughter received her notification that she had a date for the test.

That day could not have come soon enough. My daughter and I reviewed all the possible routines of the test which included parallel parking and hill stopping. She did well and we even continued to speak to each other after the many practice sessions.

We left for the test a full two hours before the allotted time. We did this so that she could practice on the test route which was given to her by one of her friends who had earlier taken the test. My daughter made me promise not to talk to her during her final practice but still asked me questions. When I attempted to answer she reminded me of my promise. I swear I had more hair a few months earlier.

The test time did not come soon enough. We were told to wait with about twenty other parents and children in a room until the officer in charge called her name. The room reeked with age and character. The walls were obviously white washed hundreds of times before because every now and then you could see paints of years past through a crack in the most recent coat of paint. The older the paint, the creamier the color. The ceiling also gave evidence of its age by not only being a ceiling but also a work of art. It's hand carved embroidery was a glimpse into the perfection of past workmanship. The lights were also sculptured into the design of the ceiling with their bases continuing the pattern. The large now manila bulbs were yellowed to a point where the one hundred watt bulbs could only illuminate the light to the intensity of an early sunrise.

The room was in a church which was used as a nursery school. It is very difficult to get comfortable in a chair which caused your knees to hit your temples. My daughter's name was finally called and she got in line with her birth certificate, permit, and car registration. After being checked in she was asked to wait in the car. During this process I did not allow my eyes to contact hers. I knew that if our eyes did meet any possible problem would be my fault.

Approximately six registry officers left the building and went toward the waiting perspiring and hopefully new drivers. But, to my surprise, they did not go into the cars. Instead they ran a quick inspection on the automobiles. I went into shock. What if a directional did not work or the emergency brake was not as powerful as it was supposed to be. Any one of these instances could destroy our relationship forever. Looking around the room I observed all the other parents frozen in similar shocked expressions. I then noticed one child leave her vehical and go back into the church. The parent lost all color in her face and met her daughter at the door. All I could hear was that the horn did not work and of course the dreaded, "Thanks a lot!"

My daughter was in the second series of tests. She was told to wait in the car for about twenty years. Did I say years. Well, it felt like decades to me. All I could think about was the possibility of a blinker that had suffered through its last blink. During that time I started to walk out toward the car but caught myself before I left the building. This right of passage made me crazy but at least it didn't make me stupid. The first wave of tests returned, one at a time. I quickly observed whether or not they were successful. Some of them left their vehicals in triumph holding their newly earned licenses in their waving arms. Others simply left their cars and walked toward their parents, head down and shaken. All of these parents met their children half way. The most obvious evidence of a failed test was when the parent put their arm around the child and walked slowly back to the car. None of these children opted to drive home.

The time had come. It was now my daughter's time. The inspector went through the series of inspections. My heart stopped. He then proceeded to get into the car. Yes, life is good. They drove off into the direction of the test route. I observed my daughter until I could no longer see her as they turned a corner. I waited. Along with so many other parents before had waited. Waited to see if this was the day of my daughter's triumph or failure.

Personally, I knew that I was damned if she passed or damned if she didn't. It is obvious why I did not want her to fail. But if she passed I was relegated to nervously wait, for the rest of my life, until she returned safely from a trip to the mall or a visit with her family. I was condemned to be the father of a daughter who drove. At that specific moment, in my life, I realized that this was also my right of passage.

My daydreaming made the time go faster. None of the other parents talked to each other. It was almost as if we were savoring this critical time in our lives. A time which none of us would ever forget. A time which will come back to memory when most other memories melted into a smoked cauldron of our past. Still leaning against the window pane I noticed my daughter return with the officer. She parked the car exactly where we left it. The time of reckoning had arrived. She got out of her car and unlike my fear of having our eyes meet before the test, our eyes met now. I immediately understood.

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Last Updated: August 11, 1996