My company delivers food for local restaurants. We’re a small company; we pay good salaries, social insurance, etc. Our most popular places are pizza joints, but today, this ABSOLUTE GEM of a human ordered from an Indian restaurant. He demanded free samosas and threatened to cancel his order if he didn’t get them. Naturally, the Indian place said no. He bombed me with so many emails, calling me a whore, saying that Indians are useless, calling the restaurant staff racial slurs, and so on.

After I told him they said no the first time, he ordered again an hour later with a note, and the following exchange of emails ensues.

Customer: “Hi. Need free samosas or please cancel, thanks.”

Me: “You’re still not getting free samosas, and I’ve declined your order as requested.”

Customer: “Tell those rude, ignorant little f*****s that they don’t get many customers these days, so they should be f****** grateful! If not, I won’t order again, [slur] scum! And please deliver my message exactly like that.”

Me: “Hi, [Customer]. I absolutely will not be relaying your racist messages to them. In fact, I have sent out my whole flock of messenger pigeons to gather my army of Indian and Pakistani warriors, and tonight we shall feast on samosas in your honor. Have a great evening. [My Name].”

I deleted his account and told him not to contact us again. He was the first customer I’ve ever banned. Also, we’re in Thailand, so the owner of the restaurant is Thai and all of the staff are Thai and Burmese. Now, I’m just hoping that he posts a review somewhere so I can screenshot all of his racist bulls***.

About fifteen years ago, I was a computer consultant, travelling for work. I’d gotten to the customer site early, so I meandered into the DIY store next door. I had no idea what I wanted, so I just wandered around. As I wandered, I heard a throat clear behind me. I thought nothing more of it, but then a cut-glass English accent broke the quiet.

Customer: “I say, boy! Boy! Where do you keep your light bulbs?”

Quick as a flash, my brain let me down, and I heard my mouth leak:

Me: “Generally, in light fittings all over my house.”

This did not go down at all well.

Customer: *Poshly* “I’ll have your job for this, boy!”

Just then, my brain came back online.

Me: “I, err, don’t work here!”

Customer: “Well, boy, you should make that clear! Look at how you’re dressed!”

I did. The store uniform was a red sweatshirt, blue trousers, and work boots. I, by contrast, was wearing a sharp black suit, white shirt, and an iridescent purple tie. So very similar! I can only assume that the confusion was caused by my being mixed-race and therefore looking like a houseboy to her.

I politely excused myself and decided that I’d had enough excitement for one day. As I was heading back to my car, I overheard a despairing voice say:

Manager: “No, ma’am, I can’t fire him because he really doesn’t work here.”

When I’m thirteen, my family is on a trip together and we stop at a small village for lunch and some fresh air. My whole family is ethnically Chinese, and this whole village only has white people in it.

As we are strolling through town, my seventeen-year-old spots an old books shop and decides to take a look inside. I follow her in. As we enter, the bookshop owner looks up and just stares at us. He’s a bald old man that looks like the exact image of an “old, white academic.”

My cousin immediately spots a book she wants to read and pounces on it. I stand beside her and browse the bookshelf. It’s full of Nazi stuff, which my cousin is interested in. She does history in school and is really disappointed that finding surviving Nazi literature is difficult back home, so she is really excited to find their books, especially translated versions.

She reads it for five minutes or so before the bookshop owner comes up to us. He still hasn’t stopped staring.

Owner: “Are you enjoying that book, miss?”

Cousin: “Yes, I am. How much is it?”

Owner: “For you, sixteen pounds.”

My cousin nods and pulls out her wallet.

Owner: “Where are you from?”

Cousin: “Singapore.”

She passes him the bills, but when he takes them, he holds her hand for a very long time.

Owner: “Ah. China. It’s good that you’re learning a second language.”

Cousin: “Singapore isn’t in China. And English is my first language.”

Owner: “Of course.”

He is still holding her hand and staring right into her eyes. My cousin pulls her hands away, placing the money on a nearby table.

