The Day I Became A Yes Man

I like to consider myself a yes-man. An expert surrenderee. When I think of the experiences in my life that led me to this point, many come to mind, but at the forefront, one from the summer of 2016.

I was in Yosemite for a family reunion. The plan for the day? A scenic hike followed by dinner. The plan for me? Avoiding that hike at all costs. I was 17, deeply committed to my right to complain, and adamant that I would rather rot in the parking lot than trek through dirt and sweat for a "view." After a dramatic performance of teenage resistance, my parents—saints that they are—reluctantly agreed to stay behind with me.

So there we sat, idling at the base of the trail, when a line of sleek black SUVs, flanked by police escorts, rolled past. We had known that President Obama was visiting Yosemite that weekend, and as we waved at the passing motorcade, we realized—that was him. Right there. Behind those tinted windows. My parents and I exchanged wide-eyed looks, giddy at our unexpected brush with history.

When my family finally emerged from the woods, sweaty and triumphant, I couldn’t wait to gloat. Apparently being a lazy brat can in fact, pay off. I recounted, in full dramatic detail, how the President of the United States had driven right past us while they were off getting blisters and dehydration.

It wasn't until dinner that evening that my Uncle John, grinning ear to ear, delivered the blow.

At the peak of the hike—the very one I had so cleverly evaded—my aunts, uncles, and cousins had not just seen Barack Obama. They had met him. Exchanged words. Shaken his hand. High-fived him like old pals.

I sat there, fork frozen in midair, as they shared pictures, and the weight of my choices sank in. My poor parents.

That day I learned to stay humble, stay active, and above all, stay open-minded.

My cousin asking Barack Obama for a high five on said hike.