Ode to my Car

Her name is Little White, and I started my journey with her. All through high school when I first got my driver’s license, to my undergrad and graduate degrees in college, to my first few internships leading to a fulltime, permanent career. I talked to her in my loneliness of starting things anew—new schools, several interviews, fresh jobs—and she’s also experienced the laughter of friends and family whom I chauffeured around. She has been broken into three times, and during the first, she was crashed into a street light pole, abandoned in the middle of the intersection, and declared “Salvaged” when I reclaimed her from the towing station. She’s had her original license and registration stolen, and I went to the DMV to get her a new identity. Her original radio broke down, and a thief attempted to take out her first after-market radio before being deterred. She’s been through five accidents, including a time when a driver fell asleep behind the wheel, bulldozed down our house’s steel gate, and ran into her as she was parked in the driveway.

People say a car like this must harbor negative energy. Some even tried to convince me to give her up since the first theft and opt for a newer car with better security features. But she kept running and hardly ever gave me a real excuse to get a new car. Insurance and maintenance costs decreased for her over the years, and she saved me money that went toward other, more immediate things. She’s been through a lot. She sports many battle scars that remained unpatched. I think of all the heavy rains and harsh suns that she has had to endure, having spent the majority of her life parked outside of a garage. I think of the crooked radio antenna, the brittle plastic parts that have gradually crumbled, the faded fabric of her seats, the automatic mechanisms that eventually stopped working, worn with age.

Some may think it’s a pity borne by anthropomorphism. Cars don’t feel. They live to perform, and then they die, without fear, without pain, and you are saved the grief of having to hold them by the hand to help them make it through. She’s taught me a lot during her life and all that we have been through together. That you wear your battle scars with pride, because every hurt, though it’s ugly and mars the superficial surface, is a lesson that will bring you wisdom. That you can endure more than you think you could and still keep chugging along. That integrity is not measured by newness or beauty, but by a weathered soul and how well you serve those who mean something to you.

Her death began at the start of winter; like me, she was never a fan of the cold. A yellow-orange fluid started leaking out of her, which we discovered to be rusty water. The mechanic confirmed that it was radiator fluid bleeding out of the brittle hoses that snaked under her hood. He replaced one major part and sealed up another, but the leak continued through a few weeks of pouring water into the radiator before driving. Eventually, not enough fluid was maintained in her system, and the heating within the car also gave out. It became evident that in time, the rust will infect the more important parts such as the engine, like poisoned blood running through her arteries and veins.

With a “Salvaged” title, she doesn’t have much hope. I did the last thing possible so that she could do some good in her last run—I donated her to the Humane Society of Silicon Valley. The proceeds will at least help the animal shelter get some funds to benefit their cause. I cleaned her out, removing old items of sentiment: a stuffed animal faded by sun, addresses and driving directions to friends’ old houses when they have long moved away, back in the days before GPS, when directions were hand-written. She sits now along the curb, engine parts splattered with rusty remnants, aged and retired and waiting for the donation tow truck to take her away. And I thank her for all she has gotten me through, for the roads we traveled together, for everything she has done for me.





Rest in Peace, Little White.
Age: 20 years
Odometer: 144,908 unforgettable miles