"The Tank" a poem by Miranda

An original poem by thepoetmiranda

Intro

If you read my post about my current writing projects, you know that I have a couple poetry book manuscripts in mind. One of those manuscripts is tentatively titled Car Guy Girl.

Growing up as a trans girl without the language to express how I felt and without role models to look up to, I did what a lot of trans kids do: I leaned in to creating a facade that aligned with my assigned sex at birth. I was terrible at some parts of “being a boy” (despite my best efforts), but liking cars was something I could do.

It’s also something that has bridged the gender gap for me through my transition. I still like driving (I love living somewhere with access to winding mountain roads), reading about cars, and talking about cars. If I didn't live in an apartment, I would probably have a project car right now.

This poem, which I wrote about 20 years ago (I have made a few recent edits), is about my dad teaching me how to drive a manual transmission in our 1965 Ford F100 pickup that I called The Tank. Learning how to drive a manual was considered “a necessary skill for a young man” at that point in time. I was one of the few my age who learned that skill with a three on the tree gear setup, though! After I turned 16, The Tank became my daily driver for the next couple years.

The poem is below, followed by my video reading.

💜Miranda📚

The Tank

Her dad drove them out there
Sunday–rural blacktop–
all hills, no speed limit.

In the shadow of the
tall blue water tower,
he stopped the old pickup

and tossed her the keys. Son
(the title she wore then),
I ain’t drivin’ us home.

He continued, And I
sure as hell ain’t walkin.
She sat behind the wheel

and looked over the hood
to where the hill in front
of her crested. Too tall

to see how many mounds
stood between her and the
highway. She turned the key,

feathered the gas. That sweet
liquid coursed through fuel line,
single-barrel carb, and

fired in the time-worn engine.
The stiff straight-six coughed
back to life in her hands.

Press on the gas while you
let out the clutch–that’s how
it should work–delicate

balance. First try: the tank
lurched forward, backward, then
croaked. The tired clutch whined

when she pressed the pedal
back down to the floorboard.
Try again. Remember

what I taught you. —Yeah, dad,
I get the theory. How
long did she search for that

space—between push and pull—
before she found the feel?
When they finally reached

highway again, he asked
Are you ready? She stalled
the tank again. A moment

later, she slid the shifter
to third and thought she heard
good job like wind whistling
in through the wing windows.

My Reading