When I was 14, my dad told me that he would teach me to drive on his 1974 Volkswagen van, but first I had to read Zen and the Art of Volkswagen Maintenance, and we would then take parts of the van apart so I understood how it worked and how to fix it. This was in the ’90s, and, owing to a combination of eternal coolness and bad financial blows, that van was his beloved daily driver, not a restored show piece. The way my dad’s mind works, I needed to know how to fix a car if I was going to drive a car. He had always been able to work on his cars–not necessarily through technical know-how but through treating them like a puzzle that anyone could solve, albeit a puzzle that could spew scalding hot water on you just as easily as the solution might be bread twist-ties.
Unfortunately, the van embarrassed me. In my teenage brain, the van manifested my status as a poor kid and an outsider, marks I didn’t want as someone who felt isolated the tiny midwestern town we had recently moved to, by virtue of ethnicity, being a nerdy girl, and being a southerner. I also don’t have the same certainty that Dad does about being able to solve problems, that a solution can be found if enough time and thought is applied, or the joy he finds in fixing things. In fact, I didn’t learn to drive until I took driving classes as an adult in my 20s. (I had a bike!) Anyway, short story, I completely blew my chance to learn about cars.
I got away with it, though, for a long time. My second ex-husband could fix anything. Where my dad puzzled his way slowly through a challenge, the former Mr. NeedsCaffeine had technical knowledge and muscle memory for cars acquired over years of working on equipment and vehicles. What he was not, was the right teacher for me. I “helped” him work on vehicles, but he was unable to explain things in a way that made combustion engines coalesce any more firmly and really in my brain than string physics.
The one time in my life I shopped for a new car, I also experienced how dealers reacted to the two of us versus me alone. I might be someone who negotiates for work all day long, but to car dealers in Shreveport, Louisiana, I was clearly getting pegged as a woman who didn’t know much and could be upsold and offered terrible prices and financing. I think I could have gotten better offers even if he just parked his butt in a chair. But when he not only joined me but commented negatively about a car, you could see the energy change.
That one new car was a Toyota, thus it has now outlasted my marriage. At nearly 300,000 miles, it is on the precipice of becoming an unreliable vehicle. I know I need a new car. And I dread walking into a dealership, now a nerdy woman in my 40s. I know theoretically how the process works and how dealers approach negotiating, but I’m outgunned. They know it. I know it. I may be ready and willing in the courthouse, but put me in front of a car salesperson and I will just project my feelings of discomfort and shame bright enough to read for miles. Same at the mechanic’s shop. I feel like “sucker” is just written all over me but also like I don’t know how to explain when I know something is ailing my car. Of course those feelings are largely self-imposed, but they are real. And some people are, by virtue of social characteristics, more likely to feel them.
Anyway, the pressing need to buy a car lead me to realize I need to learn more about cars. I came across positive reviews of the Mechanic Shop Femme’s Guide to Car Ownership in a handywomen’s group. Milchtein promises the book is “for the rest of us.” She writes from the perspective of someone who has also been an outsider, poor, visibly queer, fat (a word she uses), a woman. She knows the feeling of having dealers look at you with distaste (in her case, once changing their tune upon realizing she was an “influencer”) and not knowing if you can trust your mechanic to be honest with you, because they assume you know nothing. Her goal in writing the book was to make “the rest of us” confident and supported by adequate knowledge to deal with those situations and carry out tasks of car ownership, such as buying a car, finding a trusted mechanic, doing or having done basic maintenance, identifying emergencies, and selling your vehicle.
Milchtein could have remained an ignoramus like me, but, after aging out of foster care, she also found early on that having a car was, as she says, “a ticket out of poverty.” Somewhat by chance, while she was experiencing a financial crisis, a GoFundMe respondent offered to connect her with a job at Sears. The Sears interviewer asked her which department she would like to work in, and she replied by inquiring which departments made the most money. Thus, she ended up in the automotive department. There, she began to take pride in learning about repairs and being able to break them down for customers so that they understood and could have faith in the mysterious workings of their auto. She also recognized the barriers that can exist for many of us in dealing with the cars we rely on. I’m not on TikTok, but she apparently has a presence there and is known for helping demystify cars. She writes often in the book about the empowerment that comes with knowledge.
The book emphasizes personal stories, both Milchtein’s and others–customers, friends, etc.–as a teaching tool. For example, one chapter focuses on the importance of changing fluids and what you need to know to get these done correctly, as well as the functions of different fluids, different service options, and pitfalls to be wary of. She uses stories throughout to explain how people she knew made mistakes or misunderstood at their peril. The stories do not feel mean or mocking, even when something bad happens. They feel like sharing hard-earned wisdom.
Personally, the chapters I found most helpful were those dealing with selling your car, buying a car, and finding a trusted mechanic. I may never be able to walk in and neg a car as effectively as the second ex-Mr. NeedsCaffeine, but it was oddly validating to hear that, even as someone who is a car influencer (carfluencer?) Milchtein has gotten those same bad vibes. She doesn’t stop there; she explains how she calculates when to walk out and how to find a different salesperson. Writing that, it seems like something that may be obvious to many of you, but to someone who would truly rather keep driving my rustbucket until only my sweat and tears are holding the axles together rather than walk into a dealership, it felt empowering. She names the things that make the experience bad, she reassures that even someone as knowledgeable as her has had these experiences, and she helps the reader plan. She emphasizes that you can ask questions of the mechanic, ask to see the problem, ask to have it explained. These are not, in her reframing, signs of ignorance but a process of not only empowering yourself but building a relationship with the mechanic. She doesn’t say that some of our discomfort is self-inflicted directly as far as I remember, but it’s clear she recognizes that but helps guide you through it. She also offers practical safety tips, including about how to meet strangers interested in buying your car.
Other chapters weren’t quite what I personally needed. Even though I feel deeply ignorant about my car, I do feel comfortable with tires, brakes, and fluids, and can change my oil or a flat, so these chapters weren’t quite it for me. But they would be exactly right for other readers. In them, Milchtein explains what you need to know without a lot of technical jargon. There are a few diagrams. Her explanations are always easy to follow, without giving the impression that she is dumbing them down. She explains the practical ramifications at every turn for what you, as a car owner, may encounter and how to handle it.
The style of the book is encouraging, sometimes humorous, and (a word Milchtein uses a lot) empowering without feeling patronizing. If you’re in a similar position, it might be the book for you. I’ve saved mine to give to my daughter next time she’s home.