"1948 Chevrolet" an original poem by thepoetmiranda

An original poem by thepoetmiranda

Intro

Some of you have heard this poem before. It was part of my three poem set at a queer open mic a couple months ago—my first public poetry reading since coming out as a transgender woman. (Miranda’s Poetry Live 1)

I wrote this poem in December 2024 when it was clear that my grandfather wouldn’t be around much longer. He passed a few weeks later. I had already been grieving well before his health started trending worse. My grieving process started October 5, 2023, the day after I sent him a coming out letter (and the day before I came out publicly).

About 25 years ago, he decided to source and restore the same model of car that he drove when he was 16: a seafoam green 1948 Chevrolet sedan with a 216 straight six. He wanted everything to be same as the one he had back then, except with the addition of a sun visor. He wanted me to help him with the project.

I lived in Oklahoma, and he lived in Colorado, so it wasn’t practical for me to help out as much as either of us would’ve liked. My mom and I made the drive once, so I could help him build the braking system.

Grandpa’s 1948 Chevrolet as my partner’s and my wedding limousine in 2007:

We weren’t always close, but he was an imposing figure in my life. For a long time, he was proud that I was his oldest grandson. We never saw eye-to-eye politically; I never—despite my general attempts to wear a mask of masculinity—embraced his brand of manliness, but before that day, we shared mutual respect and love. And we shared an appreciation for classic cars.

Then I let the world in on who I am, who I’ve always been in my heart, and it was all gone. We never spoke again.

This poem is part of my Car Guy Girl manuscript (Miranda’s Writing Projects). If you’d like to read more original poems, they are here. I share selected poems from the public domain, here. And I’m writing a memoir using my transition mixtape as a frame, here.

💜Miranda📚

1948 Chevrolet

You painted her seafoam green like the one
you drove after turning 16, sedan
because bailing hay didn’t pay enough
for the coupé (a word you insisted on
accenting). I remember the way your
southern Oklahoma drawl crackled—crushed
velvet filtered through AM radio.
I asked if you planned to drop in a crate
V8, to soup her up. You said, she needs
to be who she is, not someone else’s
hot rod. In your garage that spring, I ran
my hand along the copper brake lines
we bent and routed together before I
came out. I bled, and you stopped loving me.

My Reading