I work at a museum dedicated to the Titanic and its tragic story. A tourist family is going through the exhibits, and the father comes barrelling over to me.

Guest: “So… this huge ship really existed?”

Me: “…yes, sir.”

Guest: “And all this really happened? The iceberg and the sinking?”

Me: “Yes, sir.”

Guest: “Wow! That’s incredible! They should make it into a movie!”

Related:
A Titanic Gap In Their Knowledge Of History

Our phone store has deals where you get free Disney+ for a year with a purchase. As a result, a lot of Disney+ trailers are on our store TVs to entice customers. A customer is making a purchase, and her dad is watching the TV.

Customer’s Dad: “Oh, I just saw a trailer with all those Asians from that Asian movie we saw the other day.”

Customer: “Oh my God, Dad!”

The customer turns to me.

Customer: “Sorry about him, he saw Everything, Everywhere, All At Once a few days ago, and it was the first time he saw a movie with an Asian cast.”

Customer’s Dad: “But it was those Asians in the trailer!”

Customer: “Dad! Stop! Just because you saw one Asian movie, you think every Asian in a movie is one of those actors! Stop thinking all Asians look alike!”

Me: “Actually… ma’am. The trailer he saw was for American Born Chinese. It… uh… it does actually star all three main Asian actors from Everything, Everywhere, All At Once.”

Customer: “Oh.”

Customer’s Dad: “Ha! Told you!”

I’m asexual demiromantic. I don’t feel sexual attraction, and I only feel romantic attraction if I already have a deep emotional bond with the person. In total, one person knows I’m demiromantic. I told my grandmother, who I thought was a bit homophobic due to bits and pieces of conversation throughout the years, a couple of weeks ago.

[Grandmother] took my sister and me out to eat for lunch, having not seen me in almost a year. While she was dropping me off at my house after lunch, my sister went inside, but I stayed to chat a bit before [Grandmother] left.

My ADHD kicked in and the conversation went from phones to mobile games, to mobile games based on a well-known book series, to said well-known book series, to the rather transphobic author of said book series, to transgender acceptance, to TV shows — all in less than five minutes.

Grandmother: “I just started this new show about a young trans kid that was born one gender but realized they were the other gender at four. And the parents automatically accepted them and helped them dress like the gender they felt, instead of the one they were born as.”

Me: “Really? What show?”

Grandmother: “[Show]. It’s really good; I’m almost done with it. It’s actually why I broke up with [Grandmother’s Ex-Boyfriend].”

I didn’t even know they were dating.

Me: “How come?”

Grandmother: “He kept saying that it’s against God, that the Bible says it’s wrong, and that they are all going to Hell. Same with other people like them. The Bible may say that in some parts, but I just don’t believe that my God would do something like that — would make them like that and then hate them for it.”

Me: *Surprised* “‘Love thy neighbor’ and all that. I have friends that are trans. And all of my friends are part of the LGBTQ+ community.”

I decided to take a chance. She wasn’t as homophobic as I thought. If she was accepting of a TV show character, I hoped she would be accepting of me.

Me: *Hesitantly* “I’m asexual and demiromantic myself.”

Grandmother: *Frowning* “Demiromantic?”

Me: “Essentially, I don’t feel sexual attraction, and only feel romantic attraction if I already have a deep emotional bond.”

Grandmother: *Smiles* “That’s like the main character. They have to already have a bond with the person to have feelings for them.”

The conversation continued, but I honestly kinda did the thing where you say, “Uh-huh,” “Yeah,” and, “Hmm,” to everything. I was happy that someone accepted who I was. If only the rest of my family was as accepting.

My five-year-old sister is obsessed with Rapunzel (the Disney version from “Tangled”) right now. She wants to be Rapunzel when she grows up, so she refuses all haircuts and every so often sings to her hair.

My mother bought her a Rapunzel costume for a costume parade we had, and my sister was so excited about it. On the day of the parade, she told me this:

Sister: “You know what’s sad?”

Me: “What?”

Sister: “Mama said I have to wear socks and shoes. But Rapunzel has bare feet!”

She also got very disappointed when the long blonde braid didn’t glow with the magic song.

Today, we were singing the song “When Will My Life Begin” and we sang the line “…stuck in the same place I’ve always been.”

Sister: “But she wasn’t always there.”

Me: “That’s true, but she didn’t know that. She thought Mother Gothel was her real mother. She never learned about genetics, so she couldn’t tell it didn’t make sense.”

Sister: “What’s genetics?”

Me: “Well, a mother and father both give something to the baby. So, since Mama and Daddy both have brown hair, you can’t have blonde hair.”

Sister: “But Rapunzel had blonde hair.”

Me: “Well, yes, so maybe if Mama drank a magic flower when she was pregnant with you, you’d have magic hair. But she didn’t.”

Sister: *Very matter of fact* “I know. Sadly.”

At least she’s come to terms with the ending of the movie, though. When she first saw it, she cried when Rapunzel’s hair got cut and barely noticed that Flynn was dying. And through her tears, she asked me this:

Sister: “Is she crying for the same reason I am?”

I have never been creative, so despite enjoying most of school, I had a tough time with creative writing assignments. One year, we had a short story assigned that was especially big — ten to twenty pages — and worth an especially large portion of that semester’s final mark. I was unable to think up even a bad idea, never mind a good one.

Then, the Sunday before it was due, I awoke having had a dream with a full plot that would work fine for the short story! I wrote it all down. A teenage girl’s sassy new boyfriend killed all their school bullies, but then, other kids who had previously seemed chill became bullies. In the end, our protagonist realised that killing a**holes could never make the world a better place since there is an almost infinite supply of a**holes.

Monday arrived, but the teacher announced an extra week was being given since many kids were having trouble getting their stories done on time.

So, a few of us who had our stories ready swapped them to read. (This being the 1990s, it was all on paper.) My friend read my story.

Me: “I had terrible writer’s block, but then, like a miracle, this came to me in a dream!”

Friend: “Naw, dude. That wasn’t out of your subconscious.”

Me: “Of course it was.”

Friend: “No, that was the plot of the last movie you saw. How could you forget?!” *Laughing* “We rented it like three weeks ago. Heathers? You thought Christian Slater was cute?”

Me: “Oh. My. God. You’re right! What have I done?! This is plagiarism!”

I was a good kid who got good marks easily, so I had never even for a moment considered cheating before. But I had no other story idea with which to redo the assignment. Eventually, I convinced myself it was morally acceptable because I had written it in my own words, with plot events of my choice, not copied something verbatim, and I had not stolen the idea intentionally. So, I handed it in.

A few days later, I was summoned with my mother to a meeting with the principal, Language Arts teacher, and even the school counselor. I thought for sure I was going to jail for plagiarism!

But as the meeting unfolded, I realised they had no idea! Not one of the adults in the meeting was cool enough to be aware of one of the biggest movies of the previous year! What are the odds? They believed it was 100% my idea, and they were scared I was going to go on a murder spree!

I figured it better to be thought a psycho than a cheater, so I kept the truth to myself. Instead, I defended myself by pointing out that the moral of the story was that killing bad guys does no good, so despite the preceding murder rampage, the story was an argument for pacifism. They bought it and life moved on.

It still makes me laugh to remember all those worried faces, holding me personally to blame for the creepy plot of a successful Hollywood movie. I guess it’s lucky I didn’t steal an even scarier story like “Carrie”, or I’d still be in therapy!