This quarter I am enrolled in an anthropology course studying material culture and identity. As part of the class, students are required to write posts to a blog. Below is my first post. Because it is a closed blog, I am reposting it rather than linking it.
In thinking about the relationship between subject and object, I have a personal experience I would like to share.
Last week, much to my dismay, my car broke down (it was leaking antifreeze like it was going out of style). White smoke billowing from its engine compartment, I waited with my disabled car in the Bruegger’s parking lot for the arrival of the tow truck. I later learned that the source of the leak was in such a remote location that the mechanic would need to work on the car for several days (the car is still in the shop as of the writing of this post).
Luckily, my family has a spare vehicle that I have been driving while mine is out of commission. It’s a 2007 Ford F-150 pickup truck, painted “contractor white,” featuring a eight foot bed and a gas-guzzling, environment-be-damned V8 engine. It looks a lot like this:
Ford F-150
I hate this thing. It’s a clunky, clumsy, bullish thing to drive around. I search for a spot at the far corner of parking lots to avoid hitting other cars when I try to park it. I avoid the usual parking garage for fear of knocking off a sprinkler pipe or some other critical building service pipe because the damned thing is so tall. Driving this truck is a source of anxiety. I am not only fearful that I could easily take out the Smart car in the lane next to me on the highway, but also worry about the numerous (unwanted) identities this single object immediately bestows upon me every time I climb in and out of it.
What has caused this sort of anxiety? There are several stigmas I have mentally assigned to pickup trucks and their drivers, and suddenly I am casting these judgements upon myself, and worry that others are doing the same. I notice the look of disdain on the faces of the driver of the Honda Civic and his passengers when I inch pass them on a crowded university driveway. “Don’t hate me,” I say in my head, “this isn’t mine, I don’t normally take up this much space.” Where did these assumptions come from? Personal experience, advertising, and even the way the truck is designed evokes an emotion and conveys a particular personality, set of values, and lifestyle. “Built Ford Tough,” trucks are for the guys building stuff, hauling big things, cutting down trees, drilling for oil, or fishing and hunting; the messy, gritty kind of stuff. These do not jive with my own identity; or at least, what I want to be conveyed to others. Those who know me would agree when I say I am not a pickup truck kind of guy. When going to dinner with friends, I took my mom’s car, which is much more inline with my style, just to avoid the pickup truck image.
Driving this beast of a vehicle has not only influenced my emotions, but also my behavior. I drive slower, give myself more distance to brake, and take slightly longer routes to avoid that hairpin turn on the way home. I have been dressing differently. I feel like I should dress down for the truck, like every time I jump out I should be sporting a Bengals jersey, baseball cap, flannel jacket and work boots instead of the usual wool coat, sweater, jeans and sneakers. Instead of grabbing my laptop and messenger bag, I should be carrying a tool belt and reaching for the gun rack (luckily, no gun rack here).
The truck, by itself, is not causing all of this; it’s just a truck, a means of moving people and things around. There is nothing “wrong” with the truck, it functions well and is in very good condition. But to me, the truck is wrong: it doesn’t fit me, and I don’t like what it might or might not say about me. We form intimate relationships with certain things, and they influence our behaviors and emotions, good or bad. Why? How is it that this simple pickup truck has caused so much emotional response in me?
Of course, this mini-identity crisis could just be playing out in my head, and no one outside would know the difference.
(I hope I didn’t offend anybody who drives a truck and likes it – it’s just not my cup of tea.)
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