Our Chevy Vega
Our 1972 Chevy Vega, shortly before we paid someone $25 to tow it away sometime in 1992
The 1972 Chevy Vega that I learned to drive on was, by the time I was driving it in the late 1980s and early 1990s, running on hope more than gasoline. The mechanic who had been helping us keep it going for years once told my mom when she picked it up after a service visit, “This car shouldn’t be running anymore. I’m not sure why it is.” We joked that you didn’t need to “fill up the gasoline and top off the oil,” but instead “top off the gasoline and fill up the oil.” It had numerous rust spots, the driver’s side seat leaned to the left quite a bit, there were holes in the panels and small holes forming in the floor, and the muffler was so bad that you could hear the car coming four or five blocks away.
Like any teenager would have been, I was embarrassed by the car. And I was incredibly grateful for it. It was, after all, the only way my mom, my sister, and I had to get anywhere.
The yellow car had a fabulous family story behind it. My grandparents had won it, brand new, in 1972, my grandmother forever claiming that she won because she folded the entry paper along an angle so there were more corners that could be picked up. I was born that same year and I don’t have any recollection of the car until 1982, when my family moved to Winona, Minnesota, where my dad had grown up and where his parents still lived.
At that point, we didn’t have a lot of money and my mom was starting back to work full time. My dad used our newer car to drive around and my grandparents loaned my mom the Vega to get us to and from school and herself to and from work. The loan became permanent at some point—possibly when both my parents were unemployed at the same time and everyone started to realize our financial situation was going to get worse before it got better.
I don’t know what the car looked like when we first got it. At age 10, I had far more important things to worry about, like whether Tuan Ta reciprocated my crush or why Jenny S. (there were five Jennifers in my class at one point) was mad at me.
I do recall that by the time my sister learned to drive, the car was embarrassing to me. I didn’t like showing up to school or band in it. I liked showing up with Karen, but I didn’t love people seeing (and hearing) me arrive in it.
Karen taught me to drive it later and then it felt less embarrassing and more empowering. We were excited to sometimes get to take it to the store or to a school event, even though the lack of power steering made it a workout to drive, the radio only got AM stations, and everyone could hear us coming from blocks away.
I think I knew even as a teenager that I should be grateful we had the car. Looking back, I know it was essential to our survival in some ways, the only way my mom could get to the jobs she had that kept us going as a family when my dad’s unemployment stretched on. I know now to be grateful to my grandparents for gifting us a car—and so much more during those rough financial times.
I also know now that we weren’t alone in having troubles with the Vega. In fact, I learned that it wasn't just in our family that we joked about how the Chevy Vega was the only car known to rust on the showroom floor. Though I’m not 100% sure this is true, the idea is that it didn’t take long for it to rust. An article on the website for company Gold Eagle says that “Owners had to stand in line to complain about corrosion. It seemed like the car could literally fall apart before one’s eyes. One report stated that the vehicle broke in half while crossing railroad tracks.” I’m not surprised and I’m also glad I don’t have that particular story to tell.
According to MotorTrend, “Chevrolet recalled half a million Vegas in 1972. Rear axle shafts could separate from the housing, causing the wheels to literally fall off. Faulty brackets on the single-barrel carb jammed the throttle open. The optional two-barrel engine could backfire violently enough to split the muffler, blowing hot exhaust on the fuel tank and causing it to expand, rupture, and ignite.”
I’m feeling luckier by the minute.
I’m not the kind of person that drives down the road and knows the make and model of every car I see. I don’t see any Vegas on my daily commute—and I’m not surprised. We finally got rid of ours when it would no longer move and we no longer needed it. Now all I have of it are a few photos and stories my sister and I swap sometimes.
About ten years ago, my sister bought me a small model of the Chevy Vega, same yellow color that we had. I put it on my desk at work. The Vega has stayed on my desk as I transitioned from being a full-time faculty member to a campus dean, and now to a vice president. I’ve spent my career thus far, 24 years to date, working in two-year colleges, working in part to help people who show up in rusted-out, beat-up old cars to feel like they belong in college, to pursue their education, and to find jobs that will help change their economic situations.
The model Chevy Vega on my desk has become a powerful reminder to me of so much. I don’t show up to work in that kind of car anymore, but the Vega reminds me that it doesn’t matter how we show up. It matters that we show up. It reminds me that we should not judge people by the cars they drive. It reminds me that when I see a rusted-out car on the highway, there may well be a person inside praying and hoping that they can get to work that day—and home again later.
The model Vega and the memories of the real one motivate me to work hard for my own family’s sake, and to work hard to help others achieve their goals so that their families too can flourish and have stability. It reminds me of my grandmother’s luck, my mom’s strength, and the challenges my sister and I faced growing up. It reminds me to cherish the financial stability I have now. And not to take it for granted.