Last summer, I got a part-time job back home in the greater D.C. area. It was at Merry’s, a small barbecue restaurant that did catering events. It was just something to get some official work experience and earn a little pocket money — or so I thought.

Growing up in the suburbs, driving was an integral part of transitioning into adulthood. I had been driving nearly two years when I started the job, but even so I was shocked when my manager entrusted me with the keys to the company van. The interior of the van was crammed to the ceiling with every bit of catering supplies you could imagine, stacked haphazardly and secured only by some miracle of luck and cautious driving. I was asked to drive to nearly every catering, so I soon became comfortable driving the brightly colored monstrosity of a minivan.

Shortly after I started working, I was driving through my neighborhood with a coworker when he suddenly observed in surprise that everyone owned cars. Until then, I hadn’t stopped to consider what a great privilege driving was. Most of my neighbors owned two or three cars, parked outside large houses with expansive yards; quite unlike the apartments near Merry’s, where most people took the metro. Guilt gnawed at the pit of my stomach when we passed my two-story house with three cars parked in the driveway.

During another drive to a lunchtime catering, I found it odd that I was driving while my older and more experienced coworker sat in the passenger seat. She explained that insurance cost too much to afford her driver’s license(I only vaguely understood insurance, as I was heavily sheltered from the concept of financial responsibility). In that moment, I felt horribly guilty for sitting at the driver’s wheel, license in pocket, next to a woman ten years my senior, who worked well over forty hours a week at three different jobs and still couldn’t afford a luxury I had taken for granted my entire life.

The most memorable day was a delivery in Maryland, nearly thirty miles away. I was driving with my coworker, Max, as the copilot. He spent the long drive telling me his story.

Max spoke briefly about living with family in El Salvador and his experience of true poverty. When he was able to move back to the United States, he left immediately, hoping to start a new chapter in his life. He hadn’t gotten along particularly well in school, though, and stopped going at the start of high school. He then talked about his passion for making people happy by making good food. Not once did Max express frustration at his job, that he had to walk to work, or that he never finished school. He was grateful to have a job, a roof over his head, and to be driving along interstate 495 instead of standing in a stuffy restaurant.

He revealed he loved going to museums in Washington, and asked if I had been to the Holocaust museum. I regretfully answered that I had not; I find it hard to spend an afternoon around such horrific events without dwelling on the tragedies in our society all week. When I told Max this, he shook his head and said “You know, you can’t take stuff like that personally. You’ve got to look at it like a reminder to be grateful for what you’ve got.”

Max’s comment about gratitude had an impact on me. All the guilt I had been harboring over my car, my license, my house, and my education suddenly seemed to dissipate. It is unfortunate that we live in a world where not everyone has access to what some consider luxuries and others consider basic necessities. I have a responsibility to be aware of the privilege I have, and to be grateful for it. But gratitude should not equate to guilt. It is a lesson that our world can be improved, and we have a responsibility to contribute what we can to it.

Toward the end of the summer, I ran into an acquaintance from high school at a catering. She shared her summer opportunities, and then paused to scan my work uniform with a smirk. “I see you’re working at Merry’s,” she remarked with obvious disdain.

Had it been earlier that summer, I may have just shrugged my shoulders self-consciously. Instead, I thought about how I had learned first-hand about a side of my own city I previously hadn’t known. I thought about my coworkers, who weren’t working at Merry’s for extra spending money, but instead to pay their rent. And I thought about how this girl forgot her own privilege and degraded work in food service simply because she felt competitive with me. So I stood tall, met her smirk with a friendly smile, and replied, “Yes, I work at Merry’s.”

All names have been changed for privacy reasons.