The bracelet and the ring

I never learned how to ride a bike. Or whatever roller-something. No scooters. Nothing. I grew up having only my feet as a source of locomotion. I was never really interested in those things; I care much more about the possibilities of breaking a bone. For countless times at school and at home, people tried to teach me how to have at least some sense of motion, but learning right and left seemed to be an impossible conundrum. Although I started to speak at 8 months old, according to my mom, and by the age of 5 I would write with both hands, I could never, never look at a narrow space and know if I fit. For all of those reasons, I never believed that I would drive a car in my life, which made me secretly deeply sad because one of the things I love the most is to be inside a car listening to music and singing at the top of my lungs against the wind. It wasn’t until three months ago, that I stopped accepting the fact I’d never be able to do this by myself, controlling my path on the road. I gave all the fucks possible to all the odds against my dream and enrolled in driving lessons. “Never for a moment I will think about failing” that was the only promise I made to myself. It had nothing to do with hope or positivity. My stubbornness level ten and pride guide me throughout the streets of Brooklyn and its endless stop signs. Then came the universe blowing me forward, giving me all the answers in little things like my instructor’s name, which is the same as my mom’s favorite gypsy-spirit-to-pray-to. My road test was scheduled for July 7: 07/07 double my lucky number. There I am, paying attention to all the mirrors, my bracelet (that means the right) and my ring (meaning the left), the crazy (assuming they’re always insane helps me) behind me and ignoring the honks for me. Every time I drove, it felt like a hug to my inner child, who would sit on a bench while everyone raced with their bikes. Felt like a high five to the little and frustrated girl trying to learn geographic coordinates. When I finally felt safe behind the wheels, I decided I would take myself for a ride around the place I was born: Rio de Janeiro. And so, I did everything possible to finally listen to my dear Jonas Brothers’ playlist at top volume off to nowhere alongside the beaches. On the plane, I was wishing I could drive all the way. I couldn’t stop dreaming and thinking about the day I’d get the car. Finally, it has come. This morning, I picked up the car and drove for the first time in my home country. Me, the girl who could never figure out how to use her body properly in her surroundings. With my knees full of scars and my own ways of figuring out directions, I stepped on the gas to leave behind a huge, painful chapter of my life. I can do this now. In tears of happiness, I’m sitting in the car -parked, of course- writing this to tell the world that I made it: I made it.