When I was a teenager, my father seemed eager to teach me how to drive. He himself never had any formal driving instruction, but he had earned his “street cred” as a driver on the battlefield known as the Los Angeles freeway system.
Every workday during my first 18 years, I saw him put on his “driving armor,” metaphorically speaking. He would leave home early in the morning, get into the family car, and go out to fight the good fight on the freeways of Los Angeles to earn a living. There were grueling miles between our modest home in the suburbs and his job at a print shop in Hollywood.