(I have been standing in line at the post office for just over an hour, waiting to get a parcel posted. The post office cashier is Indian; she speaks English very well but has a slight accent. Two teenage girls are standing at the front of the queue, gossiping away.)

Cashier: *to the teen girls* “Hello, can I help you today?”

Girl #1: *scoffing* “Why else would I be here?”

Girl #2: *whispering to [Girl #1], loudly enough for everyone to hear* “I can barely understand her. Why do they even hire their kind, anyway?”

Cashier: *visibly upset, but continues to try to do her job* “What would you like to send today?”

Girl #1: *speaking loudly and slowly to the cashier* “I… need… this… box… to… go… to… dis… place. You… read… no?”

Cashier: *trying to ignore their rudeness* “Please place it on the scale.”

Girl #2: “No… you… take… box… you… curry… eater.”

(This exchange goes on for a while, with the cashier asking them to put the parcel on the scale and them refusing point-blank, talking to her in the insulting slow tone. I have finally had enough. Stepping forward, I mimic the girls’ tone of voice.)

Me: “No… she… wants… you… to… put… box… on… metal… thing.”

Girl #1: “Why are you talking to us like that, b****?”

Me: “Oh, sorry, just from the way you were talking, I thought you might be a bit slow.”

Girl #2: “No, the cashier is the stupid one!” *stomping her feet like a child*

Me: *patronisingly* “Yes, yes, okay, sweetie. Put your box on the scale now.” *she puts it on the scale with me watching over* “Aww, who’s a big girl? Now pay the nice lady, apologize, and walk out.”

(The girls do as I say, beet red at being confronted, and finally, they leave.)

Cashier: “Thank you. They always come in here to harass me.”

(Apparently, they never returned to harass the woman again.)

Me: “Hello, this is [My Name] at [Grooming Salon]. How can I help you?”

Caller: “I need Cupcake!”

Me: “One second, sir, let me see if Cupcake is ready to go home.”

(I look, but there is no Cupcake in the checkout file, the computer system, or the appointment book. Since many people have nicknames for their dogs, I ask for his last name.)

Me: “What is your last name, sir?”

Caller: “It’s [Caller].”

(I recheck but I can’t find anything.)

Me: “Sir, I’m really sorry. Perhaps Cupcake went to a different grooming salon?”

Caller: “NO! I don’t need my dog groomed! I don’t even have a dog! I just know that everyone who grooms is a lady! You belong in the kitchen! Make me a cupcake now!”

Me: “I think that [Grocery Store] sells cupcakes… Have a great day!”

(I’m waiting tables in the cocktail area of a chain restaurant. This area is first-come-first-serve even with the one-hour wait currently at the door for the main dining room. I walk up and greet a couple that just sat at a table. I have seen them occasionally before.)

Male Diner: “We’re in a hurry.”

Me: “Okay, well, since we are busy you will want to order something fast like—” *rattles off the fastest items to make*

Male Diner: “What do you mean, you’re busy?”

Me: “Well, you just walked by the hour-wait at the door, right?”

Male Diner: “Whatever. Maybe if you hired some real cooks instead of those [racial slurs] you have in the kitchen, you could handle it.”

(My jaw drops and I just stare for a beat. I turn around and walk away shaking mad, as I’m close with my cooks and know how much harder they work than most of the people I have ever known. I walk up to my general manager who knows I pride myself on handling any situation.)

Me: “I won’t wait on that table. I mean it, I won’t wait on them. I’ll be out back.”

(I walk out to compose myself. I come back a minute later and the bartender is waiting on them. I ignore them and continue taking care of the rest of my customers. Just before they leave, I decide I can’t keep my mouth shut.)

Me: *coming close and speaking low* “That was pretty brave. I made sure those [racial slurs] knew that that was your food.”

(This was a lie, but I was willing to risk them telling the story to try and get me in trouble and to see the color drain from his face. His wife never said a word through the whole thing. On the plus side, I never saw them again.)

(My dad and I are waiting in line at the checkout of a local grocer. There’s one young woman in her early thirties ahead of us who has been complaining the entire time. The cashier — a young boy no older than seventeen — is doing his best to process her as quickly as possible. To the poor kid’s dismay, the woman starts screaming at him about being too slow. Just a note, I’m a feminist but have zero tolerance for sexism on either side.)

Customer: “You men are all alike! I bet you’re just keeping me here so long because I’m a woman! You think I’m buying these groceries just to get home to my family and cook for them! Well, I’ll have you know I have my husband cook! Let the useless man do something for once!”

Cashier: “I’m sorry you feel that way, ma’am. I think you should know, however, I do not think bad of you–”

Customer: “SHUT UP! YOU USELESS PIECE OF S***! I’LL HAVE YOU FIRED! YOU DON’T TALK; YOU’RE JUST THE STUPID CASH BOY! I’M THE CUSTOMER!”

Cashier: “Ma’am–”

Customer: “I’M A FEMINIST! I’LL HAVE YOU FIRED, YOU BIGOT! NOW HURRY UP, YOU F****** C*** B****!”

(I’ve had enough and step in. I’m six feet tall and I tower a good foot over this lady.)

Me: *to my dad, loud enough for the whole line to hear* “Wow, bigot alert!”

Customer: *whipping around to glare at me* “I’M NOT A BIGOT! HE’S THE BIGOT! GOOD FOR NOTHING MEN!”

(My dad rolls his eyes, figuring it would be best not to step into an argument between me and this woman.)

Me: “Did I say, ‘bigot’? I meant ‘misandrist.’”

Customer: *scoffing as if I’m stupid* “It’s pronounced ‘misogynist’! And how could you turn on your own gender?! Women are supposed to support each other!”

Me: *as sweetly as I can* “Oh, I’m sorry, the discrimination card is two-sided.”

(She turned red and turned around and walked out without her groceries. We heard her storm out of the parking lot. I apologized to the cashier and gave him a tip. A couple of days later, he told me that the woman tried to return to buy the groceries she had left behind. She blew up when she found that they’d been put back on the shelves, and she had to be escorted out when she found out she was banned from the chain! Sweet justice!)

(I’ve just finished ringing up a woman who has otherwise been quiet.)

Me: “Okay, you’re all set. Thank you!”

Woman: “Thanks. Oh, do you know any nail salons run by white people?”

Me: “I… no?”

Woman: *shaking her head* “There’s one down the hall, but I don’t want my nails done by foreigners who believe in Buddha. Oh, well. Thanks, anyway!”

(Setting aside how shocked — and baffled — I was by her attitude, I have to wonder how she thought someone with uneven nails and chipped polish in mismatched colors would even know where a nail salon is outside the area they work in. When I told her about it, my manager said the only salon she knows of run by white people is in an extremely shady part of town.)