Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

01 | Take The Backseat

SÁBADO
10:43 PM

Dahlia Gray

It was dinner.

We, as humans, have the ability to blame our source of misery on any fundamental thing that comes upon us. Whether that be wrong timing, or the stars didn't align, or maybe something as mundane as a family dinner outing—we blame things because we don't want to take control.

I wouldn't say it was a toxic trait of ours, but I do conclude that we need to start picking up responsibility and taking our own fates into our own hands. We like to play with the idea of this and that, that this influences the outcome of that. We like to leave our realities up to the gods.

Sometimes, we don't need a god to dictate our living.

I lean against the glass window of my father's BMW, the hue of the frosty night bringing on a thin layer of fog. The strands of my brown hair pressed against the glass, leaving a small head-shaped indention that screams: yes! I was here!

Though, sometimes, I imagine it doesn't matter.

The front of the BMW occupies my parents; my loving father sitting behind the steering wheel as one hand maneuvers with steadiness and the other using dramatic hand gestures to get his point across. My mother takes the passenger seat, her black locks identical to mine pulled back into a slick ponytail, her fingers digging into the lining of the seatbelt.

They spoke in Spanish, their phrases fizzed out quickly before reigniting with another comeback or retort that blares against my eardrums. Thankfully, I had both of my earbuds in—but that doesn't completely stop the noise.

My father's Spanish was less native compared to my mother—who was born and raised in Venezuela—but that doesn't make him any less fluent. Despite being a white man, he's been speaking Spanish for a good thirty years of his life.

"¡Nosotros no nos vamos!" We are not leaving! My father screams in Spanish, his eyes dangerously glancing away from the road and towards my mother in a rage of fury. His words spit with agitation, and I could progressively see my mother burying herself into the leather seat, wishing she was smaller.

My mother opens her lips, "No es que quiera irme ahora mismo—" It's not that I want to leave right now— my mother would suggest nicely, but her words would fall flat once my father's impeding, loud, voice interrupts.

"¿Por qué querrías irte? ¡Nuestra vida está aquí! ¡Nuestra familia está aquí! ¡Mi trabajo está aqui!" Why would you want to leave for?! Our life is here! Our family is here! My work is here!

I wanted to bury myself under seventy different layers of blankets; wishing for anything to make their argument become a mere radio frequency to my ears. It was a ritual, trying to silence their feud before it became worse.

But it never became worse. My mother always just gives in.

Thankfully, I didn't have to witness another lecture that leaves my father's lips as he pulls up to our driveway, the lining of our two-story home coming back into view.

Our house has a large wraparound porch, with several white oak columns supporting the roof that sticks out from underneath several windows—my window being the culprit in view. Our home mainly takes after wood, but a small section of the garage was decorated in cobblestone, the same kind that follows the pathway and steps to our front porch.

I jump out of the BMW the moment the car registered in park. The soles of my shoes touch the smooth cement of the driveway before approaching up the steps, and I find myself in front of the ebonized wooden door.