Growing up, I looked forward to Saturday mornings, not because of Saturday morning cartoons, or even not having to go to school. No, I loved Saturday mornings because of my absolute favorite treat: donuts. My father would buy half a dozen donuts for our family, and every weekend, he would buy a special flavor just for me: a cake donut with white frosting and rainbow sprinkles. He would always purchase two donuts because, according to his personal experience, it was better to be a little bit too full than to still be hungry. I was ridiculous as a child because, while the rest of my family ate the maple roll or simple glaze twist, I had to have my special donut. My two sprinkled donuts would vibrantly stand out in a box of chocolate and glaze desserts. They were always different, much like myself.

However, my sprinkled donuts were a reward for the sweat and labor that came with Saturday mornings. My siblings and I would wake up early to do yard work with our father. Raking and sweeping leaves, cutting branches, pulling weeds, and picking lemons—the list goes on. Because of these, I also hated Saturday mornings. I worked alongside my siblings and father as we listened to his '70s era mix tapes. Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Let’s Groove” or War’s “The Cisco Kid” would play as the sweltering Inland Empire sun forced sweat from every pore of our bodies. Branches and thorns would leave scratches all over my shoulders and arms. My hands would throb bright red from awkwardly trying to push a wooden broom, almost twice my size, back and forth across my driveway. I was a little girl, and I just wanted to sleep in on Saturday mornings like the rest of my friends did. I only ever looked forward to my sprinkled donut once the hard work was finished.

I now reflect on those Saturday mornings as an adult, and I am ashamed of how bratty I acted. I complained and pouted, and I tried to push as much work as possible onto my siblings or father so I could do less. Even worse, it took many years to realize that as hard as I thought I worked, my father was working harder. He was sweating more, and his hands (and back and knees) were definitely hurting much more. Despite waking up at 5 a.m. Monday through Friday, he still woke up at 7 a.m. on Saturdays to maintain a clean yard even when he didn’t have to. My family and I lived in a private community in the suburbs, and my parents could have easily hired a gardener, but they didn’t. They wanted my siblings and me to work, because from working we would learn just what our hands could accomplish.

I am now a 21-year-old college student attending a private institution—I am educated and incredibly privileged. Yet, as grateful as I am for the knowledge I receive from books and lectures, I always think back to those early Saturday mornings that taught me how to work with my hands and more importantly, that taught me never feel ashamed to get a little dirt underneath my fingernails. I am humbled to have the luxury of pursuing a path that does not require manual labor, but I know that I am no better than the individual with calloused hands. I think of my father, now 60 years old, whose life choices and circumstances have forced him to work on his hands and knees long after youth and vitality have left his body, and I pray that he knows that the dirt underneath his fingernails makes him no less than anyone else. Most of all, I hope that the feelings of gratitude and capability he instilled in me through those horrible Saturday mornings serve as his special donut—the most satisfying reward at the end of his hard work.