I need to make it clear.

I am not running for President.

That said, I did work in a fast food restaurant in high school.

I did mention it on resumes when I applied for jobs while in college.

I can supply the names of everyone who I worked with, including who hired me.

In the spirit of full disclosure, it’s not hard for me to remember who signed my pay check as it was my mother.

And I have no desire to step behind the counter of a McDonald’s at age 68.

But then again I’m not running for President.

My mom, after my father died, needed a way to support four kids and herself.

Social Security survivor benefits for minors of workers who had paid into the system as my dad did wasn’t enough to cover living costs.

Instead of going to work for someone else, Mom figured the best option was to go into business for herself so she could have flexible hours to take care of the needs of four kids ranging from 3 years of age to 16.

There was a tradeoff, though.

In order to keep her head above water as is the case with most small businesses, she worked seven days a week. Some of those days were 14 plus hour marathons with breaks to attend to family issues.

And it wasn’t just managing the place, doing the books, and all of the paperwork and such when you have employees.

She worked full shifts and then some.

It was one less person to pay, plus there were months when she wouldn’t have been able to cover the payroll of everyone she hired and the bills if she could opt not to pay herself.

Do not misunderstand.

It gave her the flexibility to raise a family.

We did not go hungry.

But after eight years when she finally sold the business — an old-fashioned frostie building of the tin box design from the early 1950s where dining tables were wooden  picnic tables on the patio where half of Lincoln’s teens carved their initials and such — she was better off financially working for someone else.

Of course, by then two kids had become adults, gotten jobs and moved on.

I was 16 and working for Lincoln’s weekly newspaper being paid 15 cents a column inch for stories and a $1 per photograph.

My two older brothers as teens worked at the Squirrel Cage as the frostie was called, in addition to having newspaper routes and other jobs such as cleaning out the Lincoln Theatre and changing the marquee out front once a week.

I worked at the Squirrel Cage as well for two summers, Christmas vacation, and a number of weekend days over the course of nearly two years.

I was able to under state law at the time.

Those who were under the minimum age of 16 were required to obtain a work permit and were employed in a family business were allowed to do so.

The minimum wage in California back then was $1.65, not $16 as it is today for everyone but fast food workers who have been granted special status with a minimum wage of $20 an hour.

As for my actual pay, given it was back in the waning days when the state allowed lower hourly wages for those under 18 with work permits, I earned $1.35 an hour.

I didn’t complain as it allowed me to buy clothes and such.

It is what my brothers did with a chunk of their earnings as well.

We weren’t exactly poor but we weren’t what one might call well off.

Even so, my mom never hesitated to feed people from time-to-time she knew were from struggling families.

It was something that I’m sure was drilled into her as the right thing to do by her mother who struggled with running a cattle ranch and raising seven kids during the depth of the Great Depression after her husband abandoned them.

There are always others who don’t have it as good as you do.

The trip down memory lane of wearing white smocks, dealing with greasy conditions with less than optimum ventilation and selling the smallest cup of soda for a nickel and a basic burger, bun and sauce for 19 cents was triggered, of course, by McPolitics.

I frankly could care less about where Kamala Harris supposedly did or didn’t work.

Nor do I care that Donald Trump did a photo op working deep fryers and manning the drive-up window or the fact he apparently eats at McDonald’s as often as I eat salads.

But what does kind of irk me is the characterization that somehow McDonald’s represents working class America.

And just because you are the 900-pound gorilla with a rigid franchise formula doesn’t make you representative of American entrepreneurship either.

Rest assured McDonald’s hires a certain type of employee.

Everything about a franchise from the menu down to the instructions in how to cook food prepared elsewhere is rigid.

If you want to see what real America entrepreneurship looks like and a true mixture of working class patrons, then ignore the three Golden Arches in Turlock and one in Hilmar.

Drop by one of the mom and pop dining options in the area — from taquerias and independent restaurants to food trucks and less-stringent franchise models.

This is not a slam on McDonald’s.

It’s just that America isn’t best represented by Stepford Wives corporate conformity or a one-size-fits all model.

America was founded on the novel concept that individuals had value and worth. People — specifically the non-elitists — aren’t just cogs and cannon fodder.

As for the election, can we ditch the predictable and rigid McRhetoric both sides spew?