My first car was a 1972 Ford Torino. I bought it from my grandmother for $99 and a hug. It had over 150,000 miles on the odometer and there were spots of rust all over the door panels and undercarriage. The back seat looked like someone had spilled paint on it and never cleaned up, and the steering wheel was covered in cracks. But I loved that car more than anything else I’ve ever owned because, without it, I would not be who I am today.
I was 17 years old and a junior in high school when I bought that car. I had just moved out of my parents’ house and into my first apartment with two of my best friends. We were all on our own for the first time, and we were determined to make it work. We pooled our resources and managed to scrape together enough money to rent a three-bedroom apartment in the worst part of town. We were all working minimum wage jobs and trying to figure out how to make ends meet.
The only thing that was keeping me going was my car. It was my escape from reality, and it gave me the freedom to do whatever I wanted. I could go anywhere I wanted, and I didn’t have to rely on anyone else. It was my independence, and it meant everything to me.
I drove that car until it died. It finally gave out a few years ago, after over 250,000 miles on the odometer. But even though it’s gone, it still means just as much to me as it did the day I bought it.
Even though it was old and had a lot of miles on it, I loved it because it gave me the independence I needed at the time.
It helped me become who I am today, and for that, I will always be grateful.
…
If this article has spoken to you, please consider shouting me a cup of coffee.
—
This post was previously published on medium.com.
***
You may also like these posts on The Good Men Project:
 White Fragility: Talking to White People About Racism |
 Escape the “Act Like a Man” Box |
 The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer |
 |
—
Photo credit: Karl Fredrickson on Unsplash
