Zero Degrees of Separation

Three days short of turning 29, I started driving lessons in Amman. Prior to this, I’d taken driving lessons one summer in Spain — only to find an instructor who only spoke Spanish, and the need for a Spanish residency to obtain a license; neither of which I had. And so, here I was, ready to take on the streets of Amman, Riyadh and the world.

My cousin Sarah from Jeddah had introduced me to this instructor — who shared a name with my father — a synchronicity not lost on me. Foolishly, I thought that that one common student would be the extent of our six degrees of Kevin Bacon. I had a very pragmatic approach to obtaining my license; take lessons, take test, drive. That path turned out to be a lot windier than expected.

I jumped into the front seat of my first lesson; adjusted the accessories to suit my frame and revved. We drove around my neighborhood, cautiously slowing down at each stop sign, filling space with small talk. As we approached Abdoun — the neighborhood I grew up in, the weight of my sister Zeina’s loss crept in. We drove up the main artery, slowing down at the speed bumps which had been placed after my sister’s accident.

As we approached our old house, I pointed it out to Ziad — he paused, admired, reminisced and said “Oh, you’re neighbors with the Shaaths”. The air in the car tightened, waterworks ensued, and he realized — we are the Shaaths. And in a most brash, Jordanian way, he asked “How’s that girl who got run-over related to you?” He recounted the story of Zeina’s accident from his perspective — one that was more involved than it is fathomable.

20 years ago, Ziad was teaching my cousin Nisreen, and Zeina had attended a few lessons with them as a guardian (a pseudo-Jordanian law about men and women in the same car). He paused and said “I thought I recognized you, I guess I just mistook you for your sister”. My eyes welled up, street lights blurred; the speed bumps couldn’t slow down my emotional ride. This tragedy was lodged heavily on my lap, with no where to go. I realized that this was way more than getting a driver’s licence — this was facing a deep subconscious fear; this was a process of letting her go; this was creating space for my resolution.

My daily 45 minute drives with Ziad were mostly filled with jokes; sharing idiosyncrasies of our triumphs and tragedies. He has taught many of my friends and cousins over the years — and in true Amman fashion, we gossiped about who’s married, divorced, rich, smart and famous. Though there was an ocean of differences between us — generational, demographic, cultural — we still managed to connect; with a thread of continuity across our interactions.

Ten days in, we wrapped up our presumed last double header lesson, and got out of the car to switch seats and part ways. He leaned over the top of the car; and with his pointer finger and the dust of the car, he did calculations of what I owed for the tests. There was something so charming and nostalgic about that act — especially with the ubiquity of phone calculators. There, I felt a bittersweetness over missing our time together.

The morning of my driving test, I channeled Cher from Clueless — unsurprisingly, one of Zeina’s favorite films — her VHS copy watched endlessly. Nothing encapsulates failing my practical test better than Dion exclaiming to Cher “Hello, it was a stop sign!” — and Cher responding “I totally paused!”

That pop culture reference had absolutely no effect on my examiners.

And I still have a few more skills to sharpen, trauma to heal and signs to stop at.