Rite of Passage

I went over to my brother Bobby’s house to change my brake pads on my car. Bobby said he was an expert at it, that he had changed brake pads a million times, but I quickly realized that Bobby had overstated his experience.

We jacked up the car and took off the tires. Bobby gave the brakes a quick look and said, “I’ll be right back.” I found him some time later at his computer researching my car's brake system.

            We managed to figure it out, and as the job was coming to a close I turned to Bobby and said, “we’re good Mexicans for doing the work ourselves.”

            “You’re not Mexican unless you work on your own car,” Bobby said. “My friend Gary won’t buy a new car, because he says you can’t work on them.”

            “What kind of car does he have?” I asked.

            “An older model Nissan. He broke down on the freeway once and he fixed his car at night, in the dark, with limited tools. When he got home he told his father what he had happened, and how he fixed his car in the dark, His father swelled up with pride.

            “Oh mijo, I’m so proud of you,” his father said.

            It was like a rite of passage, as if Gary had passed a test to being a good Mexican.