Heard Fast Car at a party…

…and had this feeling that I should finally post this up. For the world to see.

“See I remember we were driving; driving in your car
The speed so fast I felt like I was drunk
And I had a feeling that I belonged
I had a feeling that I could be someone; be someone.”
– Fast Car, Tracy Chapman

My father used to listen to the radio right before he went to sleep. He would set it on snooze mode, for it to turn off after an hour. He loved the oldies – Elvis, Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel. Night after night, he would drift off to sleep listening to these tunes; and as he did, so did I.

Amid all these gems, there was a particular song which stood out to me: Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car. I don’t know if it was the easy rhythm or her unique voice that caught my attention. Maybe it was the underlying melancholy of the melody and the lyrics – deep emotions that my ten-year old self couldn’t consciously comprehend, but which might have resonated subconsciously.

Either way, years passed before I heard that song again. Dad passed away, and my mother took to listening to her collection of Cliff Richard’s music, which she said reminded her of Dad. And strangely enough, either by chance or by fate, I never heard that song playing again, though Mom still occasionally listened to the radio.

I’m nineteen now. It could have been seven years, maybe more, since I’ve heard that song. I’ve put my past, my childhood behind me. But one night, while at a friend’s house in Seattle, I was suddenly inspired to listen to the song. It was the middle of the night and my friends were almost asleep. I have no idea what made me do it – but I did it anyway: I grabbed my laptop, ran out to the living room, and looked up the song.

It felt good to hear it again. I felt kind of… happy, actually. But as I listened, it occurred to me that although I’ve heard the song so many times in my childhood, I don’t actually know the words. So I looked it up, and out came a tale of generational poverty, big dreams and unfulfilled hopes.

And my past came rushing back.

“You got a fast car / I want a ticket to anywhere.”

When I was younger, I used to spend a lot of time dreaming about getting out. No, not just out of the house, or away from my parents, but about leaving my lower middle-class situation. We got by – it wasn’t as if I had to constantly worry about my next meal – but money was tight. Mom worked hard, and so did Dad. But there was never enough – never enough to pay off all the debts, never enough for anything other than the necessities.

“You see my old man’s got a problem / He lives with the bottle that’s the way it is.”

The problem was that even though the money my parents brought in would’ve been more than enough for a comfortable existence, Dad had a gambling habit, which he developed during the last few years of his life. He disappeared for days at a time – you knew he would be at the casino if he just got his paycheck.

“My mama went off and left him / She wanted more from life than he could give.”

His disappearing acts frustrated Mom. I’m not sure which was worse: his absence, or the tense arguments that would erupt on his return. He knew that it wasn’t fair to lose not only his, but Mom’s hard-earned money, so recklessly, but he did it anyway. Remarkably, Mom never left. Maybe I played a part, but I think it was the memories of happy days gone by – the days when Dad was still loving and uncorrupted by the taint of gambling – that made her stay. And I cherish her for that.

“I know things will get better / You’ll find work and I’ll get promoted.”

My childhood years were largely unhappy toward the end. Yet, I harbored this dream of improving my life. I wanted to go to college. I wanted to study in America. We didn’t have the money, though. I probably wouldn’t even have went to a local college. I knew that the only way that would ever happen was if I made it happen myself.

Things are better now. I studied hard, I got a scholarship, and here I am in Northwestern. Dad’s passing left Mom and me with a small but helpful inheritance, so our financial situation is slightly better now. I think Mom still misses Dad, but she tries to not let it show. I do too, especially when the days are gloomy, just like they were when he died.

There are still many things left to improve. I’m still only just a student, and there is no guarantee that I won’t end up like the narrator in Chapman’s song, stuck in poverty with an alcoholic husband, despite her hopes to the contrary.

“City lights lay out before us / And your arm felt nice wrapped ’round my shoulder / And I had a feeling that I belonged.”

But that night in Seattle, I had a feeling that I could be someone.