A car doesn’t make a person

If you drive a flashy car, it can mean a few things. First, you may have a large payment; second, you might desire attention; and lastly, it's possible you are overcompensating. I am not talking about a classic car that may be well deserved. I am talking about a flashy car. The big canary-yellow Hummer with chrome wheels and tinted windows (please skip this part if you own that car).

My dad had the opposite philosophy. He would always say, “Any man can get attention driving a flashy car, but only a special few will get noticed in a clunker.” If a woman turns her head to look at you in a dilapidated Dodge Dart, you know she is either taking pity on you or that you got it goin’ on!

My parents tried to teach me this philosophy as a teenager. I was responsible for purchasing my first vehicle, and boy did I find a diamond in the rough. It was a 1976 AMC Matador. She was white with a blue top. I say she, because you have to name a car with this much personality, and her name was “Maddie”. We were born the same year. She had four doors, three of which actually worked. She was incontinent, always leaking some type of fluid. She ate tires and was an excessive drinker of petroleum products. Yet, I was proud she was mine.

As with most first cars, she taught me much. I learned how to drive, how to be responsible and how to be independent. I also realized just how many of my friends cared about appearances. The few who were willing to set aside their pride and ride with me, usually did it out of desperation. And you can be guaranteed they ducked their heads whenever a cute specimen of the opposite sex was nearby. Despite my age, I knew that if you didn’t like me because of the car I drove, I probably wouldn’t want to be your friend anyway.

Even though I am much older now I still prefer the vehicles I can name. The one’s with quirks and defects, much like myself. There are others like me. Those who can afford more, yet they purposely buy the clunker: the rusty, personality-filled hunk of metal. Like my father, they want you to know that they will not fit into the mold. They are rebels. They are confident in themselves, and understand that a car will never make a person.

Sainthood

It’s easy to turn those who have died into saints. You overlook obvious flaws and overemphasize the goodness. An ordinary, average person can become extraordinary the day they die.

Now that my dad is gone we only seem to remember his amazing attributes. This is a source of contention for my mom because we have not shown her the same forgiveness. We have turned my dad into a saint: St. William Arnold. He would get a good laugh out of the whole situation. His final revenge.

My dad was able to pull this same maneuver when we were teenagers. He left town for an extended period of time after my parent’s divorce. Even though I felt angry and abandoned at the time, I soon forgave him. Then and now, only remembering the good, bright and sunny moments can ease the pain. It somehow makes the separation bearable. I gain much comfort recalling the positive qualities my dad displayed. But he was not a saint. He had flaws, he made mistakes, he was human.

Around the time my dad died, I learned some valuable information about my great-grandfather, who had passed away when I was a child. All my life I had been told about his amazing, saintly attributes. But no one ever talked about his flaws. I was shocked to learn of his failings. To know he was human.

The irony is that when you die, you are forgiven of the mistakes that follow you when you’re alive. This is a natural human tendency: to memorialize those who are gone, to set them on a pedestal. The sad part is that we can’t seem to do this when the person is living. For most of us death may be the only time we achieve sainthood.