Unused lockers line my high school hallways. Appropriately named, since everyone is high.

Eighteen has never felt like more of a curse: here I stand straddling the fence of adulthood with one foot still firmly planted in this prison they call school.

Expectations are readily dumped on me and I take them without complaint. I want my independence after all, and don’t mind the weight.

What I do mind are condescending assumptions and nagging reminders of my naïveté. How can society encourage me to be an active citizen and vote, then blame our crumbling country on the shoulders of the youth?

We don’t deny the part we play—I will readily attest to the ignorance of our generation—but open your eyes! We’re not all the same. For goodness sake, we are stereotyped enough as we wander through four years of misery.

Graduation soon will come, followed swiftly by my nineteenth birthday. But freedom I will taste but only briefly, for then I will be hated along with all the other college kids.

A career, perhaps, will make you happy? No, I’m not a gold digger or a workaholic—I have real values and morals! What else must I do to be respected by you?

I know; I’ll start a family. A beautiful, loving family of my own. Oh, that’s not how you raised your kids? What am I doing wrong? See, I want to say, I want listen, learn, and grow!

Constantly I’m saving money:

Pennies, nickels, dimes.

Soon retirement will be upon us, and we want to be secure. We’ve made solid financial decisions throughout our life, so we won’t have to work until we die. We’ll travel a bit, visit our children, and read the books we never got around to.

And on my deathbed I’ll ask, “Did I ever come of age?”

Please say yes, just for my sake, and don’t leave me with my thoughts. I’ve strived all my life to be worthy of an opinion of my own—one that can be respected. So please, I’ll ask again, “Did I ever come of age?”