The day I purchased my first car was supposed to be exciting but it became a transfer of generational trauma, poverty, and debt

My grandfather died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of 55; I was just three years old at the time. The memories I have of the maternal patriarch are limited, but all of them were filled with adventure and kindness. He served as a Marine and eventually retired to Pensacola, Florida. He spent his time working with homeless shelters and founded a traveling singing group. It was through this music that my mother and father met, and eventually, I was born into the world. 

When Grandpa passed, he hoped to leave something behind greater than himself. He did this with his philanthropy and music, and, for us grandkids, he left a small amount of money, hoping that it would give us a launching pad for a future we could build for ourselves. He opened accounts at a military credit union for all the grandkids he met, and my grandmother continued the tradition after his passing for the generations that came after him. These accounts were designed to be gifted to each of us on our eighteenth birthday with the hopes that they would give us a boost toward college, careers, and cars. 

By the time I reached my birthday, the account had about a grand in it. It is a seemingly insignificant number by societal standards now, but I was counting down the days. That money meant freedom and escape from the chaos I had experienced in my childhood. 

Our family had moved to Nashville so my father could pursue his music career. Things did not go as planned, and as the years progressed, we moved from the log cabin in the woods to a rental that eventually devolved into motels and parking lots, sleeping in the family van. The traumas I experienced during that time were harrowing. Still, to this day, one of the things I am most grateful for is that our family remained together. That being said and true, I was also eagerly awaiting the day that I could run away from all of this and start a life where I had control of my destiny. Every day closer to eighteen was a day closer to that dream becoming a reality. 

The day after my seventeenth birthday, my mom and sisters moved to Pensacola to live in her childhood home with my grandmother. Shortly after, my father followed, and I remained behind in Nashville for a few months, couch-surfing at friends' houses. Eventually, my father came to collect me. By this point, I had stopped living the country bumpkin life and was a full-blown city kid. Moving to this small coastal Southern town was a culture shock of epic proportions. Folks made fun of my hair and pants and the way I talked. I didn’t fit in, but I was used to that. 

I built a small group of friends after getting involved in the local community theatre. These were the right kinds of nerds that I needed in my life. We shared stories and sang show tunes. That summer, I fell in and out of love a couple of times in the salty, wet air of the Gulf. What more could anyone want? Well, other than stability, a future, and maybe a little bit of hope. I had none of that. 

The day before my eighteenth birthday, my friends drove me out to the beach, and we danced along the water. They brought a cake that fell into the sand while a friend tilted it to show me the inscription they paid extra for. Somewhere in the world, a picture exists of all my friends leaning down and eating the cake with plastic forks, carefully avoiding the portions now covered with microscopic particles of shell. We all lay there as the moon washed over us while my friends counted down to midnight.

Ten

Nine

Eight

Seven

Six

Five

Four

Three

Two

Freedom.

The next morning, my father sat me down to wish me a happy birthday and explained that times had gotten really hard, you know, and aren’t I glad that we have a house now? I should be very grateful that there is a roof over our head, you see, and that cost a lot of money. Moving from Nashville with nothing to Pensacola, where we had something, was a real challenge. We were lucky; things could have been much worse, you understand. My father is a master at saying a lot before getting to the point. In my mind, there was only one thing I was waiting to hear: how do I access that account?

“To make all this happen,” my dad continued, “we had to make a lot of difficult decisions. The money your grandfather left, we had to use that so all this could happen.”

Was I supposed to scream? Is this the part of the movie where the rebellious teen stands up and punches his father, thus finally breaking the cycle to become a man? Would I have rather been robbed of my meager inheritance or have my siblings still living on the streets? Of course not! Yet, it was just another example of where my agency ended. 

For my birthday, my father offered to take me car shopping. He would pay me back by helping me “get into” a car. Not college, not a house, not a future. But a car meant hope, and I would take it. 

We went to a used car dealership and I found a red Jeep Cherokee; this was it, the car of my dreams. This is the vehicle that would take me away from all of this, maybe to California or back to Tennessee. It didn’t matter; it was anywhere but here. We sat in the mobile home that acted as the office while the man behind the desk helped us fill out paperwork. Later that day, I picked up my girlfriend, and we drove around for hours. I guess I had found a reason to stay and running away didn’t seem as much of a necessity now that I was twitterpated.

Summer soon ended, the tourists left, and love faded like the leaves; this all felt like a Southern Gothic Grease. 

The dealership called me to say I was behind on a payment. I asked my dad what was happening, and he explained that I had taken out a loan. He had made the first few payments, and his slate was now clean. The debt was now mine. The gift that my grandfather left for me to build the future was transferred into my first debt.

