Narrative Essay On Drunk Driving

As soon as I was old enough to sit in the passenger seat, my dad always found ways to make each drive with him a lesson in safety, reflexes, and acting under pressure. For example, at indiscriminate moments, he would abandon the steering wheel, yelling, “Paco, steer.” “What?” I would reply. “Steer.” “How? I’m not in the driver’s seat!” “Grab the wheel and steer.” It is at this point, when to abort our present, fatal trajectory, my dad would reclaim control, not without a heavy sigh and an annoyed glare. I would often marvel at his confidence in me and in its realization at inopportune times. “Paco,” he would say, “When you drive, there’s no time for questions in a bad situation. I don’t want you getting into any accidents.”

(2) Because I am my father’s son, I am the second best. (3) All others are bad. These facts, alongside his creative use of terror, proved integral to his teaching. My first time on the highway coincided with a torrential downpour. When I parked, he would substitute his body for cones to add pressure. Road laws and mirrors were of minor importance; what mattered was that I mold myself into his vision of the perfect driver. Just go through the motions, I would think. It’ll all end up working out. I relied on his prophecy that it was impossible for me to be a bad driver. And up until my road test it seemed as if the prophecy were almost fulfilled. With high hopes, higher expectations, and a sprinkle of anxiety, I took my place in line. After briefly waiting and quickly checking the vehicle functions, my first task was parallel parking. Once I nestled my car between the cones and behind the line, I rushed out and mentally prepared for the next stage. Not five seconds later did my ego topple like Jericho’s

Santayana: we’re doomed to repeat the past no matter what.” Twenty-nine more years led to an overconfident sixteen-year-old living Vonnegut’s words. In other words, I failed not once, but twice. This time, for stopping too far ahead of a stop sign. By then, however, I grew aware of my shortcomings. My dad’s harsh lessons weren’t ingredients that I could stir together, assembling perfection. Passivity wasn’t conducive to success. I needed to throw my effort in the