On the Road, Again

The Year White Supremacy Stole Driving From Me

I have always loved driving.

Growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area, I was deeply entrenched in “driving around” culture. If people didn’t “drive around” where you’re from, it basically involves riding around in a friend’s car, maybe you smoke some weed, maybe you get a coffee, a burrito / some drive-thru, listen to some Jeff Buckley / Grateful Dead / Fugees / whatever makes you feel cool (singing along in harmony in our case because we were choir nerds)— not actually going anywhere or doing anything. Just wasting gas that you probably didn’t pay for and spending money that you probably didn’t earn on food that you could probably get at home while complaining that there’s nothing to do.

When I moved to New York City to go to school, I pretty abruptly stopped driving and I definitely missed it. After college, when I started working in Locations in the film & television industry, my car-life returned. This time, instead of aimlessly passing the hours in cars, I was hurtling across the five boroughs, rapidly becoming acquainted with the randomest nooks and crannies of the city. 

Scouting for filming locations, testing out the best routes for extra-tall star trailers to get to Montauk at the eastern end of Long Island, finding a support space big enough for 500 extras to get into 1901 costumes, hair, & makeup— you name it, me and my rental car (usually a Prius) would at least try to get it done!

In between my destinations, as I alternately sat in traffic or zipped through the veins and arteries of the Tri-State Area’s roadways, I was in my own little world.

Sometimes there was music, sometimes audiobooks, often NPR, sometimes I just thought about things in silence, the important part about this time was that it was mine.

Many years later, after I left the film industry to move back to California and work in food, and then pretty catastrophically injured my back moving a wheel of cheese during a brunch shift (you just can’t make this shit up folks), driving the car was one of few activities & positions that was totally comfortable for my moderately maimed spine. So suddenly, there I was back in California, driving around.

Usually I’d head to the coast and then take a very sad and shuffling walk along a bluff somewhere until my back said “bitch go sit down.”

As time wore on and I found myself unable to find work my car explorations were one of very few things keeping a massive tide of depression at bay. When I left the film & tv industry I had no idea it would be so hard to find work in another industry. I thought anyone would be able to easily see how Location Management is just Creative Project Management, but I was very wrong. As the months wore on and my level of poverty increased, the sanctity of my solo drives grew.

When I eventually moved to Indianapolis to try my hand at not being a coastal elite, I looked forward to getting to know my new home during meandering drives through cornfields soundtracked by the sounds of Stax Records.

One Sunday, I set out on such an adventure. I’d studied a map for about an hour before heading out, I knew where I wanted to go and headed North. At one point I ended up turning onto a small road instead of the State Road I meant to turn on and the road quickly went from paved to gravel. Knowing I needed to turn around, I pulled into a driveway to make my turn. It immediately took a jog to the right so I couldn’t just back right out as I’d intended, and I figured I’d just keep going until I saw a place to turn around, and hope I didn’t see any people.

As I drove on the driveway narrowed. I wasn’t nervous or anything, being a location scout, I’d done my fair share of creative boundary incursion (read: trespassing) in the name of finding the perfect location, and I’d been kicked off of more than one person’s property. But on this property, I saw: approximately four TRUMP FOR GOD’S AMERICA SIGNS, the largest Rebel flag I’ve ever encountered— mounted on a telephone pole, a sign that said “Indiana, where we shoot first” with an illustration of a sawed off shotgun, and a bunch of other deeply unwelcoming shit.

Continuing on my current path seemed like a direct threat to my physical health so I threw it in reverse and hoped I’d picked up something watching precision drivers on set for all those years. 

And that was the end of my vehicular explorations in Indiana.

And then on March 13th Breonna Taylor was murdered in her home by police officers in Louisville. And then here in Indianapolis on May 6th Dreasjon Reed was murdered by police over a traffic stop. And then on May 25th in Minneapolis there was George Floyd.

