My driving instructor was a hefty man, in both width and height, with dark hair that turned grayer and grayer from the stress of our driving sessions. My friend and I knew him as Mr. Madonna, one of several teachers at the A&A Driving School in Plymouth, labelled as a charismatic jokester around at the age of fifty-something. Everyone preferred him because he was supposedly the most blasé of the teachers, mostly because he knew how to crack a joke, but I was always riddled with fear in his presence.

The first time we met, I was paired up with another girl named Christina, who decided to stay at my house ten minutes prior to his arrival. We lazily lounged under the shade of my garage, complaining about the blazing summer heat and making later plans with someone named Callista, all until a silver Sedan sputtered into my driveway. Only then did I acknowledge my shared anxiety the other Christina, the two of us dead silent at the sight of Mr. Madonna stepping out of his car in a maroon polo and khakis.

“Are you Christina Lin and Christina Cai?” he asked, tipping his sunglasses.

“That’s us,” the other Christina piped up. “I’m Christina Cai.”

Mr. Madonna silently nodded at her, scribbling a quick note down on his clipboard before acknowledging me. “You’ll Lin,” he decided, pointing a hairy finger at me. “And she’ll be Cai.”

“Okay,” I replied dumbly, with no reason to oppose other than disdain of the use of my last name.

“Okay!” Mr. Madonna mimicked, tucking the clipboard under his arm as I tried not to frown. He pushed me towards the car and into the driver’s seat. “You’ll go first.”

Mortified, my eyes darted over to the other Christina to exchange a nervous look, but made no effort protesting as I climbed in. I wasn’t the type of student to openly express discomfort, nor was I the type to challenge the teacher’s choice. Meanwhile, Mr. Madonna seated himself in the passenger’s seat, and the other Christina settled in the back with her phone out. A whisper of a smirk ghosted her features, since me going first would set the bar low for her, consequently making her the better student. The next two hours were bound to be miserable.
The engine roared to life as I turned the key in the ignition, hands already slick with sweat as Mr. Madonna explained the gas and break pedals. Eyes wide and fingers trembling, I ended up driving around the neighborhood like an old lady with arthritis, lifting my foot on and off the pedals at a whopping speed of five miles per hour.

“Turn on your right turn signal,” Mr. Madonna instructed when I paused at a stop sign.

I froze in a panic, resorting to using the kindergarten technique where I raised my left hand to form a L and differentiate between my left and right. “Uh…”

“You don’t know your left from your right?!” he shouted, eliciting an eye roll from my classmate.

“I do,” I explained, sinking into my seat at the sound of his disapproving grunt. “I just forgot for a second.”

The rest of the session was a fine mess that, to my dismay, lasted an endless two hours. In actuality, I spent most of it cowering as Mr. Madonna yelled at me, who stopped the car every now and then to berate me (“Lin, you’re not that close to the curb! Stop freaking out!”), which ultimately made the end of the class feel much more rewarding once we dropped the other Christina off and parked in my driveway.

“Lin, I’m worried about your driving,” he commented at the end of our session. “It’s not very good.”

I stared at my sweaty hands before responding. “I know.”

That afternoon, I kicked off my shoes and collapsed on the couch with a thud, causing my dad to raise a brow at me as he rose from his spot in the kitchen. Fortunately, he sat back down when he realized I wasn’t in the mood to talk about my first driving experience. Instead, I buried my face into a pillow to muffle a groan and spent the rest of the day complaining to my friends about my cruel driving instructor and the abominable class I had just experienced. Most of my text messages were along the lines of “wow, Mr. Madonna hates me!” and “you absolutely suck at absolutely everything!”

You’ll never get your driver’s license, Anxiety reminded me.

Shut up, I thought back.

Anxiety was like a preexisting Mr. Madonna, always on my back and latching onto me in moments of weakness. Consequently, when faced by the challenges, it made my brain tend to shut down, especially when I was trying to learn something completely foreign. I was easily discouraged and already dreading the next session, not enough to cry, but enough to make unease fill my chest like a block of lead. I tossed and turned on the couch in the wake of my bruised pride, replying to sympathetic texts from my friends when a thought occurred to me.

I had a problem with taking on too many things at a time, always thinking about what comes after the next step and what comes after the next, next step. Anxiety continued to pile up a long to-do list of things in front of me, towering over me and making my chest constrict from the stress of it all. Rather, always trying to get ahead was killing me, and I would never get anything done if I kept looking at what was piling in front of me. It was easier to take a step back, focus on the task at hand, and get that over with. Then move on. The dawning of my realization made my chest fell so much lighter.

I kept this in mind at our second session, which was just as messy as the first one, but I had at least found some solace in the difficulty of our driving sessions. This time, I was focused on turning the wheel, checking my rearview mirror frequently, and tuning into Mr. Madonna’s very aggressive advice. I pretended I was a sailor guiding a ship out of a storm while the captain screamed commands at me, or a pilot flying a plane with a berating commander. With my new mindset, and creative imagination, our driving sessions passed much more quickly, and I began to see tiny improvements in my driving by our last few sessions.

“Not bad,” Mr. Madonna pointed out on our fourth session. That day, we had driven to Domino’s so he could buy himself a box of pizza and chew obnoxiously while I baked in the heat of the car. “But you turned too quickly.”

“I know,” I said bluntly, unbuckling my seatbelt and swapping spots with the other Christina.

“Not so bad” was a mark of improvement. Even though our last session required my dad to sit in the back, primarily because my driving was so “unstable,” I couldn’t care less. Maybe I was Mr. Madonna’s least favorite student, maybe I wasn’t the picture perfect driver, but my pride was no longer bruised, and I was still handed that sweet white slip of paper known as my driver’s permit. I remember our last exchange very clearly, the both of us relieved that we’d never interact again. For me, I’d never have to hear his booming voice again, and for him, he’d never have to feel the jolt of my sharp right and left turns.

“I’m obligated to give this to you,” he said, begrudgingly handing the slip over to me. “Go be crazy on the road. We’ll probably never see each other again.”

“Thanks, Mr. Madonna.”

I got my driver’s license exactly a year later, three months after I turned sixteen. Although I’m not the perfect driver my teacher wished I was, I never pictured me getting my license when I was dreading the thought of sharing a car with Mr. Madonna. It was important to take one step at a time when I wanted to get things done. Now, I turn the key in the ignition, listen to the car roar to life like music, and drive myself to the coffee shop like it’s nothing.