{"id":166179,"date":"2023-11-29T13:15:01","date_gmt":"2023-11-29T18:15:01","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=166179"},"modified":"2023-12-06T12:51:51","modified_gmt":"2023-12-06T17:51:51","slug":"the-church-van","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/11\/29\/the-church-van\/","title":{"rendered":"The Church Van"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

1990 Plymouth Voyager. Photograph courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. <\/a><\/p><\/div>\n

\u201cI want to wrap \/ my face tight with a silk scarf and spiral\u00a0 \u00a0 down \/\u00a0 \u00a0 a Cinque Terre highway in an Alfa Romeo,\u201d writes\u00a0Olivia Sokolowski in her poem \u201cLover of Cars<\/a>,\u201d which appears in the new Fall issue of the\u00a0<\/em>Review. And who doesn\u2019t, when you put it like that? In celebration of Sokolowski\u2019s poem, we\u2019ve commissioned writers to reflect briefly on cars they\u2019ve loved, struggled with, coveted, and crushed on.<\/em><\/p>\n

Every Sunday morning would start the same way. Grandma Gayle, after her overnight shift as a nurse\u2019s assistant, would walk into the room catty-corner from hers, knock, and yell, \u201cGrandson!\u201d\u2014though Grandman\u2019s yelling barely registered a decibel. So she would gently nudge my side and remind me that we had to get going. If there was time, bath; if not, shower. I\u2019d make my dash to the kitchen, where Grandma would have prepared the kielbasa sausages fried, eggs fried, and cheddar cheese melted on a bialy or bagel bought from the deli up the street and accompanied by Tropicana Berry Punch in a glass. Church wouldn\u2019t start for four hours, at least. But we started early\u2014my grandma, grandpa, and me getting into the 1994 Plymouth Voyager, normally parked in the back lot of their home, which was wedged between where Brownsville and East New York meet. We traversed every borough to pick up congregants; on Sundays, the Voyager served as the church van.<\/p>\n

The bottom half of the Voyager must once have been a pristine teal, but it had faded into an odd mixture of light blues and grays. The top half was covered in homey faux wood paneling. The seating legally accommodated seven but in actuality the church van would fit as many people who did not mind sitting on laps and on the tan carpeted floor, or squeezing into corners. The cassette deck remained unused. As we got going, 1010 WINS would blast through the stereo with a crackle and a burst of static, a narrated mapping for Reverend Gayle, my grandpa, pastor of the church in the Bronx not far from Gun Hill, who would drive this first leg. Plus, a dissonant, semi-melodic mumble of hymns from Grandma, seated in the front passenger seat, as Grandpa\u2014ever the nervous driver\u2014would intermittently and suddenly press his right foot on the brake. Grandpa and I never understood what Grandma was trying to sing, but it always prompted Grandpa, after two minutes, to yell, \u201cMarlene, \u2019top ya noise!\u201d<\/p>\n

This first leg of the ride was relatively smooth because it was short and still within a part of Brooklyn that Grandpa felt comfortable navigating. After fifteen minutes, Grandpa\u2019s duties as church van driver would be passed on to \u201cUncle Robbie\u201d\u2014Dad\u2019s best friend, my godfather, and Grandpa\u2019s right-hand man\u2014whom we picked up first. Grandpa would shift to the front passenger seat, Uncle Robbie would take the wheel, and Grandma would become my seat partner, which I appreciated because she usually packed candy to freshen my kielbasa breath. And Grandma would nearly cradle me in the front row.<\/p>\n

Quickly, Uncle Robbie\u2019s voice would add to the sounds of 1010 WINS, Grandma\u2019s singing, and Grandpa\u2019s audible aggravation: \u201cYa don\u2019 kno, where ya go, mi headed to Ellis!\u201d\u2014our last stop in Brooklyn before drove more hurriedly to the other four boroughs. Add to the church van sounds the shocks, which were shocked that they ought ever to be used, every passenger feeling every pot hole, speed bump, unexpected slam on the brakes. Once we got to Ellis\u2014another relative, this one related speciously by blood\u2014she\u2019d enter with so much bluster that I\u2019d lose my seat and so would Grandma. Ellis\u2019s first name, Josephine, had been replaced by her title, \u201cMissionary,\u201d which came with no official duties\u2014it was just an honorific to sate her clamor for attention, prestige, and honor in our tiny church. Because more pickups were imminent, I sat on a hump in the back right-hand corner that covered the indent of the right rear wheel, just before we waded through the ever-present traffic on the RFK Bridge going toward the Bronx.<\/p>\n

\u201cEllis!\u201d Grandpa would exclaim every Sunday.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, Rev,\u201d she\u2019d respond to Grandpa.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou ugly!\u201d he\u2019d joke.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot as ugly as you!\u201d she\u2019d say back, the only kind of response that would put a stop to Grandma\u2019s humming, 1010 WINS, and the clamor from Uncle Robbie, and bring about a brief break for laughter.<\/p>\n

The hump became the seat on which I\u2019d learn about the old country, a gloss descriptor for the countries from which they all came: Missionary Ellis from Cuba, Grandma and Grandpa from Jamaica, Uncle Robbie from Guyana. But that hump-seat was where I learned about how they examined their new country. It\u2019s where I learned how to talk smack, how to not smack while chewing on Grandma\u2019s mints, how to sell wolf tickets, how to pray, how to accept tough love from congregants who would fix my tie, how to pretend to hate the worldly things our church would make into sins, like drinking, partying, playing cards, and watching movies.<\/p>\n

When Chrysler discontinued production of the Plymouth Voyager in 2003, I received no notification\u2014no eulogy for the defunct vehicle\u2014but I thought fondly of that one: the boxy church van with its diminutive stature accommodating far more people, experiences, hope, dreams than it was ever built to do, and which taught me far more than I ever expected to learn.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Caleb Gayle\u00a0is a professor at Northeastern University, a contributing writer at the<\/em> New York Times Magazine and the author of the book<\/em> We Refuse to Forget.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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