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I spent my teens years wanting a truck as an expression of automotive gender identity: I am a girl with a truck.
I drove a 1985 powder blue Dodge Ares instead.
Then, I learned about fuel efficiency and global warming and got a subscription to Utne reader.
Trucks suddenly seemed much less cool.
Trucks suddenly seemed much less cool.
I started to understand the role trucks play in rural and suburban society as financial signifiers adjacent, though rarely fully in, working class identify.
So, I drove a Honda CR-V and used to move hay.
Then, I got a Honda Element, which saved my husband& #39;s life when he met a tree on wet leaves.
(I& #39;ll add here: PLZ MOAR VEHICLES WITHOUT CARPET FLOORS).
We got the Subaru after the Element& #39;s accident. I was pregnant and it seemed like a good car for a baby seat.
The thing about the Subaru is that it& #39;s low to the ground and can& #39;t really do double duty in a field.
I try.
The check engine light goes on.
I try.
The check engine light goes on.
So, I suppose this was inevitable. I need a vehicle to use around the farm, to move wood and buy supplies and get there fucking scrap metal out of the buildings.
It& #39;s cheap and old and not pretty, but those adjectives also describe me.
(I got it from Craigslist. The owner had a broken beach back and it hurt to get in and out of the truck. I brought him steaks as a thank you in case we didn& #39;t buy it. He gave us two miniature wells. The toddler is thrilled.)
