It is a 3 by 2 inch small piece of plastic, malleable enough to the point where you feel as if you could snap it in two with little exertion. Obviously no teen would be foolish enough to actually compromise their one way ticket to freedom, even still, a tremendous emotional value is placed upon an object with noticeable physical meekness. Published with a portrait of my toothy grin after finally hearing my number called at the DMV, the tiny card that slides perfectly in to my worn leather wallet symbolizes my individuality as a person. A gift of endearment from the wonderful state of Michigan, my driver's license is filled with digits, dashes, and my tiny signature, penned in the fashion that any 3rd grade teacher would be proud of. At the bottom of the plastic card sits a tiny red heart, representing my desire to donate my organic possessions in the event of a tragedy. As I previously mentioned, this weak little card with my uncomfortable photo and dialect only comprehensible by a police officer, is a milestone of my journey as a member of society. On a personal level, this ID is only mine. It reads Sam B., not Max's little brother, or Josh's son, it is totally and completely mine. To me, hgt - 5'10, eyes - bro , sex - m isn't just the obvious details of my physique, but rather a sign that I am now writing my own story in life, rather than acting out the script provided to me by my predecessors.

Age 16 has the potential to be an incredibly transitional year, as teens have the opportunity to begin driving, working, and becoming more like a full fledged adult. For me, the greatest transition happened during the summer of my 16th year of life. The discrepancies between what 16 year olds do over the summer is incredibly wide, as some lay around at home dreading the return of school, some party and have fun with their friends, and some, like me, use that summer as a chance to make some money and start to give up some childish patterns. Not to say I did not have any fun over the summer, but I saw it as an opportunity to take the first steps in my journey towards adulthood. When I first took my driver’s test, it wasn’t nearly the hollywoodized climactic experience often portrayed in media, I simply woke up early one Saturday, and passed the test. The following Monday, I would sit in a stiff plastic chair at the DMV watching the electronic digit slowly rise: 89...90...91, enduring a dull eternity with the hope that eventually the screen would flip to number 106. After I had filled out all the paperwork and taken a photo which it appears I am slightly squinting at some mysterious object in the distance, I waited 2 to 3 business weeks until the plastic card would finally arrive at my residence. I initially didn’t love the card, nor did I hate it, I just accepted all of it’s imperfection due to the emotional significance- I was finally starting to pave my own path. Though I didn’t yet realize it, this card would bring me stress, money, hate, and occasionally some fun.

The first step I took when I embarked on my meteoric rise to responsibility was getting a job. Despite my sentiment that receiving my driver’s license was a token that I was different than my older brother Max, it would be him who helped me land my first gig. When I first walked in to Red Star Diner, I received my first glance of what would become my life for the next 3 months. The restaurant was slammed with customers all enjoying their fresh bacon, eggs, and pancakes. To my right, I saw my brother Max, in full busser attire; a black polo, khaki shorts, and a dirty apron. Through the large glass windows the natural light showed the small beads of sweat forming on his head as he buzzed from table to table, first collecting the dirty dishes, then wiping the table, and finally setting new sets of silverware for every empty chair. He moved across the large dining room with a frantic pace, bouncing between the tables and his busser station like a pinball as he prepared the busy diner for new customers. When Max finally had enough of a break in the work to show me the kitchen, I met some of the people who would deeply alter my ignorant view of society, adulthood, and the workforce forever. The most intimidating person I met that day was Jimmy, the owner of the restaurant. He was tall, skinny, and spoke with an accent Max and I would identify as greek months down the line. He grabbed my hand and slapped my on the back, welcoming me in as their newest bus boy. From that point forward, my personality and worldview would slowly be eroded and reformed as I began to understand the harsh reality that is life.

I fancied myself the best busser in the restaurant after about one and half months of working. My new found confidence in my abilities was partially fueled by waitresses like Amy, Bobbi, and Shelly. Because they included me in their gossip, complimented me on my work ethic, and always made sure to give me a fair share of the tips, my actions made it clear that they were my favorite servers to work with. This blatant favoritism would quickly prove to make me enemies though, and served to teach me a valuable lesson about life- you can’t please them all. In order to try and gain favor with the waitresses less fond of me, I would bus their tables first, do extra favors for them with haste, and always treat them with respect. Even with all of that, some would still treat me with utter disrespect. I enjoyed being with the servers, but the people I truly liked associating with were the men in the back of the house. Any chance I had I would go to the back, allowing the low rumble of the crowd to soften behind me. As I moved toward the back the comradery, shouting, and the familiar sound of tickets being printed would fill the air. The aromas of the bacon, chicken, and eggs all cooking would all combine to create a smell I grew to associate only with Red Star. The dark red tile floor would meet the dull lighting at eye level and would create a feeling of industry. Adding on to this sense of factory life was the workers, who would often work 10 to 12 hour shifts. Some of the guys I liked more than others, not because any of them were particularly mean to me, but some were especially kind. The relationships I started to develop with Armando, Jimmy, and Johnny have been some of the most impactful experiences I’ve had in my life.  I learned about people I never saw back in my upper-middle class neighborhood, and soon realized that these people were no different than any of my usual peers, and altered my perspective on society entirely. Armando was a man of about 35 years who was the primary dishwasher I worked with at Red Star. His comedy style was to be loud and boisterous, and had developed a number of catch phrases that he would use frequently to lively up the mood, insult a cook, or help himself get through the work. When he was washing the dishes, his brow would stiffen as he focused on collecting the clean silverware from the machine. With a frantic pace he would grab each knife individually with his right hand before depositing it in his left, where he would amass the fresh knives until he had enough to place in the green tray. Occasionally, Armando would break character and actually show some of what he was truly like. Jimmy would call him payaso - clown. I understood that nickname was primarily a derivative of his never ceasing diet for comedy, but to me it developed into the idea that like a clown, you didn’t really know what he was like beyond the act. While he would make jokes and get into verbal exchanges with the cooks, every once in a blue moon he would say or do something really deep, so out of character you’d begin to ponder on what he was really like. Did he have someone he loved? What molded him in to a person capable of working 12 hours in a steamy kitchen? To this day I can’t say I truly know Armando, while he and I were buddy’s on the surface, I never really knew what he was truly like.

The experiences, responsibility, and relationships I had over that summer served as a distinct starting point of my journey to being a complete and functional member of society. I learned to handle problems on my own, treat everyone fairly beyond their background, make a living to provide for my needs. Though my driver’s license is small, physically weak, and noticeably imperfect, I will always be grateful for receiving it, as it was the catalyst that started my transition in to taking control of my story. The best part of this is, perhaps, that I have only just started that story.