Good drivers
A sequel to "Grasshopper"
I don’t know why, but there’s an American stereotype that Asians (especially women) are bad drivers. When I learned about it, I had still been too young to get my license. And the stereotype made no sense to me because my Japanese mother was actually an extremely skilled driver. In her 40s, she got really into car engines and chose cars based off the sound the engine made. At one point she owned a red sports car. She’d drive over 100 km (~62 miles) per hour on the highway, donning giant sunglasses and letting the wind blow through her long thick hair. One time, she took me on an impromptu drive to some rural town where we stopped to drink freshly squeezed milk and pet some goats. We drove back with the roof all the way down, both of us bellowing to Adele. I realized then that she didn’t care for the milk or the goats—she just wanted to drive as far as possible and be home in time for dinner. She took such good care of this car that it always looked and smelled brand new. She had placed a Totoro plush toy on the dashboard, maybe to remind herself to calm down in her occasional bouts of road rage. An elegant person on the outside, my father and I were the only ones to ever witness her cruel mumblings when a car in front of us was sloppy or slow.
Now I’m 33 and a resident in Nashville, a city where you can’t function well without driving your own car. I learned to drive several years ago as a 28-year-old (an experience I wrote about in an essay called “Grasshopper” that won the Tennessee True Stories contest). Five years later, I still feel more or less like a new, inexperienced driver.
For one, I still can’t drive on highways. I harbor an irrational worry that a large truck is going to run over me like playdoh. Lane changes feel too risky, especially in a city where many drivers are too lazy to use their turn signals. I’m a “good” driver in that I never go one mile over the speed limit, and I’m worried I’ll be pressured to drive faster by honkers and tailgaters.
I tend to overthink even on regular roads. My brain assesses at least 10 different ways I could get into an accident. I tell myself that if I think it first, it won’t happen because I’ll be aware enough to prevent any of those scenarios from happening.
I know that like many things, driving will become less stressful the more I do it. The car will feel less like an animal I’m trying to tame and more like my viola that has cooperated with my body for the last two decades.
A few weekends ago, Jin and I finally watched Drive My Car (which won an Oscar for Best International Film). The film is based on a short story by Haruki Murakami, an author I have loved since childhood—which may have been a bit young in retrospect. My curiosity began from when we were in Palo Alto and my mother read South of the Border, West of the Sun. She immediately called her friend to say “We need to talk about this book!” Her friend was my friend’s mom, and while my friend and I rehearsed Spice Girls choreography, our moms drank glasses of red wine and laughed while saying, “Every page is just sex, sex, sex.” The book cover (back then) had two creepy smiling faces on it, and it felt (much like a Murakami tunnel or water well) like a world calling out to me, despite common sense telling me not to go inside it.
Though I’ve read 90% of Murakami’s writings, some in Japanese but mostly in their English translations, I had actually missed “Drive My Car” from the collection titled Men Without Women. The English edition came out in 2017, the year Jin and I moved to Nashville. I was probably too busy to notice at the time. Last week, I finally picked up a copy from the local library, wanting to re-experience the beauty of the film with the original source.
Here’s how Murakami describes the female chauffeur:
“She operated the car smoothly, with no sudden jerks. The road was crowded, with frequent stoplights, but she was focused on changing gears smoothly. The movement of her eyes told him that. When he closed his own eyes, though, he found it next to impossible to tell when she shifted. Only the sound of the engine let him know which gear the car was in. The touch of her foot on the brake and accelerator pedals was light and careful. Best of all, she was entirely relaxed. In fact, she seemed more at ease when driving. Her blunt, impersonal expression became softer, and her eyes gentler. Yet she was every bit as taciturn. She would answer his questions and nothing more.”
My mother was a messier, more passionate driver, but I think she would have felt a kinship with this fictional character. I think she would have also enjoyed the film adaptation.
Murakami’s story borrows the title from a Beatles song, and the relationship between the protagonist and chauffeur is not the main focus. The story, at its core, is about the protagonist’s grief over his wife, who to his knowledge was cheating on him throughout their marriage. The story is about acting (the protagonist’s profession) both on stage and in life. He never confronted his wife about the affairs in order to preserve their seemingly perfect relationship. Murakami seems to suggest that the actor gets closest to his authentic self with his chauffeur, more than he ever did with his wife, friends, or colleagues.
As I wrote in “Grasshopper,” there’s a certain magic that happens between two people who spend hours driving together in the same car, especially when they’re strangers at first. I think it has to do with the constraint of the space—both people are often looking straight ahead, with no pressure to make eye contact with each other. Silences are accepted. Even during a coffee date among friends, people might feel pressured to fill the silence with more conversation, just for the sake of it. Allowing pockets of silence can lead to more intimacy or simply a sense of relaxation. Instead of small talk, it’s easier to dive straight into deeper questions. As the actor and chauffeur warm up to each other, the chauffeur asks, “This may be out of line, but it’s been on my mind. Is it okay if I ask?” The actor simply responds, “Shoot.”
The other day, while Jin was driving and I was in the passenger’s seat, I saw the car from my driving school in front of us, with “STUDENT DRIVER” written clearly on all sides. I couldn’t confirm that the instructor was the same one I had. The sunlight was too harsh, the moment too brief. He’s someone I still think about, even after all these years. If only I could sign up for his classes again, so that he could teach me to dissipate my anxiety, drive smoother, transition onto a highway without fear. He would probably laugh and tell me that these things can’t be taught. They just have to be experienced.
In case you missed it: my essay on Yoko Tawada’s Scattered All Over the Earth was published on Lit Hub! It’s about what it feels like to gradually lose my mother tongue and feel seen in a literary novel. Most of all, it’s about how language is so much more than the spoken and written word—it’s also about food, art, and human connections.
If you’re in Nashville, make sure to pick up your May/June copy of Edible Nashville magazine! I had a great time interviewing and writing about Aloha Fish Co., a one-of-a-kind fish delivery service that allows landlocked Nashvillians to consume a variety of fresh seafood as though they live in Hawaii.
What I’m reading: I read two nonfiction books back to back by two separate Sarahs: “Smile” by playwright Sarah Ruhl and “Run Towards the Danger” by filmmaker Sarah Polley. Interesting parallels between these two books are that they both frame their stories around a medical event (Bell’s Palsy and concussion respectively); they both write candidly about the struggles and joys of being a mother & full-time artist; reading their books adds deeper appreciation for the art they have created (the play “The Clean House” for Ruhl, and films “Take This Waltz” and “Stories We Tell” for Polley).
What I’m watching: High-brow: My Brilliant Friend season 3 on HBO. Low brow: Selling Sunset, on mute/2x speed/subtitles.
What I’m listening to: “2-hour vacation” (二時間だけのバカンス), a miraculous duet between two Japanese singers I’ve adored my whole life, Sheena Ringo & Hikaru Utada. The lyrics (and music video) suggest a yearning for a love affair, which thematically relates to “Drive My Car.”
Coming up: I’ll be hosting another Zoom book club event through the Japan-America Society of Tennessee (open to all), on May 24 at 6 p.m. CT. I’ll share excerpts and moderate a discussion on Yoko Tawada’s Scattered All Over the Earth. No prior reading required. Register here. I’d love to see you!
This one's beautiful.