I Believe in American Cars
Like every sixteen year old I had one thing on my mind: a car. I didn’t care what it was, what color it was or how many subs I could shove in the trunk. I just wanted one I could call my own and drive wherever I wanted. So I began searching for a car as one searches for a needle in a haystack. Of course my mother and I had very different ideas about what constituted as “a car”. I’m sure she would have loved to give me a bullet proof armored tank to drive around in with countless airbags and a gps system that rivaled the armed forces. I was more concerned that the color was not disgusting and it didn’t look like someone’s grandfather driving a boat around Florida. I needed to have a car I loved. I couldn’t just get rid of it like old leftovers or return it the next day to the store because it didn’t fit well. No, this car was here to stay and I was not going to make the wrong choice. So days went on, weeks, and even months and the search for a vehicle continued. Then one day I saw her. A car I never would have dreamed I would have: a black mustang. After dealing with the grimy car salesmen and the deluge of redundant paper work, I finally walked out the door with my new car. To say I was elated would be an understatement.
As news spread to family and friends about my recent purchase, I was surprised by the reactions. “A mustang eh?” “ I once owned a mustang.” “Good ole’ classic American car”. I soon realized that having a mustang represented more than just a car that I could drive to lacrosse practice and buy slushies with with my friends. I was part of history. Of generations of Americans with American roots who thought that a mustang was the ideal American muscle car. My mustang was the apple pie of cars. Ironically, my dad is not from America and I never considered my family to be a typical American family. But this car now represented me and my life. Years went by and topics concerning foreign oil and economic depression began popping up on headlines and prime time news specials. I then began to understand what impact I had made nationally, locally and personally, from buying an American car, especially growing up in Detroit, aka the motor city. I watched neighbors and friends worrying about factory shutdowns and paycheck cuts. Now I couldn’t imagine not owning an American car. I am proud to own my mustang and I believe in American cars.
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