I’m delivering a pizza during our last hour of operation one night, approaching midnight. I have one other driver working with me and an assistant manager who rarely delivers. I’m a white male, and my assistant manager is a Japanese-American male.

I go out on one final delivery. An elderly man, who could very easily be a World War II veteran, answers his door.

Me: “Good evening, sir. I have your [toppings] pizza here. That will be $15.67.”

Customer: “Thank God it’s you!”

I’m confused; the customer continues.

Customer: “I usually get one of those [Hispanic slur]s or [Asian slur]s delivering. I can’t understand a word they’re saying, and I suspect they’re ripping me off for the change.”

That’s unlikely since the price is printed on a sticker on the box.

Me: *Uncomfortably* “Umm… so, that’s $15.67.”

I point at the price, just in case.

Customer: “Here’s $20. Keep the change!”

I drive back to the store and talk to my assistant manager.

Me: “Jeez, you wouldn’t believe the racist crap I had to listen to with this last delivery. At least he tipped well; I just had to grin and bear it.”

Assistant Manager: “What’d he say?”

Me: “He was glad I wasn’t a ‘[Hispanic slur]’ or a ‘[Asian slur].’ He was afraid, if I was, that I wouldn’t give him the correct change.”

Assistant Manager: *Brightly* “Oh! Do you have his phone number?”

Me: *Showing the number* “Here. What’re you going to do?”

Assistant Manager: “I’m making a notation on his account. If he orders again, I’ll make sure I’m the one delivering.”

My assistant manager then stretches the corners of his eyes.

Assistant Manager: *In a mock accent* “I’m sorry, sir. I canna read box. What is price?”

I don’t know if he ever got the chance to meet the customer, but I hope so!

I work for a call center for a satellite TV company that is well known for lackluster customer service. A customer calls with an issue that can only be solved by an onsite technician. The soonest appointment is three weeks out. It should be noted that I am gay and do have a slight stereotypical inflection to my voice.

Me: “The soonest appointment is on [date].”

Customer: “Can’t you get me anything sooner? It’s an emergency!”

All our customers think their issues are an emergency.

Me: “I’m really sorry, but that is the earliest available appointment.”

Customer: “Useless [gay slur]!”

Me: “You say, ‘[gay slur],’ like it’s a bad thing.”

Customer: “F*** you!” *Hangs up*

My supervisor, who had been monitoring the call, laughed so hard!

I did get a note in my file, basically telling me that I’m not supposed to use that slur — or any others — just to avoid any issues if a higher supervisor monitors that same call. However, my immediate supervisor found the whole thing hilarious.

My mother-in-law is one of the top servers at one of the top chains of semi-luxurious restaurants. A lot of the people that go there are well-enough off that they think they’re untouchable and can get away with anything.

In comes this table who decides their server is just a little too black. They take it upon themselves to let the poor young man know just how much his blackness bothered them before demanding a new server. The server goes to the back and (like everyone else who’s ever worked in a restaurant) starts venting on his way to a manager.

My mother-in-law, a petite, blonde-haired, green-eyed white lady, hears this and walks behind the kid to let the manager know that she’ll be taking the table.

And so she does, with her manager off to the side watching. She goes out there, gives them her best smile and friendliest greetings.

Mother-In-Law: “Have you been here before?

Customer: “Yes and we’ll just be ordering our favorite dishes.”

Mother-In-Law: “Okay.”

She waits for them to order, but doesn’t write anything down. One of the well-off ladies notices.

Other Customer: “Do you have a really good memory?”

Mother-In-Law: “I don’t need to write your order because I won’t be putting it in. I just wanted to show you how a decent human being is supposed to treat others, even when they don’t like the other person.”

With that, she turned around to walk away. They stop her to demand the big boss in the building, to which she responded by pointing out her manager: the biggest angry-looking black man wearing a suit that day.

The table got up and left without a word.

Related:
Racism Is Not On The Menu

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I work in a military-affiliated credit union call center as a level-two service rep. I have an accent, but I’m an American, born and raised, originally from the Midwest.

Me: “Thank you for calling credit union, my name is [My Name]. May I have your first and last name please?”

Caller: “Where are you?

I already know where this is going.

Me: “[Location], ma’am.”

Caller: “What’s the capital of Texas?”

Me: “Austin.”

Caller: “What are your [phone cuts out for a second] lobby hours?”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am. What location were you asking for the lobby hours of?”

I’m not a branch rep, so I want to clarify which branch she is asking for. Of course, she makes the assumption I don’t understand English well.

Caller: “What’s the capital of Virginia?”

Me: “…ma’am, I have no idea. I was born and raised in [Midwestern city]. Capital is St. Louis.”

I screwed up on the capital because 1. I was pissed, and 2. I forget Jeff City is even a thing most of the time.

Caller: “I don’t have much confidence in you, [My Name]. Can I speak to someone else?”

Me: Eye twitching. “…sure, ma’am. Hold on the line for a moment while I grab a coworker.”

She disconnected while on hold. I made sure to remark about her attitude and behavior in a professional manner, then take a few minutes of personal time.

That pissed me off. My accent is a result of legit brain damage. I have wonderful coworkers that are actually from foreign countries, all Americans, and somewhere in one of our US service centers. Even if we had outsourced service centers, who gives a d***?

I’m mixed race but am light enough that I pass for white. One of our regulars comes in, and I chat with him about this and that while I process his transaction.

Regular: “I went to one of your locations in [City] over the weekend.”

Me: “Oh, did you? Which one?”

Regular: “I believe it’s off [Major Road].”

Me: “Great choice. I have a few friends who work there.”

Regular: “There was a Negro girl working. I didn’t know they could. Know what I mean?”

He’s chuckling like it’s some great joke. I stare at him for several seconds with a shocked expression on my face.

Me: “No, [Regular], I don’t know what you mean.”

He attempted to explain, but I shut down my station, calmly walked into the back office, closed the door, and stayed back there until he left, grumbling.