I was in third grade, and my father, mother, sister, and I were spending the year traveling the world. It was spring, and we were all in Bangalore, India. It was an especially hot day, so my family decided to take a break from touring temples and going on hikes, and we went to an amusement/water park called Wonderla. We left our hotel and got into a taxi to take us there. As I looked out my window, I noticed that the street was full of rickshaws, oxen, taxis, and cars. I was also struck by how everyone drove incredibly fast, and they never stopped. There also were absolutely no stoplights. I determined then that these were the craziest roads that I had ever been on. As we entered the park, I was surprised by how similar it was to an American amusement park. It had many rides like bumper cars and tilt-a-whirls and a few roller coasters. After going on a ride or two, we went over to the water park, which was what we were really there for. The water park itself was pretty similar in terms of look and design to the water parks I had been to in America. However, during our time at the water park, my father, sister, and I encountered many cultural differences. On one slide, everyone was staring at my dad because he was not wearing a shirt, whereas all of the women were fully dressed in their salwar kameezes (dresses over loose pants), and the men wore shirts and khaki shorts. On another slide, the other people in line were loaded with questions for us. They asked us a lot of questions about ourselves and about America. Despite all of that, we all had a pretty fun time at the park. After going on several slides, we decided to take a break, and we went over to the wave pool. As I approached the wave pool, I noticed that there were actually two different wave pools, one for men and one for women. The pool for men was a lot larger, and had a lot bigger waves.
“Why are there separate pools for women and men?” I asked my mother. “Because they want to have a pool where the women can swim in peace while away from the men,” she answered. “That’s stupid,” I responded. My father, sister, and I went over to the wave pool for men, where we swam around for a while. I swam, got hurled around by the waves, and was having a great time. Then, a lifeguard approached us. “The women’s pool is over there,” he said to my sister as he pointed to his left. We all stood there looking confused for a second. My sister got out of the pool, and went into the wave pool for women. She didn’t stay there long, likely because she felt a bit awkward. My father and I shrugged and continued swimming around in the pool. After jumping in the waves for a while longer, we got out of the wave pool. We met up with my sister, and she complained about how it was unfair that there were separate pools, and that the women’s pool had smaller waves. We then went on a few more slides. We were a little hungry afterwards, so we went over to the cafeteria to get some food. There, we encountered some more cultural differences. While many restaurants we had been to in India had offered silverware to tourists, this cafeteria did not. We also knew that it is unacceptable to eat with your left hand in India. There was nothing there that I wanted to eat, so I sat and watched as my family had to struggle to tear naan and scoop rice and sauces while only using their right hands. We left that park having encountered many cultural differences. Even though we had travelled to many places prior to Bangalore and encountered many cultural differences, this was one of the only times where they had a direct impact on us. On our previous travels, we had merely observed the differences, however, now we had to decide whether we should adapt to their culture, or we should just be our normal American selves. Should we change our dress, follow their cultural taboo about eating with your left hand, and should we follow their rules about gender interactions. We didn’t agree with many social rules and found them a bit inconvenient at times, but at the same time, we didn’t want to offend anyone.

I knew what was coming. My brother had to go through the same process last summer, and now it was my turn. I knew what I had to do and I was not excited to go through that now. It had taken my brother more than twenty online applications to finally get a call back from a local Dunkin Donuts to receive a job. For once, I wished I was younger.

My parents started bugging me after the start of the last quarter of school. I knew this was going to be hard, especially because of my age. Many of the local companies don’t hire until sixteen, and I was only fifteen. But when my mother called the local McDonald’s and was told that they hired at fifteen, I submitted an online application immediately. I went into the restaurant, and was hired on the spot.

My first day happened just as any other first day would go. Words cannot describe how anxious I was. I started off doing drive-through work, but I eventually moved on to do other things. I have done the register at the front counter, and I have even made some people’s sandwiches. After a while, I got over my anxiousness. Now the only thing I worry about is how to make my shift end the fastest.

I do not have a good relationship with one of the supervisors. Every time I have a shift, she seems to be grumpy, and I don’t know why. I remember one incident. I was doing my job of taking orders at the front counter, and she told me to sweep and mop behind that front counter. Now, there was a line of people waiting to have their order taken and yet she still asked me to clean. I did what I was told, even though I disagreed with her.

She was, in my opinion, abusing her abilities as a supervisor. She was ordering me around to do stuff, even when it was busy and I was needed where I was supposed to be. She then often gets agitated that people aren’t working fast enough.

After talking with my father later, I came to the conclusion that her position was going to her head, the power she had access to as a supervisor was overcoming her. Now, in order to earn the rank of supervisor in the McDonald’s hierarchy, one has to work for a time and thus receive a promotion. Now, this particular supervisor is younger than most other supervisors, meaning that she probably has been working there since she was not much older than I am. She’s been working there since her late teens, which is my guess, and is now a supervisor.

My whole point is, she obviously did not care about school. If she worked hard and studied, I would not be making this point, and she would have a better job somewhere fancy. In an indirect way, my supervisor has shown me what life is like when someone who doesn’t stay in school. She has helped me to finally see a reason to care about school and work hard. I don’t want to be working with her or be stuck with a job at McDonalds for the rest of my life.

