Driven by Desire

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I grew up on a cul-de-sac in Southern California, where children didn't talk to strangers and we displayed Neighborhood Watch stickers in our windows. Though the names of the developments all around us were Spanish, the only Mexicans we children knew of were the ones our parents warned us roamed the canyons around our neighborhoods. We knew these Mexicans were real because when we ventured into the ravines, farther than our parents permitted us to go, we sometimes found their tattered blankets and the charred remains of their campfires. We feared these dark, dusty apparitions and made the same mistake our parents did: We confused poverty with evil.

During the early days of our relationship, my husband and I traded tales of our childhoods, captivating each other with descriptions of our "exotic" backgrounds. I described earning my pancake-flipping badge at summer camp; he recalled reciting the Koran to a blind imam at the local mosque after school. We reminisced about our first jobs: mine, at Baskin-Robbins at age 16; his, at age 5 (for no money at all), stocking the shelves of his father's tiny shop in the village market. We thought we had escaped unscathed from the hazards of our childhoods and would build a new life together, one that combined the best of American freedom and Middle Eastern tradition. But the birth of our child brought to the fore the conflicting realities of our pasts.

Some aspects of American parenting thrilled my husband -- such as the first-class university hospital, five minutes from our house, to which our health insurance gave us easy access. But most middle-class parenting rituals mystified him. He could not understand why I spent hours on the Internet, looking up recalls on baby cribs and car seats. He questioned my using hypoallergenic detergent on every cloth item that came in contact with our daughter. He refused to plug in the baby monitor I'd purchased for our small home. When I came back from the store with the entire series of Baby Einstein videos, he seemed skeptical of claims about the beneficial effects of classical music on developing minds. He was deeply suspicious of the idea that being a good parent means making the right purchases, that with enough money we can protect our children from the pain and ugliness of the world.

When it comes to cars, my husband feels that the best way to reduce risk is to drive less, and that a good car is a car that's paid for and reliable. Both of our cars meet these criteria. Besides, my husband loves the car he drives. He shakes his head scornfully at other drivers, wondering aloud why more people don't own a car like his. When he's feeling exceptionally magnanimous toward our 3-year-old daughter, he tells her that maybe, just maybe he will give her his car one day.

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