The Cars That Raised Us

Dear Reader,

I thought this would be one of the easier pieces I’d write. The idea came to me easily back in July and I knew I had plenty of memories to pull from. I put off writing it until the end of August, assuming I would have it up right away, early September at the latest. But I put it off and put it off and put it off. Because I’d write it all in one sitting. Because I didn’t need to do any research. Because because because …Then, when I finally sat down to do it - I found myself tongue tied. Getting out a lot of sloppy, run on sentences and half baked thoughts. Hitting wall after wall after wall.

I feel pressure to talk about grief in a compelling way so that this issue has a point. But sometimes it’s not that interesting. Most of the time there is no poetry to it.

This piece explores lots of big emotions that have left me processing grief and transition. Ultimately - it’s been way more of a journey to complete than I anticipated, but I hope to display at least a piece of that complexity and joy and grief in this very much delayed and avoided issue of Road to Jubilee.

As I will continue to reference throughout this piece, I spent the last few years driving my late, maternal grandpa’s car. It was passed to my mom when he passed back in the fall of 2015, then to me in 2019 when I graduated college. I’ve driven it up until a few months ago when it got hauled off to a junkyard in Chicago.

Why did it feel like mourning all over again? I have plenty of pictures and memories and mementos of my moms parents. Right now I am writing on my grandma's desk that now lives in my bedroom. But the car always felt different. Felt like more of an active presence. Felt like a tether to him and him to us, for me at least. So I've been saying goodbye all over again. I even considered putting in a lot of money I don’t have into this car that wasn't worth it, just to keep him around a bit longer.

It was a white 2007 Mercury Montego. It technically wasn’t anything special, but it was special to me. I almost always thought of him when I was in it, especially whenever I was picking up my cousins or driving to meet up with them. I’d think how happy he’d be to know that we who live near each other still see each other so often. That we still prioritize each other. And it has made me happy to bring a little piece of him along to all those moments.

I still instinctively look for this car as I walk down my street. Try to catch a glimpse of it in any white sedan. Looking for traces of my lost loved ones wherever I can.

xoxoxoxo,

glo

Mourning Through Objects

Margaret Gibson studied this sort of association between object and mourner and coined the term “melancholy object” to describe the object we ascribe greater weight to and used them to analyze grief. Gibson wrote that “objects orient in time and space the often disorientating and displacing experiences of grief (Gibson).” This concept was inspired by the work of D. W. Winnicott and his idea of the “transitional object”. Winnicott researched childhood development, specifically in examining how children navigate development through their toys; both playing with and aging out of them. The anchor they provide children and comfort that seems to be connected to the loss of their connection to the mother post birth, and navigating a new connection with their caretaker. “In grieving, as in childhood, transitional objects are both a means of holding on and letting go (Gibson)”. In development, holding onto the mother by playing mother with stuffed animals and baby dolls, while also letting go of the mother by assuming her role in play. In grieving, holding onto the person by physically holding onto their objects, and using them to anchor the mourner to the deceased while learning to let them go. We do this because “through death, the most mundane objects can rise in symbolic, emotional and mnemonic value sometimes outweighing all other measures of value—particularly the economic…death vacates as well as raises the meaning and value of objects (Gibson)”.

When my grandpa’s car was brought into the shop by me for an oil change back in July, the mechanic brought me out to the floor and flagged a bunch of issues throughout the car, totaling to about $3,000 of work. I knew then it was the end of the car, but I wasn’t ready to admit it, or think about it rationally. I told the mechanic to not work on any of it and that I would call if I wanted anything done. I went home, thinking about how I could piecemeal it back together. Maybe $900 this month, $1,000 the next, and so on. Maybe I do one repair at a time over 6 months and then the car will be in tip-top shape. It doesn’t matter that the car is barely worth $400. It’s my grandpa’s car. I even had my roommate text the man she went to high school prom with because he was a mechanic now. He gave me some advice over text. Told me the place seemed scammy, that everything they noted didn’t quite add up. Hope! I had hope yet! I took the car to another shop for a second opinion a couple weeks later. They flagged even more issues, the scam from the previous mechanic not that they were flagged more that needed to be done, but less - hoping I would pay just enough to get it going, only to have to put more money in it months later. Preying on my sentimentality. How cruel. The second shop estimated the repairs would total around $9,000, but strongly encouraged me against it. And I knew. I knew it was time, it had been for a while. Really, the car lasted far longer than it should have. I had delayed the inevitable for as long as possible.

I sat with it for another couple weeks before I called a junk car to pick it up. The night before, I cleared out all my CDs, took down all the pins I had placed in the ceiling, even rediscovered the film negative left by my grandpa, still in the sunglasses holder. I waited the next morning by the car for the man and the truck to arrive. I watched it get hooked up and towed away. Around the corner and down the road. I watched until I couldn’t see it anymore. I said goodbye.

On Reflections

So, … So Long Montego

Grandpa’s car took me everywhere.

The montego filled in for him these past few years, ushered me ahead.

When I remember Grandpa, I remember his car. Seeing it parked in the driveway on a Sunday morning when my family and I were arriving home from church. When we weren’t there, he’d just let himself in. Also, when we were there he’d just let himself in. A bag of Einstein’s bagels in one hand, a newspaper in the other. Barreling in to give us treats and the 4-1-1 on whatever he was up in arms about. He always encouraged my art and would save clippings from that week's papers of creative projects for me to derive inspiration from. He’d deliver these clippings Sunday mornings too. He’d never stay long, maybe 30 minutes, then he was on to the next house. Delivering my cousins, aunts, and uncles blocks away with another bag of bagels and newspaper. Giving them the same spiel he just gave us.

Him and his car also showed up in that driveway the morning he took me, my brother, and the cousins to the circus. We all climbed in the car, the cousins and grandpa. He always made us feel special, but I also think he really believed we all were special.

Even when he was sick, you couldn't get him away from his car. Really you couldn’t, my aunts tried. His body was failing but he remained there, and he’d be damned before you took his freedom.

When he passed, my mom got his car. The only sign of him in it was a negative of a family photo and a Lady Gaga x Tony Bennett CD.

For years, it was hers, then when I graduated college, it was mine. The first time I ever drove on my own for hours at a time was in that car ride. The first time I felt heartbroken was on that car ride. Me and my whole world between the trunk and the backseat. Me and my loneliness and despair and confusion. Me and my grandpa’s car.

Months later, that car took me to and from my first full time job every day.

Years later, my world filled up that car again and moved me into my first apartment.

Grandpa’s car carried me through everything these past few years. It saw me through my second coming-of-age. Helping me transition from college kid into my 20s. It moved me to Chicago, took me to horrible dates, accompanied me to family parties, and so on. That car saw it all, so for me, Grandpa saw it all too.

Grandpa was vibrant and loud and silly and fun loving and stubborn and the greatest raconteur I've ever known.

I don’t care about the car. But I care about my grandpa a whole lot.

So, … so long Montego.

Works Cited:

“Melancholy Objects” Margaret Gibson

https://people.southwestern.edu/~bednarb/vmc/articles/gibson.pdf

“A Virtual Memorial for Those We’ve Lost” By Jaspal Riyait

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/04/06/insider/covid-grief-loss.html