The Datsun

                 There’s been a small white hatchback cruising my neighborhood for several days. I caught a glimpse of it one day as it went down the street and, yesterday, it was parked, so I sidled up to it for a closer inspection. White. Hatchback. Datsun B210 GX.  In good shape.  No way…I thought. Still on the road. Only in Oregon.

                The only new car my mother ever owned was this exact Datsun model. She bought it when she was in the process of divorcing my father, which took several years. Before that, we were one truck family—a gold GMC work truck. If and when my mother was working, she had to be dropped off and picked up. When we went shopping, it was with my four cousins and my aunt, all in the station wagon. Until I was in high school, except for one summer with an old VW Bug that died quickly, she did not have her own transportation.  We lived a distance away from stores and family. It had to rankle, especially as she became the sole breadwinner for the family as the owner of her own small business and walked to work (a block but still…)  

                She bought this car because it was sporty and cutting edge, I am sure. When she was 18, she had a red and white convertible (used) and bought a matching dress and scarf to go with it. She was not a station wagon minded mom; she had an image to uphold. But it was also practical. At a time when gas prices were high and going higher, it got excellent gas mileage—much better than the truck. Japanese cars were on the rise for quality while American cars were on a downslide. Even in the snow and ice, that car drove.  The hatch allowed us to haul furniture to Durham when I went away to college a few years later. There was space. And it was hers.

                She kept that car for years. It had 200,000 miles on it, at least, all local driving. Over the years, the muffler was replaced regularly and she did regular maintenance, but no expensive engine repairs. There was a large, beige bondo spot on the driver’s side after an attempted home repair when the salt began to eat away at the frame. But it passed inspection every six months. It was paid for. And it was hers.

                I’ve been thinking about that car and my mother’s independence this week, during the Democratic convention, as the nominee talks about her own mother’s lessons and struggles bringing up two girls in a time when women’s roles were in flux and our mothers were coming into their own power, emotionally and economically.  I suspect there is a similar car in the Harris family story—one that kept on running, because it was hers.