Learner's Permit
Christina Hamlett
October 18, 2006
My best friend swears that the 16 year old daughter she sent out the door to get her driver’s license was decidely not the same person who came back with it. The love affair that Americans have with their cars is no better reflected than through the eager eyes of a teenager who no longer has to depend on a parent or older sibling for their transportation needs. Certainly it was all that my classmates could think/talk/dream about back when we were freshmen.
I was not, of course, as enamored with this goal as my friends were. Accustomed to the comfort of riding around in backseats and enjoying the scenery, the idea of reading maps, negotiating streets, and finding downtown parking seemed a bit much for a 15 year old to absorb in a scant 8 weeks. The fact it was held after school and, thus, cut into what I considered my prime writing time for homework and poetry was another reason to approach this new venture with skepticism.
Our training took place in The Simulator, an ominous structure that resembled a Quonset hut on wheels and which was parked so far out on the school grounds that we could have used a ride just getting there for our lessons. Inside there were projector screens hanging down at the front and back and an airline seat configuration of 10 boxy plastic cubicles that were supposed to represent the driver’s side of a car.
Start your engines,” the teacher would say. On cue, we’d all turn the keys in the fake ignitions, setting off an acoustically annoying “roar” that was supposed to whet our appetites for the thrill of the open road. (It’s amazing how 10 fake cars can sound like the Indy 500 when you’re in a Quonset hut.) Simultaneously, a front-view and rear-view film appeared on the screens to give us the perspective of what it would really be like to “drive” down a street in Anywhere, USA and avoid hitting things like (1) fellow drivers, (2) stray cats, and (3) bouncing balls flung by small, unsupervised children in front yards.
Teaching a Driver’s Ed class was a pretty good gig for the teachers at our school who wanted to take home extra cash for overtime. I’m also pretty sure that they routinely ducked out to smoke as soon as the film started to play, confident that 10 freshman girls behind the wheels of 10 stationary fake cars really couldn’t get into that much trouble in 45 minutes.
Technology has probably come a long way in improving the simulator experience for today’s wannabee student drivers. I can almost picture something out of Disneyland’s STAR TOURS, where the combination of film, movement, and hydraulics play upon the imagination in just the right hair-raising dose to make you feel as if you’re actually moving and dodging unanticipated obstacles. Hey, even the antiquated AUTOPIA would have given us more of a sense of the rudiments of vehicular motion than sitting in a Quonset hut two sessions a week. The only reward was that we earned the coveted Learner’s Permit at the end of it. All we had to do was seek out licensed adults to accompany us as we practiced.
Note to Future Drivers: Do not ask either of your parents to do this.
My father, a man of little patience, had me in tears before I even got out of the driveway. Twenty minutes later, upset with being yelled at every three feet, I got out of the car, declared I was never going to drive again, and walked home. On the one hand, maybe he just didn’t want me to dent the car. On the other, the damage to a 15 year old’s ego should’ve been a higher concern.
For the next several months, I listened as my classmates related their adventures, counting down to the millisecond that they could walk into the DMV and come home with their first license. Being somewhat imaginative, I was able to sidestep their inquiries about my own progress, too embarrassed to admit that not only was I fearful of getting behind a wheel but that my parents had incorporated this traumatic episode into their latest repertoire of anecdotes to amuse their friends.
My “Sweet 16” birthday was a day I still look back on with a shudder of humiliation. My mother had insisted the day would consist of accompanying six of us to a symphony matinee and then home to a sit-down dinner. If my own opinion had ever been solicited, of course, I would have preferred taking the same six buddies roller-skating and going out afterwards for hamburgers. “This will be a party to remember,” she told me.
It was.
The candles weren’t even blown out yet when my father strolled through the dining room in time to hear one of my friends query whether I had scheduled my driving test yet. He roared with laughter in preface to announcing that I was the worst driver who had ever lived and that I couldn’t even get to the intersection without crying.
I ran to my bedroom and refused to come out. After a while there was a tap on the door and a voice asking whether it was okay to come in. No, it wasn’t my father. It was one of the girls from the party who soon thereafter became my best friend for the rest of high school. “I’m sure he was just kidding,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe some of the stupid things my parents say.”
Much as it made me feel better to know I wasn’t alone in that respect, it wasn’t until 15 years later I gave driving another try. This time, it was under the tutelage of a friend who had taught both of his sons to drive and who possessed the patience of Job in restoring my confidence. A week and a half after my first lesson, he let me borrow his Buick Regal for my driving test and treated me to lunch. I scored 100%.
