I was still an inexperienced, poor driver when I took my first road test. I went through it in the City of Buffalo, where the driving course was treacherous and trafficky. I remembered little about the ride, except for the end. The evaluator handed me a yellow slip on which nearly every box was checked, and there was illegible handwriting all over it. I showed my boyfriend and said, "Gosh, do ya think I failed?"

My second road test was also in the city. I needed a car to use for the test. After some negotiating, my father said I could use his. I was at his apartment waiting for the time to come, trying to prepare and feel ready. I was nervous. My dad was even more nervous. He was so nervous that he projected his fears onto me. "Take a Valium," he said. I obeyed. Twenty minutes later he handed me another Valium. The man was utterly neurotic. "Here's a beer," he said. I should have known better. I began to feel wasted and sleepy. I looked at my watch and announced, "It's time to go."

When I drove up to the instructor to pick him up, he looked at me with dread. But he nevertheless got into the car. I felt somewhat confident as a curve was approaching. I didn't know that I had little control of the car. I sped up quickly and barely managed to stay on the road. The instructor jerked around in his seat as if he was in intense discomfort.

I didn't even want to finish the course. Obviously I failed. The man handed me a yellow sheet with little checked and little written on it. But there were two "automatic failures" checked. One of them was running a stop sign. I didn't remember. At least it wasn't a DWI, I thought, relieved.

For years I did not try again. My husband asked me why I didn't have a drivers license. I told him about the failures, and he responded, "You're not a paraplegic! Take the test again!" These words had a profound effect on me.

Marty advised that I take the road test in Tonawanda, a suburb that was much quieter and much less traffic. I began to recover my confidence. Marty had been the new giver of driving lessons. My father seemed hopeless, he had taught me only how to be anxious and drive badly. I needed a good teacher, for one. Martin was a good driver himself.

I took the test again. And again, the driving instructor seemed a bit nervous. Why, I didn't know. I believed I did everything right. But at every stop sign, at every three-point turn, at every traffic light, U-turn, and lane change, I was prepared. I could sense the instructor calming down little by little. He watched me perform every hand signal, though it was doubtful he could see out my window. I completed the test and pulled over to the side of the road. The only problem, as was written on the yellow paper, were the words, "Parallel park." But there was no box checked. The man said, in a tone lacking all enthusiasm, "Looks like you passed." I was smiling inside. I earned my drivers license - at age 23. And I still can't parallel park.