My driver’s license

Like everything else, this became one of my little journeys. Or a milestone -call it whatever you want. It did feel like a huge rock on my way for three reasons: language, teaching method, and confidence.

Seeing my siblings drive was contagious. It pushed me to take the challenge. So, I enrolled. I thought that the driving school that was the closest to my place would be the best choice. That and my budget.

Guess what! Just like everything else, you get what you pay for.

My first school was… you draw your conclusions. Theory classes were dictated by an old man who expected us to write everything he would say. And my instructor… again, you be the judge.

These were some of the things he told me: “it seems after all that you don’t understand Romanian”, “at this pace you are never going to get a license”, “when you drive you need to keep your eyes busy looking at what ass you would like to fuck. You can choose, the blonde or the brunette, for any taste”, “where exactly would you like to fuck them?”, “I tell you from now, you don’t seem to learn anything, you are going to fail, you will need extra classes”, “one more mistake and you get off my car”.

I wanted to bring this up. At least I can do it now that I passed the driving test. I had heard stories. Some paid for it. Some women were physically touched by their instructors: their hands, their legs. Insinuations. Some others were verbally abused. Like me.

Am I too sensitive? Fuck it. Freedom of speech we call it. Don’t we?

I took the knowledge test four times. For the last time, I thought it would do me well to dedicate a full week to study. A hundred percent focus. It paid off. I passed! A thousand two hundred questions to study from. In Romanian.

For the practical test, I enrolled in extra classes at a different school. With a different instructor. With a different car. Better technology, but all I hoped for was a better teaching method. He tried -I acknowledge. The evidence is in the picture.

When I got home after my test, and as I folded my dry clothes, I cried to myself feeling blessed. That this simple thing, this little milestone, it has a huge-ass meaning to me. That I can make it. That I made it.

And I was never alone.