"Brake now," Dad called out. The tires of our 1989 Toyota Camry squealed as I slammed on the brake.
We both laughed and Dad said, "Don't worry. When I say brake now, I will give you plenty of time to come to a smooth stop, so you can press the brake pedal slowly."
It was March 26, 2006, a Sunday morning and my sixteenth birthday. But I always knew I would never hold a driver's license. When I was seven months old, I was diagnosed with a brain tumor that damaged my optic nerve, leaving me totally blind. I was blessed to grow up with the protection of the Americans with Disabilities Act, passed in August 1990, just two months before my brain tumor was diagnosed. I was also blessed to grow up in an affluent school district that was willing and able to provide all the support I needed, including technology, a classroom aid and a vision rehabilitation specialist who taught me everything from braille, to cooking, to Orientation and Mobility (how to travel using a white cane). But most important of all, I was blessed to grow up surrounded by parents and teachers with high expectations for me, and positive attitudes about blindness who told me that with just a little adaptation, I could live a rich, normal life, and there were very few things I couldn't do. As a result, I was a happy teenager with a 3.7 GPA who sang in two choirs and was eagerly anticipating college. I had always accepted that driving was one of those very few things I wouldn't be able to do, and I quickly overcame mild twinges of sadness hearing other kids at school chatter excitedly about getting their licenses by reminding myself of all that I could do, and by considering some advantages to not driving. Since I didn't have to be attentive to the road, I could use the drive to school to do some last-minute studying for a test, or to take a quick nap if I was up late finishing homework, and I was spared from the harrowing experiences my friends talked about driving to school on icy roads. I had fully accepted and anticipated that my sixteenth birthday would be just another happy but uneventful birthday.
"You want to go driving?" Dad asked when I woke up that morning. At first, I wasn't sure. I was cautious, even as a teenager, and while the prospect of a memorable experience driving on my sixteenth birthday was exciting, I didn't want this birthday to be memorable because I wrecked the car! But the excitement won out over my caution and I heard myself say, "Sure!"
So after breakfast, Dad drove to an empty parking lot where we traded places. I sat in the driver's seat and while my dad would handle the gas pedal, I would get to brake and steer.
For ten minutes, I drove around the parking lot, Dad calling out, "Brake now," or "Turn left." It was thrilling to feel the car respond to me, and by the end of that ten minutes, I was a pretty smooth driver if I do say so myself! But equally thrilling was gushing to my close friends and favorite teachers the following day at school about how I got to drive on my sixteenth birthday.
I am 32 years old now, but I still think about this experience and smile. As an adult who is still cautious, I have come to appreciate even more how this experience may have accelerated the greying of his hair. But I am eternally grateful to Dad for making my sixteenth birthday special, which, when you are a teenager, means a lot.
