Cruel, misshapen blades are pulled out by an elder while others are trying to calm you with ancient tribal songs and chants. These foreboding Mardudjaran chants tell your brain to run, but your heart reminds you to welcome them with open arms and loins. You must remind yourself that the nightmare-inducing pain of circumcision and the discomfort of swallowing your foreskin followed by standing over a fire is the only way to be recognized as a man. This rite of passage is excruciating. Take it from me… I read an article about it. The Riordans go through their own right of passage too: driving a Volvo 240.

I am the fifth of six children to drive this box on wheels. This car contains glitches galore that were cleverly hidden when we bought it, starting with its temperamental starter. Often as I turn my remoteless key in the ignition, the car retorts “chhh.” However, if you open the door or turn the overhead light on, the car shudders gingerly to a start. I often ponder how one of the taillights is a shade of yellow that took 21 years to achieve while the other looks starkly new. The car’s paint job looks like a shower door caked with soap scum because the clear coat is chipping. The back right door takes a force of 25 Newtons to open. My dachshunds, Fritz and Fraiser, know when I am almost home well before I pull into our driveway; there is no muffler. The bill to replace it could total the car’s worth. To round off the list, finally, the one functioning speaker flops around like Nemo’s lucky fin.

I feel so at home in my 1992 Volvo 240 that I am able to resist Kelly Blue Book’s alluring $900 trade-in value. Unintentionally, my car often contains the meaningful clutter of my life. The plush Cookie Monster-colored seats are heaped with Harry Potter books, spinning shoes, running clothes and my wrinkled school uniform. I did not always embrace the rejection of the “American Dream.” Until recently, I was embarrassed to drive this car a friend compared to “a shopping cart with a motor.” But I take comfort in the knowledge that this car has been a stepping-stone for me in discovering my identity, how I was formed and what I hope to stand for.

In the world of buying on credit, it was hard for me to grasp why my parents insisted on driving this “classic.” I now can see my parents’ wisdom in their decision to live comfortably within their means. My parents understand that life can throw curveballs, like when my brother was diagnosed with stage 4 Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. The car is emblematic of my parents’ decision to have six children and provide each of them with Catholic school education. Essentially, they chose life, they chose me. The car has made me want to strive to become like my parents and make life choices based on what I want, not on what society tells me to want. I believe if I can become like my parents and resist the pressure to “keep up with the Joneses,” I will be successful. But, if this is the case, my life choices and happiness will not be based on my GPA, ACT score or the level of worth I register on the faces of people who ask where I went to college. Nor will my choices be dictated by the cars I drive (obviously), my children’s athletic capability or the square footage of my house. If I can emulate my parents and be selfless for family, friends and the occasional stranger, I will be happy. I will be successful.