It’s not that I didn’t already know what the score was with Black folks and the police, I’ve been well aware of that since birth. And if not, getting pulled over on the way home from my brother’s 16th birthday dinner (just me, 13 and my big bro, a freshly licensed 16 year old in the car), having to get out of the car, and watch my brother try to act big and answer the white officer’s questions while I sobbed hysterically next to him definitely cemented the fact that the police are not here to protect me at an early age.

my brother at 17 & his beloved Honda Prelude. the Palo Alto PD never stopped harassing him, even after my mom went down there and yelled at them.

It was just that the threat of police violence felt so present. I was participating in marches and actions here multiple times a week, looking into the eyes of officers chomping at the bit to jack us up. I was watching videos of police everywhere maiming and abusing protesters with complete impunity. Every time I got behind the wheel of the 1997 Lincoln Town Car (not exactly an inconspicuous ride) that I’d inherited from my Auntie Betty, I felt their eyes watching me and noticed them tailing me. Soon the panic attacks started.

I’d feel the tightening in my chest start as soon as I got in the car and within minutes of being on the road my palms were sweating and my stomach was in knots. I usually ended up sobbing my way through the journey, gripping the steering wheels as tightly as I could, sitting bolt upright in my seat, scanning the road for cops like it was my job.

From about May to October of 2020, I’d say driving was prohibitively terrifying to me. My panic reaction was just so intense that I couldn’t do it safely, both in terms of actually being able to pay attention to the road and not wanting to put my system through that kind of stress.

I’m not completely sure what I did to snap myself out of it. Knowing myself, I probably just got tired of feeling feeble and made myself drive enough times that the panic became first tolerable, and finally stopped happening. More commonly known as the “fake it ‘til you make it” technique.

And then because I can never leave well enough alone, I decided that I needed to take my re-conquest of the road to another level. 

I have always loved big vans. When I was a kid my Uncle Lamar had the most excellent high-top van with captain’s chairs that swiveled 360, brown formica tables, and a fully carpeted interior. He had the best music collection and thinking of his van always makes me hear Earth, Wind, & Fire.

My Uncle Lamar was shot and killed in his own driveway on my 16th birthday. I miss him all the time and think about how much fun he would’ve had watching all the wild stuff I’ve done with my life. 

my Uncle Lamar (far left), my Uncle Cornell, my Grandparents, & me

One of my best friends since way back is a member of a large German immigrant family and they had a great VW bus, we made a lot of joyful memories in that thing.

When I was teenager one of the other members of our crew’s families got a sick new VW Eurostar with a stove, a pop-up roof, bunk beds and a bunch of other fancy stuff.

When I started hearing about people tricking out conversion, Sprinter, & cargo vans to live in, I was sold. To not have to live in a city, to have a reason to get rid of most of my stuff, to be able to essentially drive around, pick a new spot, set up shop for a little while, enjoy some nature, and then move on— it sounded like heaven.

I added it to my Google Doc of big dreams (it’s called “Money Moves”) and hoped it’d be something that I might be able to do someday. 

Turns out someday is coming a lot sooner than I thought.

One night while I was hanging out with my boyfriend, I mentioned something about VanLife and he said something to the effect of “that sounds sick” and I said “you wanna?” and he said “sure” and so now we’re doing it!

We decided to go a little bigger than a van, ultimately purchasing a 1995 Firan Telstar motorhome. It’s definitely a bit of a beast at nearly 30’ long but having something we can stand up, shower, and poop in seems like a smart way to try out nomadic life for the first time. 

Lamar, our 1995 Firan Telstar Motorhome, in all its glory

Our initial plan is a National Park tour, with friends and loved ones meeting up with us along the way.

We named the rig Lamar after my uncle who would definitely be excited for his Vic-Vic and her big adventure. 

I anticipate spending so many hours behind the wheel of Lamar will bring back that sense of ownership I once felt while driving.

Every mile we travel will further erase the fever pitch my fear of driving while Black reached last year, and replace it with the infinite possibility of your home on wheels, a full tank of gas, and the wide open road.