An Open Letter to my 1998 Nissan Sentra

Dear Simon,

Technically, you were my sister’s car first. You were purchased for her, used, in 2000, after she almost wrecked the Volvo trying to learn how to drive stick shift. And you are named after a boy she had a crush on in the 9th grade. But after 15 years of driving you and replacing your rusting parts, it’s safe to say that you’re all mine now.

I mentioned that are you named after a boy my sister had a crush on. This does not make you all that special—all cars in our family are named, and all names begin with the same letter as the model of the car. Victor the Volvo, Harry the Honda, Simon the Sentra. And yes, all the cars are “male.” In our family, the cars and pets are always male (and we like to anthropomorphize). We know we're strange.

Naming may not have made you special, Simon, but you are nevertheless quite special indeed. You are 18 years old, with only 65,000 miles. When I registered you at the Maryland MVA last year, the lady behind the desk thought this was a joke. It’s not.

You once had mice living in your air conditioning, unbeknownst to me, and I neglected to get the unit checked out for a whole summer. Back in 2002, I knocked your side mirror off while backing out of a garage, and I reattached it using duct tape and drove you around like that for months. (My high school friends call you “El Ghetto” because of this. Not PC at all, but give us a break—we were only 17.) Your top is peeling off and rusting. It looks pretty gruesome. Josh, when he first met you, asked if I had tried to cut out a sunroof for you. (I hope you forgive him for that—sometimes he makes bad jokes.) 

And just a few weeks ago, someone hit your front driver-side door, and now it makes a terrible crunching sound when it closes. In high school, my sister sat in you with liquid cement on her pants, and there has been a weird splotch on your upholstery ever since. In the winter, your power steering sometimes fails. Water now leaks into your trunk. You are missing two hubcaps. You have never, ever been broken into.

Once, driving up Broadway in Manhattan, someone pulled up next to you and shouted: “Hey, I know where you can get that bumper replaced for a great price!” I was confused by this at first—usually men shouting in cars are referring to my bumper and not yours, Simon. But then I was insulted for you. What was wrong with your bumper? It may have looked (as it does now) like I had played bumper cars with you, repeatedly and for many years, but what of it? Isn’t there a saying about scars giving character to a face? No? Well. I still told that guy to get lost. I hope your feelings weren’t hurt.

Simon, you have been an important part of my young adult life. You were the car I learned to drive on, and the car I drove during my driving test back in 2001. You allowed me to sneak in the house way past my curfew in high school. You came to college with me, and got me safely from DC to Chicago to New York and back again, several times. You have helped me move six times. We have spent many, many hours driving around together with the windows down, listening to bad pop music at a ridiculous volume—this is one of my favorite things to do. 

You took me and Alex and Rita to Depot late at night for hamburgers. You took me and Marta and Alex (and sometimes Adam) to many, many delicious cheap ethnic dining establishments. You took me to the library to write my dissertation when I was too lazy to take the bus. You helped Josh out when his car broke down. You got me all the places I wanted to go without ever leaving me stranded by the side of the road. I couldn’t have asked for a better car.

And now, after 15 years together, soon it’s going to be time to say goodbye. You’re old and not in great shape. I don’t drive you as much as I should. Last time I took you to the mechanic, he told me he was worried about replacing any of your parts because you are so rusty and brittle.  And he needs to replace many of your parts.

Selling you (or more likely, giving you away) will be hard for me, because I think of you as a friend—a great friend who is always ready for a trip and never gives me a hard time. We’ve grown old together, Simon, and I’ll really miss you when you’re gone.

Love,

Julia