>>Noah St. John: When my Mommas fight, they go on long car rides, come back, and I hear
our car sit still in the driveway.
They come in and Robin goes directly to the bedroom, angry.
Maria will sometimes make toast or pour water.
I sit in my room quiet, listening like a radio antenna.
My mommas drive a CRV.
They bought it brand-new.
It's big-boned and practical.
When I was little we used to drive for miles out on the highway until I fell asleep in
the back seat.
This car drove me to the gay pride parade where I skipped through the crowd throwing
mini Oreos.
This car has taken me to martial arts classes and school plays.
It's the car I'm learning to drive in.
It's the car that I'll remember.
Last Tuesday night, my mother Maria comes into the room.
I'm sitting in the living room with my other mom Robin.
Maria asks us if we'll take a drive with her.
And so we all get in the car.
And as we drive, silence creeps along like the cracks in a frozen lake.
Our hearts begin to thud slowly, and I wonder, and then I know.
This is it.
And I didn't imagine that it would end like this.
Didn't imagine an ending at all, but if they were going to tell me about the divorce, this
would be the way to go.
I sit in the back seat.
I wonder when they'll say it and how.
I think about how my time will be split between them.
Will they be friends?
Will they even speak?
I don't want to meet a new girlfriend and I don't want to lose a home.
This life is all that I know, and I can't imagine it ending.
And yet here are our last miles.
These miles.
Who will take the CRV?
In the back seat, I think about how lucky we were to have had this family.
Their 20 years of marriage and my 15 with them.
Morning, noon, and night my family.
I remember watching the brown lines of the tan canvas lamp shade move in the night while
my mother read books to me, bringing matzo ball soup to my school for my birthday.
Friday night dinner at Lily's and then a movie.
My family.
I remember when Maria whispers at Robin to be quiet and Robin yells louder, but they
spoke.
I remember when Maria packed up her things when Robin drove away, but they always returned.
I remember their tears, but we were a family.
I feel the walls crumbling around me.
I don't want this life to end as Maria starts to talk.
I pinch my leg and look out the window.
She tells me that our car, our CRV, is 13 miles away from reaching 100,000 miles.
I wonder if this is part of the divorce speech or just a distraction.
I feel angry.
They should just say it.
She tells me, "The reason we took this ride is so that we could all be there to reach
100,000 miles together as the people who matter in her life."
[ Violin music ] Slowly, I come to the realization this isn't
a breakup ride or a divorce ride or a separation right.
This is a 100,000 mile ride!
Yeah, we're in the car!
And we're driving on a Tuesday night and we're 99,987 miles in.
We stop for onion rings and sundaes.
Keep driving.
99,993 miles, Stevie Nicks.
99,997 miles, Elton John.
When we get to 99,999 miles, we hold hands, blast Melissa Ethridge and sing "Lucky" at
the top of our lungs.
There are too many reasons that my mommas found love in each other's presence.
There are too many moments when we are unbreakable, and in this moment, we are one family, constructing
road as we go, burning bridges behind us, adding mileage with grace, driving in our
CRV towards moonlight.
Thank you.
[ Cheers and applause ]