(I am wandering along a mall and I see some jeans on clearance at what you would call a “hip” store, mostly aimed at teens and young adults. I like the jeans and their price but can’t find my size. I’m rather broad at the hips and upper legs, but not anywhere else. I walk into the store and approach an employee.)

Me: “Excuse me. Those jeans that are on sale outside — do you happen to have those in a size 44?” *size 14 in US sizing* “The closest I saw was size 40/42.”

Employee: *scans me up and down with a look of utter disgust* “We don’t ever carry that huge a size. Try at [Plus-Size Store].” 

(She hurried away after that, but not before shooting me another look over her shoulder that was dripping with revulsion. I get that my size is mostly on the tipping point between most ”regular” sizes and plus-size but… really?)

(I am sitting by the counter in a quiet little Asian restaurant in my small town, waiting for an order that my father called in a few minutes before for my family’s dinner. Another customer comes in and orders a moment before my family’s order is ready.)

Female Employee: “Your order is ready, ma’am.”

(She begins to hand me the two bags.)

Male Customer: “Hey now, I just ordered! She’s just sitting on her a** and gets handed food before the man who just ordered!”

Female Employee: “I’m sorry, sir, but this order was called in before the customer arrived, so it was prepared before what you just ordered a moment ago. Your order is cooking and will be ready soon.”

Male Customer: “This is absurd! I demand she wait until the men are—”

Me: *interrupting him* “Sir, pardon me, but are you married?”

Male Customer: *hesitates* “Yes. What does that have to do with anything?”

Me: “When your wife cooks dinner, does your portion magically cook faster than everyone else’s meal?”

Male Customer: *grumbles, but doesn’t say anything further*

(To my surprise, the employee then opens the door to help me, as I have a bag in each hand.)

Me: “Thank you, ma’am. Have a good evening!”

(I work for an Internet marketing company. I provide a variety of Internet marketing products to a variety of clients, but I do not speak to the customers directly. That aspect of the job is handled by an account manager. This is a conversation between myself and one of my account managers. It is important to note — for this story — that both the account manager and his supervisor are African American. The customer in question owns a music store.)

Assistant Manager: “So, [Client] asked me to remove all images of African American people from his site and the marketing products and replace them with images of ‘beautiful Caucasian women with blonde hair.’”

Me: “I’m sorry, what?!”

Assistant Manager: “Yeah, it was an awkward phone call. He feels that black people don’t represent his customer base or his business.”

Me: “Does he… Does he think that black people don’t play instruments?”

Assistant Manager: “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Me: “I’ll just remove all images of people in general and we can tell him that we didn’t have enough stock images featuring ‘Aryan’ women playing instruments.”

Assistant Manager: *dies laughing*

(The account manager took the request to his supervisor — again, also a black person — who told us to just make the changes to avoid an escalation. I wonder if the client knows that a large portion of the people he works with at this company are not white?)

I used to work in an independent bookstore. We were known for being quirky and selling novelties on the side. I had bright rainbow hair whilst I was working at the shop and getting my degree at the same time.

One day, a woman came in and my manager led her around. I greeted her and sold her some books and we had a nice conversation about local art. I didn’t think much of it until my manager mentioned that the woman was buying the store and would be the new owner.

A few months later, I graduated and got an entry-level position in a job in my field. I decided to dye my hair back to its original brown and remove my facial piercings.

The sale of the shop completed and the new owner came in and introduced herself. We talked and got on well.

Until…

She mentioned that she was glad that the eyesore with “bright hair and metal in her face” had left. I let her talk for a while as she proceeded to get more agitated about “that girl,” Going as far as accusing bright-haired me of being a drug dealer.

I’ll never forget the look on her face when I informed her that the bright-haired girl was me.

I didn’t see her once for my two final weeks at the store.

(I am an assistant manager for a grocery chain in one of the most relaxed areas in the state. I’m the only manager on duty when our customer service desk pages over the intercom for a manager to pick up line one. I pick up and say the usual:)

Me: “Thank you for calling your friendly [Street] [Store]. My name is Yezi; how can I help you today?”

(I refer to myself as Yezi in the retail world, easier than explaining that my actual name is Yezirah, which nobody really gets. I have been told I don’t have a Hispanic accent even though I was born and raised in a third-world Hispanic country.)

Customer: “Oh, thank heavens, Angie. I was just in your store and the cashier was speaking Mexican to the customer in front of me at checkout… Mexican!“

(They could be talking about me, for all I know.)

Me: “Ma’am, do you mean that the cashier was speaking in Spanish to a Spanish-speaking customer?”

Customer: “No, they were just jabbering in Mexican to each other and I am very upset about that, so upset I don’t want to shop in your store until everyone learns to speak American like the rest of us. We’re in America; everyone should speak American!”

Me: “I’m sorry you feel that way, ma’am. Next time you’re in our store, please feel free to ask for anyone on our management team to help you feel more comfortable and we will make sure you are spoken to in English, as everyone we employ speaks English.”

(Then, in my full Hispanic accent, I say to her:)

Me: “My name is Yezi Osorio, the store manager is [First Name] Arevalo, and our other assistant manager is [First Name] Galvan. Any one of us will be more than happy to help you in any of your shopping needs.”

Customer: *huffs and just hangs up*

(The language is Spanish, not Mexican, and there are 21 other countries that speak it other than Mexico; be careful who you complain to!)

Related:
Totally Estupido, Part 7
Totally Estupido, Part 6
Totally Estupido, Part 5