Getting a job has done more than just teach me things. I get paid $7.50 an hour, and receive the payment every other Friday. Since I am a minor (which is 15 and under) and can only work a certain number of hours, I’m not pulling in pots of gold. At first, small checks like the ones I get don’t look like much, but over time, that money can grow. I’ve been working for a little over three months and have made close to a thousand dollars.

Most teenagers don’t want to get jobs. And yet complaining about how they are not treated like adults is common. Getting a job is a step up. One gains much responsibility, and also learns things relevant to his or her future. One can also mature greatly through this process, just like I have.

I have learned what it’s like to work. I therefore had a small taste of actual adulthood, which is more than most teenagers. I don’t work as much as most adults do, but working twenty hours a week is still a lot. I have also taken on a lot more responsibility, which always helps one mature. But, with responsibility comes freedom. Which is my pay check. Getting this job, in my opinion, has official started my growth into adulthood.

It was an uncomfortably warm September Saturday and my neighborhood reveled in the heat, holding on to the memory of summer. The neighborhood porch sale was that day, and people had tables, chairs, and buckets of icy lemonade, and were selling whatever had been sitting around their house for too long. We knew well enough that we would see most of these stuffed animals and unworn pieces of jewelry being sold again next year, just by different people. Still, the Hamilton Street porch sale was a Powelton Village tradition. We had to take part.
My friend Avery dragged me up and down the 3500 block, searching for cheap jewelry I knew neither of us would ever wear. We stopped, chatting with our neighbor Josh Bruck over a table of my old clothes that my cousins were finally selling.

“Did you know that there’s a guy with a Trump table set up at the end of this block?”, He laughed.

“Yeah, I saw it this morning across the street from my house!” Avery laughed in agreement.

“No! What?”, I exclaimed in disbelief, slightly nauseous as I tried to find reason in his statement.

The notion that there was a table supporting Donald Trump today was highly disrespectful to our family-friendly neighborhood fun. Avery and I stormed down the 3400 block and my stomach began to sink and twist into knots of shame; I knew what was going on.

My heart jumped as we neared the end of the block, navigating through swarms of people shopping.

Avery continued her chatter, clearly oblivious to my dread, “Yeah, it’s an old white guy in a ‘Make America Great Again’ hat”

That confirmed it. “Oh crap. I know who it is.” I sighed. The only old crazy white guy left on this block was my grandfather. He was sitting at his folding table, the surface hidden under piles of flyers, rolls of stickers, and what looked to be a packet with a personal tribute to Trump. He grinned up at me from under his ridiculous hat as I approached him.

“Opa, I can’t let you do this”, I said, shaking my head in disapproval.

“Oh, am I embarrassing my granddaughter?” He laughed as he spoke, making it clear that he didn’t respect my stance.

I looked to my neighbors, trying to apologize for him with my wide eyes.

“Yes”, I finally replied.

I opened my mouth to say more but I knew better than to start this today. It was only weeks ago when we had last fought about this. We were having ‘tea time’ with my 86 year old great-great-aunt Elizabeth. I’d begun to realize my grandfather was turning her against my family politically. Knowing that Elizabeth respected what I said, I tried to reason with him, using her respect for my opinions as leverage. I had barely badmouthed his beloved candidate before he stormed off. His face went surprisingly red, or maybe that was just contrasting from his white hair, and left without a word. He didn’t speak to me for a long while after that.

This is when my mother brought up the idea of ‘respectfully disagreeing’ with him. My ideas on how to deal with him were slightly different, like my plan to lock him in his house on election day. I assume she meant just not bringing it up ever again with him. I still felt like I needed to help him understand, and that I had a right to argue with him. But my mother’s word is law, so I held my tongue that day. I resisted mentioning that most of his children and grandchildren relied on the program he so hated, ObamaCare. I resisted telling him that Trump was supported by white supremacists, and that his Chilean immigrant wife and black grandchildren would suffer in a Trump presidency. I really wanted to tell him so many things, hoping they would change his mind.

My grandfather spoke, “Please, just take this packet. I wrote it myself.”

The conversation we were having with our eyes had shifted. My stony stare had broken his gleeful gaze and he was now looking at me with pleading eyes. Sighing, I took his packet and quickly crumpled it in my bag, hoping that nobody had seen me take it. I left, smiling a smile that more resembled a grimace. I returned to Avery’s porch, where her mother and my father were basking in the shade. My dad asked for the packet after I read it, too embarrassed to cross the street.

“This is bullshit. I’m sorry, but it really is.”, My dad dropped the packet in disgust.

My dad’s retort changed something for me. I agreed with him and realized that if my grandpa’s actions disrespected my morals, then I could disrespect his actions. I decided to stop legitimizing my mother’s excuses about his old age and his over the top catholicism causing his bad choices; if my grandfather still has control over me, he has control over his actions. If he wants to throw away my last shreds of respect for him, he can, but next time he brings up Donald Trump, I’ll say what I mean.