Coming-of-Age Under the Law
Artwork by Anne Szabla, 18
Massachusetts
Growing up emotionally and physically happens over time; however, growing up legally is a different story. Since laws draw sharp lines between what we can and cannot do, growing up legally happens in an instant. One day we cannot sign legal contracts or get married without our parent or guardian's permission; then, next day, we can. That day, the day you reach your age of majority, depends on the laws of your country, province, or state. For example, if you are a citizen of Iran, you may vote when you are 15; in Japan, you must wait until you are 20. Some legal privileges are spread out from age to age. In Massachusetts, citizens may drive cars at age 16, but may not legally drink alcohol until age 21. Coming-of-age legally expands your rights to:
- vote for government officials
- sign legal contracts
- drive automobiles
- drink alcohol
- get married
- get body art (like pierced ears or tattoos)
- work for a salary
- join the armed forces
- testify in court
The age of majority is determined by the law, but the law is based on cultural traditions and, sometimes, citizens' input. Lobbying groups in various countries work to raise or lower this age based on their belief that we are ready for such responsibilities as voting or drinking based not on tradition, but on education. How old do you think you should be before you vote, work, or join the military?
The Final "P"
Preethi Fernandez, 16
New York
The single most important day in my life as a teenager was my 16th birthday. Unconcerned with presents, parties, or pats on the back, I believed the final "P" would clinch 16. Permit.
I pushed open the squeaky entrance door to the Department of Motor Vehicles, passing countless signs for drivers–those free, already independent adults. I would soon join their elite circle. The telltale test awaited me, only a few strides ahead, just behind a polished wooden door.
Trying to look as though I had a purpose, I stood at the back of the long line. When I finally reached the information desk, the sharply dressed woman interrupted before I opened my mouth. "Permit?" she inquired impatiently. "Yeah," I answered. I took the forms she tossed onto the counter and shuffled to the waiting room. I glanced at the little piece of paper that told me my waiting number, a jumble of letters and numbers. Glancing around the room, I saw the different jumbles blinking and flashing on little screens around the room. I didn't bother asking any of the irritated drivers for help. Instead I stared at the forms, growing increasingly nervous. I gave up trying to read the small print and anxiously tapped my foot, attracting annoyed glances from my fellow waiting room sufferers. I ignored their condescending* glares, trying to remember what percent of my body alcohol was illegal. Point oh eight. There was sure to be a question on that. My heart beating fast, I ran through the facts in my head. Point oh eight. What was the percent body alcohol? I was blanking out.
I glanced up at the blinking screens. Recognizing my jumble of letters, I jumped up. I quickly reported to the counter, eagerly awaiting instructions. A woman quickly snapped my picture while I was staring at her, my mouth half open. The woman checked my forms and sent me back to the torture chamber with a new number to watch out for. I repeated facts in my head at lightning speed. Point oh eight. Slippery road ahead. Pass on left. Point oh eight. A shrill beep interrupted my thoughts and I leaped from my seat. I glanced at the screen hanging next to the polished wooden door. It was my number. It was time.
I walked toward the door, shining in the distance, with its regal screen and mighty prestige. As I neared the door, gaining momentum, I tripped and crashed into it head on. Trying to save face, I strode casually into the room without a backward glance. This was it. Smaller and shinier than the waiting area, the new room was filled with neat rows of desks. I bit my lip as I wordlessly handed my forms to yet another DMV employee. She passed me the test without so much as a "Good luck" and returned to her business. Taking a deep breath, I sat on the edge of my seat and glanced at the first question. "At what percent body alcohol is a person considered intoxicated?" I let out my breath and grinned. Ten minutes later, still grinning, I strode out of the DMV triumphantly. The permit was mine!
*Condescending: acting with a superior (stuck-up) attitude.
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Have you gone through a coming-of-age ritual? How did it make you feel?
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