When the movie “300” was released in South Africa, I actually went to see it twice in the span of two days. On the second viewing, a morning show, the theatre didn’t have a large audience.

There was a man with a heavy French accent sitting at the end of one of the rows up front. He kept answering his phone and speaking very loudly and discourteously, spoiling the experience for others.

Sure enough, an usher was called in.

Usher: “Sir, can you please take your call outside and come back in when you’ve finished?”

The man was so horribly abusive to the usher. He kept swearing, half-threatened to beat up the usher, and demanded to speak to management.

As it so happens, the manager of the cinema complex walked in then. She was a very smart African lady with a lot of poise and grace. On seeing the manager, the snotty patron became racially abusive, swore at the manager, and started denigrating her anatomy. The manager then did an about-face.

Manager: “Sir, I’m going to have a security guard escort you off of the premises.”

And she walked away.

The patron proceeded to sit down with a smug, victorious snort and continued with his telephone call.

Then, something seemed to arc through the air across the cinema screen. It was very small but very out of place. I remember thinking, “I don’t recall this from last night’s screening. Is it a spear? Is it an arrow? What the…?”

And then, there was a huge splash.

A can of Coke, expertly lobbed across the breadth of the cinema, deftly hit the racist b*****d in the side of his head, erupting on impact and showering him — and his phone — in liquid.

Properly soaked and buggered, he started roaring like a wounded animal, demanding to know who had thrown the Coke.

At this point, the manager walked in with the security guards. The patron resisted, but security forcefully escorted the a***hole out of the cinema to the roaring applause of the audience!

When the lights came up at the end of the movie, we all stood up to see who our savior was, but the only person seated in the area the Coke had come from was an elderly lady in her sixties, who mumbled something about still being thirsty…

When I was fourteen, I in no way dressed feminine; I wore baggy 2000s sports clothes (always black if possible) and a crappy cap. Yeah, I was very cool.

I had been to the toilet in the mall and was whistling a tune to myself while washing my hands. An older cleaning lady in the room turned toward me with a scowl and said, in the nastiest tone only grumpy old ladies can produce:

Old Lady: “Girls don’t whistle!”

And then, she left with her cleaning trolley, while I just stood there looking dumbfounded at the encounter. It still baffles me to this day how much low whistling apparently could offend someone… and that whistling is gendered.

Once at work, a coworker dared to blame me for the filthy staff kitchen. Because I was a woman, she felt that I had to clear up the dirty tableware the men had left.

She herself was a cleaner who just came in every morning, and this was not her job, of course; this was up to us.

I was quite shocked because she was a woman, too, and yet she discriminated against me because I was a woman!

I got furious with her, and she never tried this again.

Related:
The Misogyny Starts Early, And It’s Coming From Inside The House

My mother-in-law and I do not see eye to eye on a lot of things. Normally, I either walk away from the conversation and she claims that my refusal to argue means that I agree, or we get into screaming matches. After talking with a family friend, I have a new tactic for dealing with her poking at me.

Recently, a bakery has been in the news for refusing to make a cake for a same-sex couple.

Mother-In-Law: “Did you hear about the bakery that won’t cater to [gay slur]s?”

Me: *Uninterested tone* “Uh-huh.”

Mother-In-Law: “All these people are crying about how the bakery should make the cake and take their money.”

Me: “I heard.”

Mother-In-Law: “But they’re a private business; they have the right to refuse service! If the [gay slur]s and their hags disagree, they can go somewhere else.”

Me: “That’s how companies work.”

Mother-In-Law: *Aggressively* “They— What?”

Me: “Everyone who agrees with the bakery can continue to buy from them, and everyone who disagrees can take their business elsewhere.”

Mother-In-Law: “Well… yes. That’s what I said.”

Me: *Smiling* “I’m glad we agree.”

She was quiet for a moment, and then she turned and walked away. I wouldn’t say I won that argument, but I do think she is a little confused now.

I work in politics, taking calls from the constituents of our MP (Member of Parliament). Our MP has recently won an election. I take a call from an angry woman.

Caller: “I’m never going to vote for you again!”

Me: “I’m sorry to hear that, madam. Can I ask why you have changed your mind?”

Caller: “Because [MP] voted yes to bringing in a whole lot of refugees! I saw them on the news! They’re all men!”

Me: “Well, I don’t know what news channel you watch, but—”

Caller: “You don’t understand! It’s too many new men! My son still lives with me! He’s thirty years old and he already can’t get a date!”

Me: “I… am sorry to hear that.”

Caller: “You tell [MP] that as long as my son is single, she won’t get my vote!” *Click*

Yes, I’ll be sure she includes that as an urgent item on her next manifesto.