Say Bye Bi To This Coworker

, , , , , , | | Working | May 25, 2018

(I am a male. I work in a smallish admin team for a large engineering company. I am also bi, and while I don’t make an issue of it, I don’t hide it when referring to the gender of the person I am seeing. None of my colleagues have ever had an issue with this. until one day when I happen to mention that I am going on a date with a female friend of mine.)

Coworker: “I thought you were gay?”

Me: “No, bi.”

Coworker: “But you used to date [Male Ex]; you brought him to the Christmas party.”

Me: “Yeah, I did, but I am bi, not gay. [Male Ex] and I broke up a few months back, and I thought it was time to get back to dating again.”

Coworker: *confused stare* “So, you are still gay, but you are dating a girl, as well; is she one of those [slur]s?”

Me: *really?!* “No, she isn’t transgender; she is a woman.” *not going to attempt to explain trans/cisgender at this point* “I am bi; I date men and women. I find them both attractive.”

Coworker: *seems to be mulling this over* “Are your parents pressuring you? I think it’s wrong that some people are homophobic. Is that why you are ‘dating’ this girl?”

Me: “No… I am dating her because I find her attractive and I’ve known her for years.”

Coworker: “And she doesn’t mind that you are gay?”

Me: “Some people are gay, some people are straight, and other people are bi. I am bi. I like men and women. Oh, look! My lunch time is over.” *dashes from staff room*

(Apparently the idea is too much to understand, as she continues to refer to me as gay.)

Coworker: “Do you watch that Ru Paul’s Drag Race?”

Me: “No, I don’t really like drag.”

Coworker: ” I thought all gays liked drag?”

(Later:)

Coworker: “Gays have such good style. [My Name], will you take me shopping?”

(Later:)

Coworker: “Are you on that Grinderer thing? Someone said all the gays use it.”

Me: “Again, I am not gay, and I don’t think my girlfriend would like me using it.”

(At my last work’s night out, I had to explain to my girlfriend why one of my coworkers might try and check her for a penis.)

About To Be Some Banana Drama

, , , , , | | Right | May 25, 2018

(Our produce department has recently started selling dragonfruit, a rare sight around here. Needless to say, they get a lot of confused looks. I’m stocking nearby when a customer calls me over to ask about them. I tell them all I can about how to eat them, what they look like inside, how they taste, etc.)

Customer: “Where do they come from?”

Me: “South and Central America and Southeast Asia, mostly, I think. These…” *reading label* “…are from Vietnam, actually.”

Customer: *tosses the fruit back in disgust* “Are you f****** kidding me? Hell no!”

Me: “Um… Okay.”

Customer: “And another thing, you got any tomatoes that did not come from Mexico? All yours say they came from Mexico. I want American tomatoes.”

Me: “I think we have some from Canada right now.”

Customer: *with disgust* “I said American. You just wait until Donald Trump fixes this; y’all ain’t gonna have none of this foreign s***!”

Me: “I take it you don’t like bananas, either?”

Customer: “Yeah, I do. Why?”

Me: “Nothing. You have a nice day.”

If The Sexism Glove Fits…

, , , , | | Right | May 24, 2018

(I work in a popular toy store. We are having a rather busy evening, and I am walking back to my section after assisting someone. I see a customer looking around as though trying to find something, so I offer to help. I’m a male.)

Me: “Did you need help with something?”

Customer: “Yes, I need to find a baseball glove for my son.”

Me: “Oh, it’s right this way.”

(I begin to usher the customer to the sporting section, and I see my female coworker walking towards us with a baseball glove.)

Coworker: “Here you are, ma’am. We only carry this type of baseball glove.”

Me: *to the customer* “Oh, you already had someone assisting you? Why didn’t you say so?”

Coworker: “Well, you’re a guy. I figured you would know where they are.”

Me: “I assure you that all of the workers here are capable enough to find a simple baseball glove.”

Silence, Oppressor!

, , , , , | | Working | May 23, 2018

I am black, living in Germany as the daughter of a mixed couple. My dad is the one with black skin, and my mum is German. I look more black than mixed, as I took more to my dad’s side of genes, I guess.

I have been asked where I am from on countless occasions, and in varying levels of rudeness. I grew up in Germany. German is my mother language. I speak English rather well because my mom is an English teacher.

Don’t get me wrong; there are tons and tons of wonderful people around me, and in my hometown it rarely happens anymore. But when I am travelling, I just get so many looks and questions in tones that grate on my peace of mind.

One day, a cashier at a store speaks to me like I am mentally disabled — slowly and in easy words, complimenting them with gestures and miming stuff out — despite me speaking German without an accent.

In the end she seriously asks, in the sweetest tone, “Where are you from in Africa? Are you here looking for a German boyfriend?”

I just look her dead in the eye and say, “I’m the queen of Wakanda, here to steal your men to make them my slaves, so you’d better get ready.“

The Wrong Person Got Their Jaw Wired Shut

, , , , , , | | Right | May 23, 2018

(I was recently in a pretty bad car accident that left me with a broken jaw which had to be wired shut. While I can talk, I tend to avoid it since it is painful at times, and it is sometimes hard to understand me. My boss understands this, and has even gone so far as to have these big “Cannot Speak” signs made up with some details to explain my problem. For the most part, the customers have been nice and understanding about it. One day, around noon, I’m sweeping the front of the store when a smartly-dressed woman steps through the door. She walks over to me and asks where something is, and I don’t answer. Instead, I wave in the direction of the manager who comes over and asks what it is she wants, while I go back to sweeping. The woman asks and is directed to what she needs, and the manager comes back and tells me to ring her up.)

Woman: “Oh, hell no. I don’t want him ringing me up.”

Manager: “And why not? Did he do something wrong?”

Woman: “No, it’s just that he’s obviously a [disabled slur]. I don’t want this waste of human space screwing up anything.

Me: “Not [disabled slur].” *my words slur due to clenched teeth*

Woman: “See? They can’t even talk right. If I were president, I’d have all of them aborted before birth.”

Me: “Not [disabled slur].” *slurred again*

Woman: “Oh, shut up and let the adults do business.”

(I held up a finger to my manager, who I could see was VERY pissed. Walking over, I picked up a piece of paper from the copier, snagged a marker, and wrote out, “You ignorant, uneducated bigot. I can’t speak because I had a car accident, which you may have read about in the newspaper. My jaw is wired shut.” I turned the paper around so she could read it. I watched her look at it, look at me, and then look at the manager. You could almost hear the gears working in her mind as she started to blush, and refused to look at me the entire time. Shortly after she left, one of the regulars who overheard the conversation noted that it was everything he could do not to smack her in the head, in the hopes it might knock some sense into her.)


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