(There are two guys sitting at a table near me. They’re loud enough that I understand they’re talking in a foreign language but are still at a decent volume. A woman is sending them death glares from her seat. After draining her coffee, she walks by them, forcefully bumping [Guy #1]’s shoulder with her hip. I’m witnessing the exchange between all three.)

Guy #1: *in English* “Excuse me, ma’am, do you need something?”

Lady: *in a condescending tone* “Oh, just some common decency for you to speak English here. Seems you know it well enough. Good for you.”

(She walks towards the exit, acting like she just put the poor guys in their place.)

Guy #2: *also in English* “Do you mean we need to speak English in a country with no official language? Wow, you sure showed us.”

Lady: *whipping her head towards [Guy #2]* “You don’t get to talk to me like that, you f****** immigrant!”

Guy #2: “My brother and I grew up here, hence our local accent. But because you heard us speaking in a different language, we’re automatically immigrants? Where’s the logic in that?”

Lady: “Well, obviously–”

Guy #1: “What’s obvious is that you’re mad you couldn’t eavesdrop on our conversation. You know, the conversation only between us and no one else. You don’t think we noticed your glare the whole time?”

(The woman, as a mature human being, simply flipped them off and stormed out of the cafe. The brothers resumed talking in their own language.)

(My husband and I have the same, gender-neutral, first name; however, mine is spelled in a more feminine way. His family is EXTREMELY traditional Southern while my husband and I are more progressive. We decided early on that we would not take each other’s last names as it would be too confusing, and if we have any children, their last name will be hyphenated. This story occurs while I am six months pregnant with our first child, visiting his extended family in Mississippi. His aunt is asking us about names for the baby and we tell her a few of our ideas.)

Aunt: “Hmm… [First Name] [Husband’s Last Name] sounds really good! I like that a lot!”

Husband: “Actually, it would be [My Last Name]-[His Last Name].”

Aunt: “Well, why would it be like that? That seems silly to have her dead name on the baby!”

Me: “Um, my dead name? You realize I didn’t change my last name, right? Also, I’m putting in over half of the work on this kid; there is no reason why he shouldn’t have my last name. And it is extremely rude to call my maiden name my ‘dead name.’”

Mother-In-Law: “YOU DIDN’T CHANGE YOUR LAST NAME?! DO YOU NOT LOVE YOUR HUSBAND? When we get back, I’ll find the paperwork to get your name changed.”

Me: “No, I didn’t, and yes, I clearly love him. However, logistically, it did not make sense for me to change my name. And no, you don’t need to do that, because I am not changing my name.”

Aunt: “Regardless of your ‘feelings,’ it is disrespectful to his family if you choose to completely disregard our name! It is the one thing we have keeping us together!”

Me: “If your name is the ‘only thing you have keeping you together,’ that is your problem, not mine. Besides, this is our decision, and it does not mean that we love each other any less.”

Aunt: “Well, fine. But I’ll have you know that kids with hyphenated last names grow up to be drug dealers and in jail! You should be arrested for child abuse for putting your child at risk like that!”

Husband: “Aaaand now we are leaving. Until you can get past whatever this is, you will not be seeing our child.”

(Three years later, the aunt has still never met our child and still refuses to speak to me or my husband. She sends my mother-in-law links on how to change a baby’s name about once a month.)

(I am a young woman in my early twenties. The theatre company I’m a part of builds its stage every year for its productions, and everyone is expected to help out. Some cast and crew members even bring their families to help. I’ve helped with all sorts of renovations and builds throughout my whole life, and a few stage builds, so I’m not green to this sort of labour. However, there still remains the stigma that pretty girls who can sing and dance don’t or shouldn’t know a lick about construction. I pick up a drill and the father to one of our younger actors comes up to me, smiling smugly.)

Smug Man: “Miss, do you even know how to use that thing?”

Me: “I can show you where I can put it.”

(That seemed to scare him off for a while. Later, I am helping an older relative to one of our company members disassemble some older pieces from years prior. He is holding the pieces in place while I use my drill to take out the screws. One screw is particularly stripped, but before I can suggest some methods I know to taking out stripped screws, guess who strolls up?)

Smug Man: “See, you have no idea what you’re even doing.”

Me: “Fine. Good luck a**hole.”

(Sick of him, I shove the drill into his hands before stomping off. About an hour later, the nice man who I was helping comes up to me.)

Nice Man: “I have to talk with you about something.”

(The theatre company has a strict policy on cursing, so I think it’s about the comment I gave earlier.)

Me: “If it’s about that other guy, I was just sick of him and–“

Nice Man: “Yeah, me, too. You shouldn’t have left. He stripped the rest of them bald. He makes a terrible foreman, and even worse of a worker. We need more gals like you helping out.”

(His kind comments helped me get through the rest of the day. Though the jerks are rare, all the kind people — men and women — who support and work with each other make it worth it.)

(I work for a first-tier supplier for a major automotive manufacturing plant. I was born in Korea and immigrated to America when I was eight years old, so I can speak Korean and English. As my parents are both Korean, I look unmistakably Asian. After pulling a long shift, I am exhausted. I stop by a fast food place to eat. After I am done with my meal, I stand in the parking lot to smoke before driving home. I notice two ladies coming out of the store with a to-go order. They walk right past me. Then, one of the ladies stops and turns to me while the other lady opens her car door.)

Lady #1: “Excuse me… Do you work at [My Company]?”

(I must look confused as to how she knows where I work, but then I realize that I am still wearing my company shirt with the name on it. She repeats the question.)

Lady #1: *pointing at my shirt* “Do you work at [My Company]?”

(I don’t mean to be rude but I am too tired, and my response comes in the form of me shrugging my shoulders. The lady pauses for a second.)

Lady #1: “What’s the average pay for working there?”

(Of course, this depends on the position, experience, and station that you work… but I don’t feel like explaining all that so, once again, bested by my compounding lethargy, my answer is a shoulder shrug for “it depends” or “I don’t know.” The lady stares at me for a second.)

Lady #1: “Are you guys hiring right now?”

(Again, this depends on the position she is looking for. And since I am not in the Human Resources department, I don’t know that answer, anyway, so I shrug again. The other lady, who’s been watching our interaction, walks back to [Lady #1] and grabs her arm.)

Lady #2: “C’mon, [Lady #1]… why you botherin’? You know this [Asian slur] can’t speak no English.”

(Before I even have time to process this comment thoroughly, I respond almost as a reflex.)

Me: “’Can’t speak no English’ is a double negative; it cancels itself out.”

([Lady #1 and #2] look shocked for a second, hearing my first words spoken. [Lady #2] stares at me and says:)

Lady #2: “What?”

(I took a last drag from my cigarette and shrugged my shoulders. They were still standing there talking to each other about the meaning of my one verbal comment when I pulled out of that parking lot.)

(I work at a sex shop in Israel. In Israel, the word “gay” as a synonym to “homosexual” hasn’t sunk in among the elderly. An elderly customer walks in looking for a DVD. I see he has picked up a gay film.)

Me: “Erm, sir, this is a gay film.”

Elderly Customer: “What’s a gay film?”

Me: “Homosexuals, you know.”

Elderly Customer: “Well, I’ll give it a shot.”

Me: “Are you sure, sir?”

(He starts to get agitated.)

Elderly Customer: “Sure! I know what I like! You think you know me better than me?!”

Me: “All right, sir, whatever you’d like.”

(The next day, I see him again.)

Elderly Customer: “What the f*** is wrong with this film? There are only men in it!”

(How he missed that, considering the very detailed cover, is beyond me.)