I got no car and it’s breaking my heart

At age 16, I failed my first driving test. It wasn’t that I was a bad driver, but driving just made me nervous. What didn’t help the test was a grumpy man in the passenger seat who likely started working at DMV when cars were invented. Though I eventually passed, my initial failure was debilitating. I told myself that I was a bad driver, but oh well, I hated driving.

My defense mechanism was to avoid driving as much as possible for the rest of high school. This is nearly impossible when you live in the Bay Area, but I forced it to work, relying on my legs or other drivers. When I absolutely needed to, I borrowed one of two family-owned SUVs. As a 5'2" female, I found the massive size of these vehicles (and their turn radii) to be anxiety-inducing.

I still remember one of my first solo-driving experiences. I drove to a restaurant to meet my friends. After dinner, we all walked into the parking lot to our respective cars. I got in “mine” and turned on the radio, making no further effort to leave. I didn’t want any friends watching as I pulled out of my parking spot. In psychology, social facilitation explains how having an audience magnifies skill when you’re good at something — and further diminishes skill when you consider yourself bad at something.

After five minutes, I started the engine:

Rear-view mirror. Inch back. Keep the wheel straight. Rear-view mirror. Inch back. Slowly and jerkily, I removed the car from its spot, gaining confidence with each foot tap and release. Yes, almost there. Release. Inch back. Press. Release. Inch ba- Screeeeech. I slammed the breaks.

My rhythm was thwarted by fierce honking. I looked into the rear-view mirror to see a parked car millimeters behind me. I had almost crashed. To my side, I saw the honking to have come from a friend’s car. Horrified (but thankful), I returned straight into my spot allowing her to pass. From then on, I parked as far as possible from my destination so as not to be spotted by people I knew. And after high school, I attended college in Philadelphia where, to my relief, students didn’t need or have cars.

For my last three months of college, I was more distraught by the fact that I would soon need to drive thirteen-miles (in Bay Area traffic) to and from work each day than the fact that college was ending.

On December 6, 2010, I signed a lease for a hardtop, British racing green BMW Mini Cooper. I was initially apprehensive, but I needed a way to get around. As I got a feel for a vehicle that wasn’t a monster SUV, I, for the first time, felt relaxed behind the wheel — on freeways, turning, parking, and reversing. I started to enjoy driving and by January, was in love with my car.

But it wasn’t just because of the size. With dealership-organized events like owner gift-exchanges and cross-country drives, having a Mini was like being a part of a cool secret society. Simply seeing another Mini on the road was comforting. During the day, it was sunroof open, windows down, music blasting. At night, it was driver-seat-dancing under the car’s disco lights.

It was a car with character. It gave me character.

Occasionally, I would find myself wondering if it was all true. I’d look down at my keychain to confirm, “Wow! I have a Mini!” After years of hating driving and detesting cars, I now couldn’t believe I had a car that I loved. It’s kind of like getting a boyfriend after being perpetually single.

For three years, my Mini literally and figuratively transported me through the most formative years of my post-graduate life, including a breakup, my grandma’s death, the happiest six months of my first job, and my most difficult family conversation. This car, my first posession as a working woman, drove me into adulthood.

Two weeks ago, I drove my Mini to the dealership. The lease was ending and now that I live and work in San Francisco, I have no need for a car. Returning it was the difficult but adult decision. Ten minutes after entering the dealership, one car investigation and two signatures later, I was walking out of the parking lot with tears in my eyes and knots in my stomach. It wasn’t like a breakup. It was one.

Ownership psychology explains the sense of “mine” that I felt for my leased vehicle, an object I never legally owned. In their 2002 research paper, Pierce et al. write, “It is common for people to psychologically experience the connection between self and various targets of possession such as homes, automobiles, space, and other people. Possessions come to play such a dominant role in the owner’s identity, that they become part of the extended self.” While there are tons of cars out there and tons of Mini Coopers for that matter, mine was special to me because of how it changed me and the unique personal experiences we shared. The family SUVs were never able to connect with me at that level.

Though this piece serves mostly as an ode to my Mini, it also serves to demonstrate how the success of a product single-handedly rests in its ability to create an emotional experience. Functionality and appearance are only the half of it. Those qualities are required. But an inanimate product that comes alive with empathy, that makes us feel an emotion, that a human can love — that is a product with value.

That is a product that will drive humanity’s progress