One way to meet new friends is to bare your soul on your bumper. People will give you a new kind of respect for that.

GO WEST, YOUNG REDHEAD! This story begins the Christmas after I got my first car, only two years ago. My parents giggled as I opened a package from both of them. I pulled back tissue paper to reveal a hollow gold rectangle--a license plate frame. "It's for your new car," my mom said. "It's the only thing we could both agree on for you." They smiled expectantly at me. It read, "Redheads do what blondes only dream about." My mouth hung agape. "Do you guys know what this means!?!?" I asked, incredulous. It was their way of finally accepting that I was going to continue to dye my naturally sandy blond hair bright red-orange. To me, it was a comment on my supposed sexual appetite--and from my own parents no less! As I looked up to smile and meekly say "thank you" my dad was already running out the door and down the porch stairs, screwdriver held triumphantly above his head. A week later as I drove my yellow 1980 Corolla Tercel hatchback SR-5 back to Davis with my friend (a natural redhead), we got more than a couple of stares. We rolled down the windows and played ABBA on the tape deck, trying to complete the perfect Charlie's Angels-meets-Hooters effect. I realized later that I was learning a valuable lesson: One way to meet new friends is to bare your soul on your bumper. People will give you a new kind of respect for that. The "Redheads" holder was mine for the next year. I passed the yellow car down to my brother, and I inherited the family Camry, but I sentimentally kept the frame in the trunk. The new car had a simple license plate holder: "Pacific Grove," the name of my hometown. Perfect. Boring. On the ice blue car, very unimposing. I anonymously cruised the freeways, incognito. That served till this June. Three days after graduation, I set out on a solo trek to New Mexico. As I readied for departure, my good friend presented me with a new license plate holder: UC Davis Alumni. I jumped, I screamed, I ran outside with a screwdriver and the same fervor my father displayed two years ago. So now I drive a quality machine--an alumni-mobile. I am officially one of those annoyingly proud people who boast of their alma mater to strangers. And I've been an alum for only three weeks. In fact, I don't even have the diploma yet. But the license plate holder is all I need. It may be tacky, but it's better than a framable piece of stiff paper. I set out on my trip--an initiated alumna--and drove toward Santa Fe with pride. I felt other drivers sizing me up as a college grad, a Californian, an Aggie. I stopped in L.A. for the first night to stay with my redheaded friend (the natural). I opened the trunk to get my sleeping bag and found the "Redhead" holder. My friend had just gotten her first car. I extracted it and presented it to her. In Santa Fe, I pulled out the newly removed "Pacific Grove" holder and gave it my friend and host, also a Pacific Grove native. He was missing the coastal fog in the heat of New Mexico and did a little dance when I handed over the frame. Ceremoniously I said, "The circle is now complete." He stared at me in the same way I had looked at my parents that Christmas morning when they agreed I had more libido than any blond. But I understood. I had left Davis still unable to accept that it was time for a new stage of my life. But as I gave away the holders--pieces of my previous lives--to the appropriate recipients, I could nestle more comfortably into the alumna role. I'm back in Davis now, for another month at least. I'm not sure where I'm headed next, but I'm an alum! So if anyone out there has a "I make six figures at Cosmo magazine and date Keanu Reeves" license plate frame and wants to pass it on to a deserving new graduate, I can be reached in the driveway, waxing my car. -- Erica Howe '99