I sat in my new-used car in the parking lot of the community theatre with a knife pressed against my wrist; I was finally going to escape because Hell can’t possibly be worse than the sweltering heat of an October that felt less like fall and more like I was already in the lake of fire. I pressed down, ready to finally feel freedom for a millisecond before my soul left my body. That summer had been full of possibility, but now I was single again, my friends were all going off to college, and that little spark of hope that my grandfather, the only man who thought about my future, died with him and now me too, it seemed. Then, in a sudden moment of clarity, I realized that I had a car. Yes, I could kill myself, but what if I lived the most defiant existence anyone had ever seen? The fairy godmother sprinkled a little bit of glitter, turning this pumpkin-colored car into a carriage that could take me anywhere.

I went home, whatever the fuck that means, and woke my brother up to tell him how much I loved him. I left a note for my sisters. Then, I stole my dad’s credit card. I filled the car up with gas: the perfect region. Then, I made my way as far from there as I could conceptualize: Middle Tennessee.

When I arrived at the doorstep of my best friend, Johnny, he welcomed me with open arms and no questions asked. He helped me get a job, and I began to pay my debt. I wasn’t letting that car go. I put a Semper Fi sticker on the bumper. 

Driving back from church one Wednesday night, I took a couple of other kids home when I took a fateful turn and collided with a Bronco. As we spun around in our metallic dance I watched as my bumper flew across the road. When the guy I had crashed into exited the vehicle, his car rose about six inches. He was a Goliath of a man. He walked right up to me, his exposed areas bulging out from his white t-shirt. I was sure he was going to scream at me for being foolish.

“Son, is everyone okay?” He asked in a thick Southern accent.

He stood there with me and taught me how to call the insurance company while we waited for the police to arrive. He walked over to each kid in the car and told them to call their parents. I watched as all the parents arrived to pick up their children, and the man waited with me until the tow truck took my only thing in the world away from me—a tear formed.

“It’s just a car.” The man said, “It can be replaced. What matters is that you are safe.”

“My grandpa bought me that car,” I said, “He was a Marine.”

“Once a Marine,” the man said as he put his arm over my shoulders, “Always a Marine. If you’ve got half of him in you, you’ll figure this out, kid.”

That was twenty-two years ago, and as of today, my kids have never gone hungry and have always had a roof over their heads. It hasn’t been easy, and there have been countless days of struggles and balancing which bill to pay to make sure the power stays on. There have been many days that I wish I could pick up the phone and call my grandpa to ask him what to do next, but somehow, it has been written on my soul. 

I taught my children how to balance a checkbook and what a credit score is. Whenever I would change a tire, I would take them with me to teach them about bolts and how to change their oil on time. I would tell them stories about all the times I made mistakes and what I learned from them. When my daughter turned eighteen, I purchased a piggy bank and put a thousand dollars in it. We went to dinner, and I broke the cycle. I have failed many more times than I have succeeded in every aspect of life, but I have, to the best of my ability, chosen to teach my kids everything I didn’t know about the world when I was young. 

This week, I was driving my kids to the zoo when I hit a wet patch on a curvy stretch of highway. The car began to sail across the road and into the median. My kids didn't scream or act in fear because they never doubted I would keep them safe. As my car danced across the street, I thought of the beach and my eighteenth birthday. I remembered my grandfather driving me around the neighborhood on his motorcycle. He leaned down to show me how to add oil. I fell down, and he told me everything was going to be alright. Now, as I hear the crunching of metal against the trees, I think of that first accident, all those years ago. My eyes are locked forward as I bring this car to a safe landing. I hear the gasps of my children as they finally realize what has happened. I turn around to check on them; I make eye contact with my youngest first.

“Son, is everyone okay?” I asked

We wait for the police to arrive. The kids ask me what happens next. Is my car ruined?

“It’s just a car.” I told them, “It can be replaced. What matters is that you are safe.”

My grandfather bought me this car.

After that initial accident, I learned many lessons and made sacrifices. None of this has been easy. I didn’t have a future written for me. Now, I don't have a car for the first time in two decades. I don’t know what I am going to do next, but I am not scared. I don’t know what he would say today or what issues we would fundamentally disagree on. I am sure they would be immeasurable. All I know is that part of him lives on in me, and I am doing my best to keep myself on the road as long as I can, but even when we lose control, there is hope. In many ways, I have hydroplaned through life, but I am glad that I chose to stick around long enough to teach my kids all these lessons as best I could. One day, they too will find themselves in situations where things are scary and they will maybe also repeat those words, “Is everyone okay?” With that, they will continue to break the cycle, make their own mistakes, and learn from the past.

In spite of it all, even though none of it has gone to plan, my grandfather has remained always faithful.