On May 31, in a minivan stuffed with camping gear, mountain bikes and Oreo cookies, I hit the road, heading west, with my brother and my best friend. As the three of us pulled out of the driveway, we amplified our anthem, the Eagles’ “Hotel California,” to signify to all nearby that a grand expedition was underway.
After years of telling us to buckle our seatbelts, not talk to strangers, and arrive home before midnight, our mothers shocked us by approving an 18-day graduation road trip – an endorsement that conflicted with the “super-over-protective-parenting policy” enacted in 1987 (the year I was born). It was one of those rare moments when a baby-boomer mom allows her child to do things she herself had done in her “wilder days.” (Hitchhiking and riding a bike without a helmet, however, are still strictly forbidden.)
As we merged onto Interstate 70, a feeling of freedom so possessed us and so moved the driver that we nearly collided with an 18-wheeler. We were experiencing for ourselves what so many authors, singers and artists had sought to describe: the quintessential American journey.
The spirit of the open road that tingled on I-70 began to itch as we hauled through the deserts, and then engulfed us as we weaved along the California coast on Highway 1. It gave us hope when we took a terribly wrong turn in Los Angeles and strength when we ascended a Sierra mountain pass.
The open road symbolized our newfound freedom: freedom to skip refilling at the “last gas station for 36 miles,” even if that meant coasting in neutral whenever we discerned the slightest downhill slope; freedom to pitch our tent in a flood plain; freedom to drift down a frigid river in Yosemite; freedom to choose between McDonald’s and Burger King. We relied entirely upon our own judgment – for better or worse, for richer or for poorer – and gained the confidence needed to be our own decision-makers.
On the same day we left for California, Natalee Holloway, another 18-year-old enjoying a high school graduation trip, was reported missing in Aruba. Media attention to the story heightened the anxieties of parents about sponsoring their teenagers’ graduation escapades (particularly my mom’s, who immediately demanded that I call her at least once a day).
Questions about the value of graduation trips with few or no chaperones arose on talk shows and at dinner tables around the nation.
As cheap airfares and group discounts at foreign beach resorts proliferate, more teens seek the graduation party scene in such hot spots as Cancun, Puerto Rico and Aruba, where they can easily circumvent American drinking and curfew laws. Like outsourced jobs, teens go where rules are relaxed and prices cheap.
Although a week of toasting on the beach, flirting with fellow vacationers, drinking margaritas and dancing until 4 a.m. in nightclubs has a certain appeal, it offers no lasting rewards. The suntan soon fades and the alcohol buzz wears off. Rather than developing a sense of responsibility, teens indulge themselves without worrying about the cumbersome details of dining, sleeping and travel arrangements, which are largely handled by others – chaperones, hotel staff and travel agencies. Although foreign escapes provide a haven to party, they do nothing to inspire the spirit of adventure and independence long associated with the classic American road trip.
As parents now re-examine the wisdom of allowing their graduates to take a summer trip, they should recognize the benefits of our venturing out on our own. My own road excursion convinced me that it’s best to venture westward. The hiking trails wander to majestic heights, the fish like to bite, and the cities glow with life. Wherever we slept (whether it was Sunset Beach, the floor of a relative’s home in San Francisco, or a $22-per-night motel in the middle of nowhere), we felt securely wrapped in the colorful quilt of the American West. And wherever we went, “friendly strangers” pointed us in the right direction and lent a helping hand, gave us water in Moab and played basketball with us on Venice Beach.
I returned home such a mature gentleman that my mom officially rescinded the “super-over-protective-parenting policy.”
Perhaps it’s time for you to do the same.
Michael Koenigs, a May graduate of Regis Jesuit High School, will attend Harvard in the fall.
