During my 2½ years in rural Burgundy, France, the French lifestyle penetrated my thinking and wiggled into my subconscious in countless ways. It can be discombobulating because, eight months after leaving that world behind, I oftentimes see the Upper Valley around me through a French lens. What is normal for Americans — of whom I am proudly one — can suddenly be peculiar to the Burgundian me.
The latest example of this cultural double vision is how Americans use automobiles as vehicles for personal expression. For nearly 40 years, I lived among the vanity plates, dashboard decorations, license plate frames, mag wheels, low riders, hot rods, air fresheners and, of course, bumper stickers of America. Sure, I noticed them, but I didn’t give them a whole lot of thought. Recently, however, as I walked around the parking lot at the hospital, clinging to a desperate last-minute hope that a few laps before my physical would result in miraculous and dramatic weight loss, I started laughing out loud at the diversity of expression on the parked cars. My inner French Marc (with a “c”) chuckled because no French person would ever dare use a vehicle to make social or political declarations. Doing so would be vulgar, like breaking wind at the dinner table. Ça ne se fait pas.
American me chortled because, well, the breadth of opinion was astonishing. Who else but us turns a transportation machine into a billboard for our deep, silly, intimate, outrageous, infuriating and hilarious beliefs?
Why do our vehicles tempt us so? Going by the amount of Patriots and Red Sox paraphernalia on our Teslas and Toyotas, we believe it is extremely important for the world to know — 24/7/365 — which sports teams we support. Naturellement, Marc, who prefers to avoid confrontations between rival factions, knows better than to advertise his allegiances thusly.
Some people use their automobiles to elicit spontaneous laughter they will never hear from people they will never meet. I spotted a great sticker the other day: “I’ve Been Dieting for a Month, but All I’ve Lost is 31 days.” It doesn’t matter if the driver of the car is seriously overweight or simply looking to shed a few pounds; it’s a reminder not to take ourselves too seriously. Meanwhile, the thought of publicizing one’s corpulence leaves Marc aghast.
Our cars allow us to exert wonderful pressure against our society’s limits, too. Does the mother of an adolescent boy blush when she sees him reading the “AWD: Do It On All Fours” sticker on the Subaru in front of them? How does the peace-loving hippie feel when reading the window sticker “Except for Ending Slavery, Fascism, Nazism, and Communism, War Has Never Solved Anything”? For his part, Marc is feeling a little lightheaded.
When I drive, my goal is twofold: first, don’t ever run into anything or anybody and, second, arrive at my intended destination. I cannot fathom any words or pictures on another vehicle prying me away from those two goals. Some genius thought differently, and made a bundle selling “Baby On Board” suction cup signs, which, I guess, are intended to make other drivers tamp down their propensity for turning I-91 into a giant game of bumper cars. Nonetheless, those yellow diamonds have never made me — or Marc — drive any differently, even in Burgundy, where it was cuter: Bébé à Bord.
Troglodytes and tenured professors alike avoid talking religion or politics at a dinner party. Your car, however, is a spectacular venue for your Jesus fish and your COEXIST, “I was Anti-Obama Before It Was Cool,” “Don’t Blame Me I Voted For Bernie,” “Choose Life,” “Constitution 2, So Called President 0,” and “Corporate Rule is Not Democracy” stickers.
Americans also love using their cars to speak in code (I know what those dancing bears are all about) and to highlight our achievements. Mr. Mar-a-Lago would applaud the marathoner’s braggadocious 26.2 stickers, but would likely be skeptical of the 13.1 stickers, which seem to be commending something that is only halfway to remarkable. This type of boasting can spawn some quirky counterpunches (0.0 stickers), little riddles in our day that make life more fun.
A little WD-40 and some elbow grease can rid you of a bad bumper sticker choice. Vanity plates, on the other hand, exude an air of permanence; they are a sign of careful consideration and commitment. It can be difficult to decipher a plate’s meaning, but I suppose the fun of those plates is the number of conversations they start for the owners. In my wanderings, I have seen many plates that make me laugh, scratch my head, or, frankly, give a car a wide berth: FRK SHO, OLDNSLO, GONZO, AWAKEN, IBEACH, WDWRKR.
By and large, car communications add texture and richness to our lives. Anyone who dresses their car up as the Easter bunny, complete with a puffy nose and pointy pink ears, is OK in my book. Occasionally, of course, people tiptoe up to the line between appropriate expression and outright lecture. “Today I committed a senseless random act of kindness. Did you?” contains a message which I try to practice in my life. But it is much more palatable when presented in commandment form, without the pronouns or question mark.
In the end, the various ways we wink at each other via our cars has become a proud part of our culture. Some messages are obvious and some are mysterious, open invitations to conversation. We have used our cars to encourage us to talk to one another, at once silently, loudly, subtly, anonymously, publicly and in person. When compared with the drab parade of interchangeable, indistinguishable cars in France, I can only come to one conclusion: Marc doesn’t know what he’s missing.
Mark Lilienthal lives in Norwich. He can be reached at mlilient@gmail.com.