I really didn’t like the color of my shiny new car back in 2004.  I wanted green but that would take months, the salesman said, and I was impatient.   The lot only had silver, black, or red.  The world needed another black or red car like it needed another term with G.W. Bush, so I took the silver (and Bush still got reelected).

I got used to the color because I loved the car.  The distinctive shark fin side vents (Tiburon means “shark”).  The feel of the engine.  How low it felt.  The glove-like fit of the interior.  And most importantly, she was Corean, because back then I wasn’t happy with my color either.  Being half-Corean wasn’t good enough.

As soon as the car became mine, “it” became a “she” in my mind.  This female anthropomorphism is common with males, for a few reasons I suspect.  A car is like your perfect girlfriend.  She’s curvy and fast, reliable but fun.  Others might covet her, but she’ll never cheat.  Your insecurities are safe with her behind all that flash and armor.  Of course, sometimes she can be temperamental and require some maintenance, but other times she can take you away from everything, at least for a while.

Owning a Tiburon felt like being part of a small, private (but affordable) club.  When I’d see another shark car on the road, which was rare, I’d check out the other driver, barely resisting the thumbs-up.  I’d wonder if they got their Tib because it was Corean or because it looked cool.  Being accepted into the Corean club isn’t nearly as simple though.  I’ve made many dear Corean friends but I’ve had my share of haters and snide pricks.  The haters seemed to be in the minority, but all the dings and dents in the armor make you weary.

I remember being excited about this new Asian-American promoted movie, with an all Asian-American cast.  I forget the title, but the Asian girl was with this asshole half-Asian guy, he’d force her to have sex, he’d cheat on her, and just be a smug asshole.  Eventually she gets with the kinder Asian male friend who’s loved her all along.  I just remember being sent for a loop.  I was offended, hurt, embarrassed, by the subtext of having a half-Asian guy be the cheating, rapist boyfriend in an otherwise ALL-Asian movie.  I mean it was “GO ASIANS — but fuck you half-Asian guys, we don’t want you!”   Not the first time I got that message, but the first time it hit me quite so hard.  Something changed.  Gears grinded.  Ding.

A few blizzards ago, the Michigan black ice caught me less mindful than usual.  I spun out on an icy on-ramp, trying to regain control for a full 360 degrees before bumping into the freeway wall.  Everything got banged up, except for me.  I ended up facing the same direction, and continued driving to work after five seconds of disbelief.

After that, my Tiburon wasn’t the same.  She was irritable, ran too loud, sometimes started sluggishly.  I didn’t mind though, because even if she was a little marred, her heart, her engine, was just fine.  As far as I was concerned, the only thing she – or more like, we – lost was a little vanity, but that simply made her stronger, right?  Another scratch?  We love scars.  Someone bumped their door into mine?  What, was that supposed to hurt?

Eventually though, I suppose all of those things add up.  My Corean road warrioress showed signs of weariness just as my own Corean spirit waned.  Her engine rumbled louder.  Her wheels were malaligned despite trips to the service center.  A headlight burned out.  She was locking me out more often, culminating in an alarm-fest when I tried to touch her, like any embarrassing public argument in a parking lot.  A week later, a tire went flat, graciously after I dropped the kids off at Corean Bible School.  If that wasn’t a sign….

The new car buying experience at the Hyundai dealer was different this time.  Instead of a pushy little salesman, we got a pleasant saleswoman with pushed-out breasts.  Good female energy.  Cousin Kevin was there for negotiation support but in the end, the saleswoman’s boobs did more pushing than we did.

KEVIN:  “Every time I see her I want to give her a dollar.”

ME:  “I want to swipe a credit card between them.”

Seeing the new Genesis made me feel like the day I got my Tiburon.  Hopeful and excited all over again.  A little wiser this time, though, tougher but less invulnerable.  They even had the color I wanted six years ago.  Only this time, it was the color of renewal.

When I traded in my old Tib, the appraiser offered, “One thousand dollars.  It’s really not in sellable, workable, or repairable condition.  That’s the best we can do.”

That was a thousand more than my wife expected, but I was still mildly offended.  We’d been through a lot.  We just got banged up a little with the experience, maybe a little off track.

I signed the papers but kept something else.  “Congratulations, you are now an owner.”

I was excited about my new Corean comeback car.  Felt her engine purring with my heart.  We’re on a new journey.  We don’t need armor because we’ll have spirit.   You’re not a warrior anymore.  You’re a princess.   A fucking fast princess.

I’ll be more careful with the dents this time too.

A car is like a perfect girlfriend, after the break-up, you’re left with good memories and appreciation (despite what the appraiser says).

As I walked toward the door, the appraiser added, “That’s a pretty car.”

Yes, she is.