Shortly before my junior year, my parents granted me rights to the family’s aging minivan, affectionately known as the Minnow. The Minnow had all the marks of a family car – animal crackers stuffed between seat cushions, doors dented by fouled baseballs, and the distinct odor of McDonald’s Happy Meals.
While my friends at our all-male high school fussed over their custom headlights, new stereo systems and chrome rims, I was trying to figure out why the Minnow made the sound “chitty-bling-bang-ping.”
To make matters worse, I had acquired the burdensome responsibility of carpooling with four other students: three freshmen and a sophomore. On our first day of school, they fidgeted nervously, glanced furtively at the clock to see if we were late, and uttered fewer words than foreign exchange students in an American history class. I felt like a bus driver, restricted from communicating with my passengers.
As the Minnow squeaked to a halt in the school parking lot that day, I vowed never again to allow the 45-minute drive to school to be so monotonous.
The next morning, I stocked the Minnow with Lucky Charms, in hopes that a sugar rush would enliven my passengers. As they crawled into the car, I gave each a job to keep them entertained. One became our disc jockey. A quiet freshman was chosen to be navigator, charged with discovering shortcuts and scenic routes. Another became our scout, pointing out sights along the way. (Confession: Very often, it was young ladies in passing cars.) And the burly sophomore was charged with operating the van’s sliding door, which had become unhinged and was in danger of falling off if improperly handled.
Within days, the Minnow had become livelier than Chris Matthews’ “Hardball.”
Our designated disc jockey bellowed the lyrics to hit songs and supplied an endless stream of trivia about the artists. A politically fervent freshman bought bumper stickers for the van, precipitating a raucous debate about whether the Minnow should be partisan. Our sophomore hauled out his trumpet and one day provided a spirited rendition of “What a Wonderful World.” A freshman chess enthusiast trash-talked his way to victory on his magnetic chess set.
As the year progressed, I found myself enjoying the morning drive as much as Huck Finn enjoyed the Mississippi. With the morning radio providing a plethora of subject matters, our discussions touched on everything from “Monday Night Football” to the war on terrorism to the way on-air callers should solve their problems.
And once I established the privacy rule (“What’s said in the Minnow, stays in the Minnow”), far more intimate conversations ensued. I discovered that the companions I had privately dismissed as dull on that first day possessed depth, wit and wisdom.
I also discovered that although I had set out to brighten their mornings, they brightened mine. Even if I arrived at their homes in a foul mood, they never failed to cheer me up by the time we reached school.
As far as the “soccer mom” car damaging my image, it actually did just the opposite. “You can trust the man who drives a minivan,” my friends said. Despite common stereotypes of teens as superficial and materialistic, I discovered that my peers truly value what’s on the inside more than what’s on the outside. I earned my classmates’ respect by proving that it’s not what you have, but what you make of what you have that counts.
While disturbing teen driving statistics recently forced Colorado lawmakers to place further restrictions on young drivers, many teens also are in need of being exposed to the life lesson I gained that year, driving the carpool: that responsibility and independence go hand-in-hand. It also taught me that within each of us is someone worth knowing.
Michael Koenigs (mckoenigs@ hotmail. com), a senior at Regis Jesuit High School, will attend Harvard in the fall.