All of which just goes to prove the power of a good teacher.
I was not, of course, as enamored with this goal as my friends were. Accustomed to the comfort of riding around in backseats and enjoying the scenery, the idea of reading maps, negotiating streets, and finding downtown parking seemed a bit much for a 15 year old to absorb in a scant 8 weeks. The fact it was held after school and, thus, cut into what I considered my prime writing time for homework and poetry was another reason to approach this new venture with skepticism.
Our training took place in The Simulator, an ominous structure that resembled a Quonset hut on wheels and which was parked so far out on the school grounds that we could have used a ride just getting there for our lessons. Inside there were projector screens hanging down at the front and back and an airline seat configuration of 10 boxy plastic cubicles that were supposed to represent the driver’s side of a car.
Start your engines,” the teacher would say. On cue, we’d all turn the keys in the fake ignitions, setting off an acoustically annoying “roar” that was supposed to whet our appetites for the thrill of the open road. (It’s amazing how 10 fake cars can sound like the Indy 500 when you’re in a Quonset hut.) Simultaneously, a front-view and rear-view film appeared on the screens to give us the perspective of what it would really be like to “drive” down a street in Anywhere, USA and avoid hitting things like (1) fellow drivers, (2) stray cats, and (3) bouncing balls flung by small, unsupervised children in front yards.
Teaching a Driver’s Ed class was a pretty good gig for the teachers at our school who wanted to take home extra cash for overtime. I’m also pretty sure that they routinely ducked out to smoke as soon as the film started to play, confident that 10 freshman girls behind the wheels of 10 stationary fake cars really couldn’t get into that much trouble in 45 minutes.
Technology has probably come a long way in improving the simulator experience for today’s wannabee student drivers. I can almost picture something out of Disneyland’s STAR TOURS, where the combination of film, movement, and hydraulics play upon the imagination in just the right hair-raising dose to make you feel as if you’re actually moving and dodging unanticipated obstacles. Hey, even the antiquated AUTOPIA would have given us more of a sense of the rudiments of vehicular motion than sitting in a Quonset hut two sessions a week. The only reward was that we earned the coveted Learner’s Permit at the end of it. All we had to do was seek out licensed adults to accompany us as we practiced.
Note to Future Drivers: Do not ask either of your parents to do this.
My father, a man of little patience, had me in tears before I even got out of the driveway. Twenty minutes later, upset with being yelled at every three feet, I got out of the car, declared I was never going to drive again, and walked home. On the one hand, maybe he just didn’t want me to dent the car. On the other, the damage to a 15 year old’s ego should’ve been a higher concern.
For the next several months, I listened as my classmates related their adventures, counting down to the millisecond that they could walk into the DMV and come home with their first license. Being somewhat imaginative, I was able to sidestep their inquiries about my own progress, too embarrassed to admit that not only was I fearful of getting behind a wheel but that my parents had incorporated this traumatic episode into their latest repertoire of anecdotes to amuse their friends.
My “Sweet 16” birthday was a day I still look back on with a shudder of humiliation. My mother had insisted the day would consist of accompanying six of us to a symphony matinee and then home to a sit-down dinner. If my own opinion had ever been solicited, of course, I would have preferred taking the same six buddies roller-skating and going out afterwards for hamburgers. “This will be a party to remember,” she told me.
It was.
The candles weren’t even blown out yet when my father strolled through the dining room in time to hear one of my friends query whether I had scheduled my driving test yet. He roared with laughter in preface to announcing that I was the worst driver who had ever lived and that I couldn’t even get to the intersection without crying.
I ran to my bedroom and refused to come out. After a while there was a tap on the door and a voice asking whether it was okay to come in. No, it wasn’t my father. It was one of the girls from the party who soon thereafter became my best friend for the rest of high school. “I’m sure he was just kidding,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe some of the stupid things my parents say.”
Much as it made me feel better to know I wasn’t alone in that respect, it wasn’t until 15 years later I gave driving another try. This time, it was under the tutelage of a friend who had taught both of his sons to drive and who possessed the patience of Job in restoring my confidence. A week and a half after my first lesson, he let me borrow his Buick Regal for my driving test and treated me to lunch. I scored 100%.
All of which just goes to prove the power of a good teacher.
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