Personal Narrative-Driving Blindly Divided

I remember it like it happened yesterday. It was a warm sunny day on October 27 2013, and we were driving to my sister Amy’s house in Kaukauna. We had to drop off a set of bunk beds at her house for my niece Mia. My dad, mom, my sister Anna, and I were all in one car, while my two brothers, Andrew and David, were in the Ford Ranger ahead of us. We were having fun in the car, talking, laughing and listening to music, until we came up on a yield sign. My brother Andrew proceeded through it first, when a black Envoy came speeding around the corner, too fast to slow down. When Andrew saw it coming he tried to swerve, but the car was going too fast, and it was too late. The car hit the truck,

yelled as he pulled me up. Right as I looked into his deep blue eyes, I felt like I was in one of the cheesy romantic movies. It felt as though there was a spotlight shining on us, and we were the only ones in the world.

Shattering snowfall of glass surrounded my form with the offending rush of cold air resembled a blizzard; the scent of alcohol now strangled my nose and throat. Blinding lights of neon signs complimented the dark night of the cold fall nights of Telegraph Rd.. However, the chilled air was not able to breach the inside of the warm car that held us; my sister, father, and myself, with the soft music of gospel quietly played. Inevitably, our peaceful serenity was interrupted by the commotion of a semi-truck swerving behind us. Right lane. Left lane. Right lane. Left lane. This behavior became the focus of my father as he was trying to drive us home safely that night. Cautious steering became useless in a single damning moment; our car swerved, my sister wailing, father’s muffled exclamations, and the protruding smell of beer. Thankfully, my body was unscathed; however, the way I envisioned the world changed drastically.

I hate driving. I have some trepidation about using that word but hate is due where it’s due. And I hate driving. It might have something to do with the fact that no matter how good a driver I am, my safety is still in the hands of some over-confident twenty-something who is texting, eating, and driving simultaneously. Or maybe it’s the environmentally driven guilt I have while pumping gas. Either way, I just really don’t like driving. But, it was driving that made me realize I felt like an ant. I was in the left turn lane on my way home from a hot afternoon of summer band. The little green traffic arrow lit up and, much like ants following the instruction of a pheromone, we swung our metallic bodies in the instructed direction of travel and

When we reached the ridge I turned to look back. The rest of my troop carried on, mortified. But I continued to stare back. If I squinted, I could see two silhouttes against the settin’ sun, one large an’ one small. The large cradled the small one, bent over it as if weepin’. An’ the small ‘un, well it wasn’t movin’ at all. I felt a sob workin’ its way up ma throat, but I pushed it back down when I heard the commander walkin’ up behind me.

As I walked out of the courthouse and down the ramp, I looked at my mom in disappointment and embarrassment. Never wanting to return to that dreadful place, I slowly drug my feet back to the car. I wanted to curl up in a little ball and I didn 't want anyone else to know what I had done. Gaining my composure, I finally got into the car. I didn 't even want to hear what my mom had to say. My face was beat red and I was trying to hide my face in the palms of my hands because I knew what was about to come; she was going to start asking me questions, all of the questions I had been asking myself. Sure enough, after a short period of being in the

Corporal Walter Gordon was sitting up outside of his hole at the top of hill 303 the air was thick with soot and he could barely see twenty feet in front of him. Ringing filled his ears as shells exploded overhead, along with the screams of dying men. The enemy was on his front doorstep. While his comrades fell

Approaching the American breastworks in the pitch-black night was not the most reassuring feeling in the world. True, our forces were far superior to the motley crew of American soldiers that lay before us, but confidence could only do so much for a man in my position. The thought of dying at the hands of these insane, untrained American soldiers crept into my mind and distracted me from my surroundings. Stumbling slightly in the darkness, I stopped dead in my tracks when I realized just how close we were to the breastworks. I held my breath and crouched down, as did many other men around me. All other sounds around us ceased. Slow, cautious movements and near-inaudible whispers came from behind the breastworks. I scanned my dark surroundings

I approached the vehicle and asked MD why she was driving without someone 21 years of age in the vehicle and she informed me that she just wanted to hang out with friends and watch the fireworks. I asked MD if anyone in the vehicle had consumed alcohol and she told me no.

As he stomped down the hall dressed in all black, I timidly stepped to the other side of the hallway with my head down avoiding any type of interaction. When the sounds of boots and chains faded away, I was overwhelmed with relief. Nothing had calmed me more than this instant; nothing had been more soothing than the sound of pure nothingness. The fear that came over me was like being trapped in a small room with no way out. I felt helpless, defenseless, like something was going to happen to me in that hallway with the boy dressed in black.

It's Friday, March 25 in the morning at about 7:00 am when my mom wakes all of us up to get ready to leave. On the way to Minnesota we were driving, but still in suamico, we stopped at a Kwik Trip gas station to fill up the tank. We all were thirsty so we got a water from the cooler in the back of the truck, but my brother Roy spilled his all over himself and on the seats.”Good thing it's just water.” My mom said. As we drove across the imaginary line splitting Wisconsin with Minnesota there was a big rock carved into the shape of Minnesota that said, “Welcome To Minnesota.” When we were on the highway we almost got into two major accidents, the first one was when we had an open lane ahead the driver to the right of us tried coming into our lane right next to us and put our left two tires

I’ve been trudging along for what seems like hours. I lost count of my steps sometime after my car broke down. When I look around all I see is an almost tangible grey curtain hiding everything except for a small segment of the highway. As I look forward the dark grey of the asphalt blends into the fog. I have no Idea what time it is when the fog rolled in my phone died. Without a clock, any length of time seems to go on forever, especially when the sun is hiding behind the fog. I just something I don’t understand about my situation, there has been no change in light since the fog rolled in. Same brightness the whole time. It’s almost like it’s not that I can’t tell time is passing. It’s that time isn’t passing, but that’s impossible.

I opened the doors and walked into the building where a young, peppy lady sat at the wooden desk in front of me and excitedly greeted me saying, “Hi! Can I have your name please?” It was the day of my driving test and my nerves are getting to me more than ever before. The words “Andrew Tenore,” came out in a sputtery mess. “Thank you, take a seat. Goodluck!” she called. There was a couple other people waiting with me, all with the same blank, distressed face as myself. As I sat there, for what felt like forever, I began to have thoughts about how this test could go.

I think as a child I used up more chalk than anyone else would in their entire lifetime. My dad gave me a beat-up toy car he found powered by a 12 volt battery when I was four, and I instantly fell in love. After every rainstorm, I would draw a new road configuration on my driveway with boxes upon boxes of chalk, complete with double lines and crosswalks, and would excitedly drive my car through while ensuring that I was still following the rules of the road.

Long stretched roads embrace the coniferous trees and empty land. My Uber driver speeds his stick-shift car along the highway. I look out to observe the land and different signs. The signs are a circular piece of metal with numbers indicating in kilometers. I wonder how many miles it would be if I was back home.