Ford Escort

The first time I got behind the wheel of a car was in an abandoned parking lot on Pearl Harbor. My mother, father and I were waiting for my older sister and brother to finish their Taekwondo lesson. It was a crusty back area of the base, an old abandoned post with two portable building. There was the large one that was a vestige of the base’s old times, perhaps an old meeting place for GIs to muster and train. The other portable, a smaller more compact building that was a restroom. The crusty parking lot was complete with a locked up tennis court that looked like it had not seen any action in years. Uncut trees lined the square shape of the area. In a shaded area, my mom sat in the passenger seat with the seat reclined back. My father was out of the car doing laps around the cul-de-sac, training for an upcoming test. I had not enrolled in the classes, because I was still a little too young. I was too young to learn about the movements one had to make with their hands and feet, too young to spar with padded gear like a grudge match waiting to unfold. But I was not too to climb through the open slot that separated the backseat with the front side of the car. I crawled up and sat in the driver’s seat of my father’s Ford Escort.

“Don’t turn the key in the ignition, anak,” my mother said. I held my hands at the bottom of the wheel, which was covered with an faux-alligator skin cover that my father had bought at the WalMart. Peeking through the windshield, I saw patches of light touch upon my father’s sweaty face. The wind picked up, as the early evening was making its routine arrival. This was the man who had driven us to many places in my life. In Hawaii, it was always the same places. During the weekdays, he took to Makalapa Road toward the Joint Station to report to duties of the military chain command. On Saturdays, we went to the exchange and the commissary. I particularly remembered the excitement in my stomach as I conjured up the many reasons as to why I wanted a toy and why I deserved it. Then on Sundays, like clockwork, he gathered us up to head to Ohana Baptist Church for a full day of services, starting with Sunday School service at 8 AM and ending with evening services at 5 PM. On the occasion of every Wednesday, my father stopped by to pick us all up at Aliamanu to bring us to the place at Pearl Harbor. All of these place were familiar upon arrival. The welcome of seeing old structures on Pearl Harbor gave me a comfort. But in that driver’s seat, I must’ve felt a huge weight as a kid. Where could I possibly go without my father?

I noticed how he his seat was adjusted way too low. I could barely look over that wheel. Still, the sight of him heavily panting from his run. He was now slowing down. The cushion had felt like it had been worn in, sunken from all the hours of sitting in traffic. I checked the side compartments for loose change, for gum, and for anything that reminded me that this man was my father. I rummaged through all that I could, making sure not to turn that key in the ignition. I pulled down the sun visor, then I moved the cover. I looked at the mirror. My eyes looked much different from his. But I could still see his reflection through the rear window glass, a man that held his head low as ran forward – slowing and careful to not trip over the pebbles beneath his soles. I fidgeted my legs from under the wheel and then darted toward the back seat. I lay down, wondering when my sister and brother’s Taekwondo lesson would end. On my back, I looked up at the ceiling of the car.” I dreamed of driving to the beach and seeing the blue ocean recede and return without fail.