The Delusion of Perception

Perception: the way we view something based on feeling; our mindset

Delusion: something that is believed to be true, but is actually false

When I was 16, I was empowered with a driver’s license. Now that I’m out of danger of being grounded, I will admit that a couple of times I floored the accelerator while traveling down our paved country road. There was something exciting about seeing that speedometer needle kiss 100 mph. I’m so glad my children never took that risk. (Feel free to confirm that as a true statement, Edie, Adam, and Melissa.)

My perception back then was that I could maintain control of the car, no matter what. A deer, dog, or any of the various country critters would not dare enter the roadway while I was getting my adrenaline rush. (I know my kids and students are laughing at me because this was such a big deal for me. I’m sure it’s peanuts compared to their daring teenage acts.) My parents would never know, even though the neighbors had windows and considered themselves responsible for my raising. Now, I understand that the reality is I was blindly naïve.

In reality, I was at the mercy of a 4,000-pound structure with wheels. Had I lost control and crashed, my parents would have had a huge insurance claim and either a hospital bill or funeral in their future. My life could have been altered or extinguished in an instant.

After some successful trips to the D & W in town to pick up milk, sugar, or any other ingredient my mother needed, I was allowed to take the car one evening to work in the concession stand at a basketball game. It was the French Club’s night to run concessions. (No, I wasn’t a popular cheerleader or talented athlete. I was very shy and unskilled in those areas; I was a shy bookworm who loved French.)

As I pulled into the circle drive in front of the school, I carefully maneuvered the Bonneville into a parallel parking spot, my area of expertise; just ask my driver’s education teacher. I felt like an official teenager as I left the car and walked to the concession stand. While scooping popcorn, grabbing various types of candy, and using my math skills to make change, I envisioned the feeling of walking out to my car, pulling away, and driving home all by myself.

Smelling like popcorn and my ears ringing from the loud gymnasium, I made my way to my, I mean my dad’s car. I gloated a bit as I watched some poor kid hop into a car driven by his mother. How embarrassing that must be! When I arrived at my perfectly parked car, I realized everything had changed. The cars in front and behind of me were different and were parked much more closely to my front and rear bumpers than when I had walked away from the car to fulfill my French Club obligations. I forged ahead with my unrealistic driving skill confidence, started the car, and began my expert moves to pull out from that tight space.

My driving skills’ perception turned into my driving skills’ delusion and the transition from perception to delusion sounded exactly like a car fender crinkling into a mass of ugliness. At that moment, the Bonneville stopped, the world stopped, my heart stopped. Soon, I was standing beside the owner of the delusion-making car, a friend of my father who also owned the car parked in front of me. As we looked at the injured Bonneville, one of us was smiling, the other was holding back tears and shaking all over. Declaring no damage to his car, I soon felt the man’s hand on my shoulder and heard him say, “Good luck telling your dad!”

My drive home was very much under the speed limit. My insides had run for cover, leaving a hollow cavern that manufactured dread on top of dread.

When I arrived home, I noted that the Allis Chalmers tractor was not in its place across the road; Dad was still in the field. I spent days which were about an hour total, at the kitchen table facing the door he would enter. I relived all the times he had tried to teach my brother a lesson about one thing or other. Those were earplug and hardhat times when I would pray that my brother would just stop talking. Somehow, the next morning he and dad would sit down to breakfast and plan their workday. I couldn’t see any war wounds on either of them.

My mother must have been praying for me while she silently dawdled around the kitchen. When the tissue box was half empty, I heard that dreaded sound of a tractor motor as it sped into its resting spot, then go silent. I heard my father’s slow, tired steps coming up the driveway before I saw him appear under the yard light. He walked right past the car with his head down, not stopping to look. Then, he stopped dead in his tracks, slowly turned around, and went back to the car. He ran his hand over the damaged area a few times and shook his head.

The scene is forever etched in my brain.

I bravely stayed in my seat even though I had considered running from the premises. My fathered entered the kitchen and simply looked at me.

The entire story gushed from my mouth amidst sobs and all other types of involuntary sounds that emanate from my throat in situations like this. When I finished my story complete with sincere apologies and promises to work to pay for the damage, my father spoke.

“Well, that’s why we have insurance.”

That was it! Nothing was ever said again about the car.

He then looked at my mother and asked if there was anything to eat.

My mother pulled a plate from the oven and poured a glass of tea while my father washed up in the bathroom. He sat down and ate his supper while he told my mother how many acres he had left to plant.

Are you kidding me? I had gone through all that emotional trauma and cried at the kitchen table for an hour for nothing?

My perception of an angry lecture from my and a lifelong punishment for crunching the car fender was replaced with the reality that my father understood, and my life would be worth living after all. My father would not kick me out of the house, never allow me to drive again, or enact any of the other 52 punishments I had imagined during those 3,600 seconds that had trudged their way around the clock while I waited at the kitchen table.

Perception – Reality = Delusion