DRIVING ME CRAZY

Driving with Mrs. Whitt was terrifying. Mrs. Whitt was terrifying. She was also the only certified Behind the Wheel driving instructor in the entire county. While it was possible to take Behind the Wheel with any Virginia driving school, it was cheaper to take it through the high school’s certified instructor. Mrs. Whitt was a chain-smoking, sixty-something year old bus driver, infamous for her Behind the Wheel teaching style. And though I had heard horror stories from my classmates about their experiences with “The Whitt”, I never fully believed them; they seemed way too insane to be completely true. I soon found out, however, that they weren’t as far off base as I’d originally believed . . . .

One of the worst things about Behind the Wheel was how long it was. Three days, to be exact. Three consecutive days of on-the-road driving instruction, culminating in a two-part exam on the third day, where, if you passed, you would receive a temporary 90-day license. After the first day, I was ready to be finished. If I went even one mile over the speed limit, Mrs. Whitt yelled at me. If she thought I wasn’t going to slow down in time for the next speed limit sign, she yelled, or slammed on her master brake, or both (usually both). If I moved my hands out of the correct positioning on the steering wheel, she yelled. All of this was punctuated by her loud, vehement smoker’s cough. Usually, it was just a cough here and there, but every now and then, she’d have a real doozy of a coughing fit that shook her whole body. It was a little unsettling to be driving when one of these came on, because she’d still try to talk/yell at you while it was happening. I didn’t know if I should be worried or not, so I’d look over briefly at her, and she’d yell, “Eyes (cough) on the (cough) road! (Cough, cough) Eyes on the ROAD!” After an especially bad coughing fit, she said, “If I die in here, just shove me out of the car and keep driving, just leave me. Drive until you run out of gas.” I wish I could say she was joking, but it wasn’t really clear that she was.

On the second day of driving, I was approaching a stop light in the far right lane. The lane had an arrow indicating it was both a turn lane and continued through the intersection; Mrs. Whitt wanted us to go straight, so, instead of getting into the next lane, I stayed in the far right. I began to drive through the intersection as, suddenly, Mrs. Whitt yelled, “I said we were going STRAIGHT! You have to make a right here!”, grabbed the wheel, and yanked me into a right turn, scratching her arm on my fingernail in the process. “Now look what you did!” she yelled, while, at the same time, I yelled, “What are you DOING?!” I had never yelled at someone 40-plus years my senior before, and it didn’t go over well. She made me pull over, which I did, and she proceeded to yell and berate me; interestingly enough, it wasn’t my being in the “wrong” lane that made her so angry, but the scratch she received when she yanked the wheel from my hand!

While I knew I wasn’t the best 16 year old driver in the world, I did know that in this particular situation, I had done nothing wrong, and my stubborn streak of teenage pride wasn’t about to let go without her first admitting that fact. After she finished yelling, I explained to her, as calmly as I could, that I hadn’t done anything wrong—I went straight because the lane had an arrow that indicated I could go straight. She didn’t believe me. But, in an attempt to prove me wrong, I guess, she had me turn around and drive back to the intersection we’d just left. As we drove by, I pointed out the lane in question. BAM! I was right. Everything in the lane was exactly as I said it was. She conceded that I hadn’t really done anything wrong, “technically”, but went on to say something along the lines of how, in the future, I should stick to the lane with the straight arrow only. It was hard for her to admit she was wrong outright, so she danced around it, but I didn’t mind—either way, we both knew that I was right.

Behind the Wheel continued more or less uneventfully after that. She still yelled, coughed, and slammed on her brake plenty, but was a teeny tiny bit more gentle than she’d been before (at least to my ears). When the time came for me to take the test, I scored a 96 overall, and Mrs. Whitt (sincerely) told my driving partner and I that she was proud of us, and wasn’t worried about us being on the road at all; I guess even she knew that once you’ve Survived the Whitt, you can survive anything.

Cameron, Part I, Draft I

Out of all the places we've lived, Goldsboro, North Carolina was easily my least favorite. There's one thing about out time there, however, that I wouldn't trade for the world. 

Cameron Raphael Crockett first graced the world with his presence on May 19th, 2002. 8 pounds, 6 ounces, 10 fingers, 10 toes--everything was as it should be. He was my parents fourth child and first son together, my first baby brother. His birth was uneventful; no complications or anomalies stood out in the beginning. 

They were in the car when my mother's water first broke. Mom says one of the first things my dad did was complain that the amniotic fluid was going to ruin the car's interior. Dad doesn't recall any such thing. They drove to the hospital, and a few hours later, Cameron was safely delivered. I remember the first time I held him more clearly than I remember holding my other siblings. I had fallen and broken my wrist at school a few weeks before and still wore a cast. Cameron's little legs rested awkwardly on my cast while my right arm cradled his neck and head. Thick, spiky black hair, dark brown eyes, the tannest skin yet out of all us kids; his face all scrunched up in complaint against the overhead lights. He was a drop-dead gorgeous baby, and we all fell in love with him from the very beginning. Even Aleah, who was one and thought she owned the world, was gentle and tender with him. 

The Hair.

Complete strangers have been awestruck by my hair. So much so that, at times (5, to be exact), they have felt compelled to touch it without my consent or approval. To you, this might seem a little strange, maybe even slightly creepy. Well, that's because it is. I'm awestruck by the height of Snooki's hair, but that doesn't mean I'd touch it if I happened to come across her in a public restroom.
At the same time, though, I have to admit: It's kind of flattering. I was born with a full head of soft, dark hair, but from there it changed and grew into tight, corkscrew style curls. For most of my life, my hair and I have had an up-down-rollercoaster of a relationship. Not neccessarily because of how it looked, but mainly because of how much it hurt. When I was a little girl, getting my hair done was always an Ordeal. A lot of crying and begging on my part, and scolding and pulling on my mother's. I'm sure she tried, but I never really felt as though she was very gentle about it, and my whining definitely didn't help her mood.
In addition to having a lot of it, my hair is constantly tangled, especially in the back, where it grows the thickest. Because of this, for most of my childhood, my hair was almost always in braids of some kind, and the Combing and Crying ritual happened almost everyday. As I grew older, my hair style evolved from cute little girl braids to just being super short. Not a good look for a girl with cheeks as fat as that one kid from Goonies. It wasn't until my freshman or sophomore year of high school that I began to reconcile myself with the lot I was given. Now, I kind of like it. It's crazy and unpredictable and all over the place, but I know how it feels. I'm not the most organized or focused gal in the world, that's for sure.


We've got an understanding, my hair and I.

The Metro Ride

I hate riding the metro by myself. The constant stop and go. The feeling that you’re picking up every single virus known to man (plus some) every time your hand touches the seat, the pole, anything. Being surrounded by people, yet still feeling lonely. There’s set of unspoken rules here that most everyone abides by: head down, eyes averted. People-watch if you must, but avoid eye contact at all costs. Forget how to smile. Your smile is no good here. Smiling invites conversation, which you’re not about to have. Just keep your eyes closed or fastened on your e-reader or cell phone. You’re all on the train together, but you’re not “in this together”. Or—that’s what it seems like, at least. Every now and then, something happens that helps to remind me that I’m surrounded by people, real living, breathing, heart-pumping, blood-rushing humans. A well-dressed, middle aged businessman stops a girl from falling over as the train stops, starts again, then lurches to a stop. A young woman offers her seat to a much older woman standing by the door. A man and woman defy the rules of Metro Ride Etiquette and strike up a conversation over a book in the man’s hand. We are people, people who crave words and interaction with other people—why do we allow ourselves so often to get tricked out of this fact?