I believe in the Blue Bullet. The Blue Bullet, a.k.a. the family car belonging to the 2nd and 3rd generation of Pollocks, a light blue 1992 Toyota Previa, was a masterpiece molded by a weariness and love that could only be inflicted by a caring and somewhat absentminded family.
Bruises and bumps sprouted across the various parts of this car over the years. In its final stages of life, its health resembled that of a sick patient with a number of minor maladies, but with no illness so severe as to impede his ability to live happily.
The tape player was broken, so we listened to the sporadic tunes of the radio, the unpredictability increasing the pleasure of hearing our favorite songs. The stubborn driver-side door refused to open for anyone, so we got our exercise by scooting across the passenger seat, over the divider, and into the desired place. The car’s back windows did not close fully, so we stuffed phonebooks, which would have otherwise been thrown carelessly away, into their cracks to discontinue the rattling. When the back door fell off, strong arm muscles were built by holding it back on, dearly, as though one of our own limbs were being amputated from our bodies. The list is endless. The car was a collection of deteriorating fragments, threadbare, appreciated, and exceptional fragments that composed a beautiful whole.
This car, which came into my parents lives right around the same time I did, was more than just an object of transportation, getting us from point A to point B. This car was a friend. Not just any friend, but an unfailingly loyal and selfless friend. This car was there for my first vacation, my first surgery, my first pee-wee sports games, every day for every year of school, my 8th grade graduation, and through all seven of my family’s exhausting moves, both those of the cross-country nature as well as the ones just up the street. Through all of my successes and failures, this car stuck with me. Even as the car’s physical parts slowly expired, the way all things must inevitably do through time, its spirit remained strong and it never failed to fulfill any duty that my family, including myself, asked it to.
As I moved from home to home throughout my childhood, this car remained constant. For that, I am forever grateful. Your home and your world is what you make of it with what you have, and though I lived in a myriad of different houses, this car remained my home.
People have asked, aren’t you ashamed? Look at it; it’s a pile of garbage. My reply: a resounding and stern no. People worry themselves with the shame of judgment instead of appreciating beauty and self-sacrifice. This car taught me lessons that no classroom ever could: self-consciousness is overwhelmingly futile, beauty is not limited to the aesthetics of a consumer culture, giving is the only way you will ever truly receive, and when you count your blessings instead of your losses life looks all the more peaceful and whole. I believe in this car; I believe in what it taught me and where it carried me. Most importantly, I believe in the Blue Bullet.
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