Cousin: “Uh, [My Name]. I think it’s time to go now.”

Me: “Okay.”

Owner: “No, please, stay. I’ve never met someone from China before.”

He reached out and tried to grab her as he said that. My cousin turned white as a sheet and batted his hand away with her book, grabbed my wrist with her other hand, and practically ran out of the shop.

There has to be some irony in a Chinese female using a Nazi book to defend herself against a racist creep, but at that point, we were too busy running for our lives to notice it.

We found my dad and aunt, and my cousin quickly filled them in and demanded that we get in the car and leave ASAP. My dad looked like he wanted to punch the bookshop owner’s teeth out, but my aunt had the car keys and overruled him, so we all piled in and hightail it out of there.

It was only an hour later that I realised that I was still holding the book I was reading before our hasty retreat, but my aunt and cousin were adamant that we were never stepping foot within a twenty-mile radius of that village ever again, so I wound up keeping the book.

And that’s how I stole my copy of “Mein Kampf.”

I am a white-passing femme-presenting person. It’s winter and it’s snowing, so I’m wearing a matching knit set of gloves, beanie, and scarf. Since my hair is kind of short, I like to make sure my neck is 100% protected from the cold wind by wrapping the scarf and tucking it against the lower edge of the hat firmly, leading to it vaguely looking like one long piece of knitwear.

Some old guy is standing in the middle of campus whining about democrats, Obamacare — which isn’t even available in this state at the time — and tuition, face as red as a toddler throwing a tantrum. He’s yelling at some very disinterested-looking young people who are unfortunately waiting for the bus and are thus a captive audience.

Man: “I don’t want to pay for your college! That’s your problem! It’s not fair to make me pay for your liberal arts degree! You need to pay me!”

I glance back at the sign for the dental school’s building, not twenty feet from him, which is very much not considered a liberal arts program

Me: “Sir, you’re disrupting anyone taking their pre-dental classes in that room. Please quiet down. No one cares what you think.”

Man: *Yelling* “AND WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU [ARABIC SLUR]?”

Me: “I’m a Native American. And I’m also paler than you. Maybe you should go back to your own country.”

He loses steam; he is clearly not used to being challenged by people half his size.

Man: “Uh, well! Well! The f*** do you call that dumb thing on your head?!”

I unwrap the scarf a little bit, speaking slowly to mock his intelligence.

Me: “This part is called a ‘scarf.’ The other part is a ‘hat.’”

The people waiting for the bus started laughing, causing this gigantic toddler to kick the pole for the bus sign in rage, then cuss in pain and limp away. Whenever I saw him harassing my fellow students after that, he’d put his tail between his legs and hurriedly leave like I was Satan himself.

I work in a fairly well-known bookstore chain in my country. I’m a fairly new hire, which means that I don’t have the authority to do some things, like ordering.

I’m standing behind the counter — not at the register because we only have one working and our manager is using it. A customer clears her throat loudly and I look up.

Me: “Sorry, ma’am, but this register doesn’t work. If you wait for a second, my manager can help you with your purchases.”

The manager is of Indian descent and very dark-skinned.

Customer: *Smiles nastily* “Oh, I was hoping you could help me, if you know what I mean.”

Me: *Gritting my teeth* “I can help you find something, sure, but this register doesn’t work. I can’t ring you out.”

Customer: “Oh, that’s okay. I need to find something.”

Me: “Sure, what did you need?”

Customer: “Oh, I want to know about a book in your catalogue.”

Me: “Sure! My coworker can help you with that.”

My coworker is also Indian.

Customer: *Sighs and taps her foot* “Can’t you help me?” *Brandishes a catalogue* “I want to order this book.”

Me: *Internally laughing* “I’m so sorry, but I don’t have the authority to do that. Let me get you my manager.”

I motion as if I’m going to get my manager, literally two meters away, but before I can, the customer huffs and storms out of the shop.

Me: *Under my breath* “And stay out.”