I WAS quite proud of my English and my driving abilities before I came to the United States.
When I had first come to the United States, my son told me that the first thing I would need here was my driver’s license. He was sure that I would not have any problems with the test since I had been driving for a long time. I had my doubts, having had my experience in driving on the left hand side, but he brushed the objections away by saying be sure to make correct left turns and the test could be passed surely.
I got a hundred on my written test. The next day, my son suggested that I take my test at a place 25 miles from home so that I could have some driving practice. He started the car and asked me to drive. We reached the destination safe and sound. I got nervous when I realized that my son would not be in the car during the test. I even found it hard to select the right key for the car from the bunch he handed me. I found it in the third attempt. We settled down. I started the car and brought it out on to the road. My examiner said. “Please turn right at the next intersection.”
Intersection! I had never heard the term before. I started guessing. Is it the next street, next stop sign I see, or the next traffic light? Soon, I passed the intersection. My examiner seemed a little upset, but he reconciled and repeated his request. I was confused again. Now the question in my mind was should I ask him what the intersection means or just pretend as if I know. By the time I decided that I should not ask questions, the second intersection was gone. (I came to know it later. I didn’t know it at that time.)
“Ok,” The examiner said, “now from the next stop sign you turn left.”
I was so nervous that I did not hear him clearly. “Left?” I asked.
“Right.” he said.
I immediately turned right.
“I said left,” he said emphatically.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you said right.”
“When I said right I meant correct.”
You should have said, “correct” then, I thought, but did not say anything. He let me drive straight for some time. The car was gaining speed and I was gaining some confidence when suddenly I saw a red light flickering up ahead, right in the middle of the road.
“What do I do now?”
“Ma’am, you are taking the test, not me.” I decided not to talk to him again. He seemed to be a rude person, though whatever he said, he said it politely. Next, he asked me to make a three point turn, which I made bumping my car only three times, God knows into what. He told me to return to the licensing facility and I did. After parking my car, I had my confidence back. I told him that I didn’t know what an “intersection” was.
He coughed as to say, “Not my fault, ma’am. If you don’t know what an intersection is, don’t try for a driver’s license, go for a pilot’s license because there are no intersections in the air.”
Needless to say, I did not get a license that day but I learned what an intersection is, the hard way. I am no more proud of my English or of my driving, because I had failed in both.
I WAS quite proud of my English and my driving abilities before I came to the United States.
