This story brought one of my own to mind.

I am the oldest of four children, and the only girl. My youngest brother is born when I am twelve. After he is a few months old, I learn to help my mother by giving him his bottle, changing his diaper, dressing him, and so forth. 

Sometimes, I watch my brother while my mom pops into a mall store for a few minutes. One day, I’m standing and daydreaming next to a store entrance as my year-old brother naps in the stroller beside me. A pair of older ladies approach me. Indicating the sleeping boy, one asks:

Lady: “Is he yours?” 

I’m a bit puzzled, but he’s my responsibility, so I say:

Me: “Yes.”

And the women walked off.

Much, much later, I realized that they thought I was a thirteen-year-old mother! And I had unwittingly confirmed their suspicions. The nosy old broads probably went away clucking their tongues about teen pregnancy and “babies having babies”.

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Late one evening, I was reading some interesting article online when I heard a rustling sound in a corner of my room. I couldn’t see anything moving, convinced myself I had imagined it or it was something outside, and continued reading.

The sound repeated.

I suspected some pieces of paper that I had placed on sloped surfaces could have shifted, but I got more and more nervous when I heard the sound several times more. There have been mice in our walls. Could one of them have gotten into my room?

I stepped over to the suspicious corner and stood there waiting for the sound, but nothing happened. Oh right, of course, a mouse would hide when someone approached it.

Confirming my theory, the sound only repeated after I had returned to my desk. Oh, no, oh no, there’s a mouse in my room! It’s going to eat all my books! What do I do?!

Long story short, that article I was reading was designed to look like a multi-page booklet, and “turning a page” made a rustling sound effect that was emitted by the speaker I have in that corner of the room.

My youngest child was playing on a tee-ball team. The kids, five- and six-year-olds, were playing on a makeshift field where the spectators had to stand along the first and third base lines. Every kid got to play at least two innings, and most teams had twelve players.

During one particular game, I noticed a little girl acting like she didn’t want to take the outfield when it was her turn to play. She was nearly hiding behind her mother’s leg, and the coach was about to just let it go and leave her out of the game.

I didn’t want to take over the moment, but I knew how she felt because, at that age, I had the same problem: horrible shyness.

I went to the little girl.

Me: “I know how you feel. Would you be willing to take your position in the outfield if I stood beside you the entire time you’re out there?”

She agreed to do it. I knew that once she broke the barrier of her shyness, she would enjoy the game. So, I stood with her for three innings in the outfield, once telling her where to throw the ball.

She wound up having a blast at the rest of the games that summer.

After that, every time she saw me in town for the next few years, she would yell out:

Little Girl: “Hi, Mister Coach!”

I came away with more than she did, I think.

I am visiting my sister’s family in California. We’re Caucasian, and one of her sons married a wonderful woman who is African-American. Their two young children have different complexions; their older boy is brownish and looks more Hispanic, and their daughter looks Caucasian.

One afternoon, I go to watch my two great-niblings play soccer. I meet them and their mom at the park and watch both of their games. After playing, they both look overheated, so I offer to buy ice cream for everyone. We go to an ice cream shop, get our orders, and sit down at a table.

My nephew’s wife has to excuse herself to the restroom, so I sit there talking to my great-niblings about their games.

A nosy-looking older woman comes over to our table while their mom is still away.

Woman: “I think it’s wonderful how tolerant you’re being.”

Me: “Tolerant? Of what?”

Woman: “Letting your… granddaughter? …sit with your housekeeper’s son eating ice cream.”

I stand up and reply softly so the kids don’t hear.

Me: “First, these two are siblings — my great nephew and niece. And the woman who you call my ‘housekeeper’ is my niece. And the only thing I’m having to be tolerant of is nosy old bigots interrupting a family outing. But my tolerance has limits, so please leave us alone.”

The woman retreated, not uttering another word. Unbeknownst to me, my niece had returned while I was whispering my retort to NOW. When I turned around, she was crying. She gave me a big hug, and then we sat and ate our ice cream.

The woman was still there, but every time I looked around, she quickly looked away from us — in shame, hopefully.

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I have a very large, very energetic orange tabby cat, so I decided to get him a harness and leash and take him for walks. He took to it like a charm, and now we stroll around the neighborhood every day. He loves it!

We were on one of our walks when a neighbor, sitting on their porch, shouted toward me:

Neighbor: “You can’t walk a cat on a leash! That’s for dogs!”

I stopped, looked down at my cat, pointed at him, and shouted back to the man:

Me: “That’s a cat?”

The neighbor sat there in silence for a few seconds before getting up and going inside. Whether he left in anger or befuddlement, I’ll never know, but Kitty and I finished our walk in peace.