Road Trip Revelations

My second go-round with college was in Portland, Oregon, while my dad still lived in San Jose, California. That meant that holidays required a road trip down I-5, over the mountains and through the woods.

Tragically, this was the age of the I-5 killer, a serial killer who found his victims along that interstate. The school, naturally, was concerned with the number of students who took that route home, and did what they could to require we travel in groups of both men and women, preferably larger groups, but at least two.

I was extremely shy those days around men, but I had a car, so I never had a problem finding someone to drive with me. One spring break it turned out to be a fellow student named Jack, one of the most popular boys on campus who I, remarkably, had a light flirtatious relationship with. We planned to leave right after lunch and drive straight through to San Jose, which was about a twelve hour drive.

He drove most of the way, even though it was my car, which was fine with me, I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of driving in the dark.

To break the ice, I asked him, “what’s the most embarrassing moment of your life?” He proceeded to tell me a story I’ve all but forgotten now, but it took place in junior high, which was one long embarrassing moment for me, so I totally related to what he was saying. In fact, it was a bit of a relief–and revelation–to hear that this popular kid had had bad moments in eighth grade, just like I did. I didn’t realize until much later that we all had bad moments at that point in our life. It came with the territory.

Then it was my turn, and for the life of me, I couldn’t think of a story to tell. Believe me, I’d had my share of embarrassments along the way, but I totally blanked on a story. Perhaps it was because I was afraid it would get repeated, or perhaps I was just too insecure to let myself be that vulnerable. I came up with a story, a true story, but it didn’t come close to matching his.

When friends later asked how the trip went, I said, “fine,” but I wasn’t convincing, and they knew something had happened to make me uncomfortable. I wouldn’t tell them what, and I never repeated Jack’s story, believing it had been told in confidence. More importantly, I never told my friends that I couldn’t come up with a story about my own most embarrassing incident.

In retrospect, I see that trip as part of a trend in my life, a fear of making myself vulnerable to others, particularly to men. I didn’t recognize it at the time, although I don’t think I would have denied it.

I wish I’d had the courage to tell my own story.