I panhandled on a street corner when I was a teenager. No squeegee. Just a bucket with a hastily scribbled sign asking for cash. I wasn’t alone — there was a group of teens, scattered among four medians at a busy intersection. We went from car to car, window to window, seeking money to fund our public school’s debate team trips. Most weekends, we did pretty well. I don’t remember any threats, any arguments or, frankly, any concern for 16-year-olds dancing and dashing through traffic on a busy Saturday morning. Did we have a permit? A license? Nope. Most of the time we didn’t even have adult supervision.