My family went on a vacation to a famous city in Italy during spring last year. During the trip, we visited a small local souvenir shop selling glass pieces. The store was empty with only the owner working. That should have been a hint since the two stores beside them (which also sold glass pieces) had other customers.

My father and I were both carrying backpacks on our backs. My mother and I walked into the store first to “ooh” and “aah” over the beautiful pieces. My father was about to enter, and we noticed that he was stopped by the owner, and then he started to carry his backpack with his hands.

Me: “What happened?”

Father: “There’s a sign on the door asking people with backpacks to carry their backpacks in their hands.”

I looked back and saw the sign… as well as the owner, who hadn’t returned to her cashier desk but was standing quite close to us with an annoyed expression and staring in our direction.

I quickly smiled, apologized, and started carrying my backpack with my hands.

But she still stood there and stared at us like a hawk. We moved to the back of the store, and every time I looked back, she was about two meters away from us and just staring with an annoyed look. She didn’t greet us, offer us help, or organize the stock. The whole time, she also never said a word to us.

My father excused himself and left the store, but the owner was still staring at my mother and me. Then, another woman and a man walked into the store. The man was carrying a backpack on his back. The owner looked at them briefly and then continued to stare at us. My mother quickly suggested we leave, so we did.

We talked afterward and concluded that the owner was probably treating us like thieves. The difference in treatment was weird. But my mother suggested that it might have been that we were Asian and the owner had recently been stolen from and the thief just so happened to be Asian, too.

We just shrugged it off and went to another store, where the owner was very friendly, and we got the products we wanted to gift and keep for ourselves.

But to be honest, treating your customers like thieves is an extremely bad way to do business.

As any clothes shopper will know, sizes can change dramatically between brands. This can be frustrating to certain types of shoppers who equate their self-worth to their clothing size.

A woman storms up to my counter near the changing rooms.

Customer: “Your clothes are all wrong!”

Me: “What do you mean, ma’am?”

Customer: “I just tried these on and they’re too tight, but they’re a size four!”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, our sizing can—”

Customer: “Look at me! I’m a two at most! Probably even a zero!”

Me: “Well, we don’t do size zero here, ma’am.”

Customer: “What are you going to do about this?”

Me: “Well, sizing can change between brands, so if you tried one size up maybe you’d—”

Customer: “Excuse me? Did you just call me fat?”

Me: *Internal sigh* “No, ma’am.”

Customer: “Good! Because you’re the fat cow here, not me!”

At this point, I call my manager over because I am not dealing with this kind of evil on minimum wage.

Manager: “Can I help you, ma’am?”

Customer: “Your oversized beached whale over there called me fat! Me! I am clearly a size zero!”

My manager looks over at me questioningly.

Me: “I suggested she try a size bigger if the clothes she’s tried on are too tight.”

Manager: *Back to the customer* “How is that practical suggestion an excuse to shout and call my staff names?”

Customer: “Practical? It’s an insult! I stay thin to look amazing, and your stupid clothes are undoing all my effort!”

Manager: “Ma’am, sizing can be complicated. People can look amazing in any size of clothing, and our range reflects that. Your opinion on what size you think looks good on you doesn’t give you the right to be unkind to my staff.”

Customer: “It’s not my opinion! It’s a fact.” 

Manager: “No, ma’am, it’s not.”

Customer: “Whatever. I look amazing, and that’s a fact. You’re all a bunch of worthless fat people, and that’s a fact, too!”

Manager: “Actually, that’s an opinion, and that’s your opinion. My opinion is that you’re the ugliest person I have ever met. What is a fact is that you’re banned from this store and no longer welcome.”

She cusses up a storm but does finally leave. My manager asks me if I’m okay and I say I am. 

Manager: “Don’t worry about her. She’s just cranky because we’re capable of being happy in our skin and she’s jealous.”

I’ve been a substitute teacher at the same school for about ten years, and I’m one of the favorite subs the district has according to most of the kids. One day, I’m assigned to a class that has two identical twin brothers. I’ve known them for a few years, but despite my best efforts, I simply cannot tell them apart unless they are literally shoulder-to-shoulder in front of me. The twins are Black, and I am white.

We’re between classes when the kids have a few minutes to go to the bathroom or grab something from their locker. I’m standing out in the hallway when [Twin #1] approaches me.

Twin #1: “Hey, Mr. [My Name], can I please go to the bathroom before class?”

Me: “Yes, you may. Which one are you?”

[Twin #1] starts to answer, but then I hear a woman’s voice just behind me.

Woman: “Excuse me? What did you just ask him?”

I turn around and see a middle-aged woman I’ve never met before, at school or anywhere else. She is white, like me. Before [Twin #1] or I can say a word, she continues.

Woman: “Are you racist? Do all African American children look the same to you, so you need to ask ‘which one’ is speaking to you? I may have a word with the school principal about this.”

Just then, [Twin #2] comes out of my classroom and stands next to his brother. The woman splutters a bit and goes beet-red.

Me: “In this case, yes. I have a bit of trouble telling [Twin #1] and [Twin #2] apart. Most people in school do, and it has nothing to do with their race or ethnicity. Can I ask who you are?”

The woman refused to answer, turned on her heel, and started walking toward the office. I gave both twins permission to go to the bathroom and then asked a different teacher who I knew was on their free hour if they could please cover my class for a few minutes. The teacher agreed after I gave a hasty explanation, and I followed the woman to the office to make sure I could defend myself against any accusations she might make.

The woman turned out to be a brand-new substitute teacher, and she did try making a few accusations against me — racism toward Black students, verbal abuse against her, etc. The principal — whom I’ve known for many years, even before I started substitute teaching — didn’t buy a word of it after hearing my side of the story. The woman was invited to rethink her decision to become a substitute teacher and to either learn to figure out the facts before jumping to conclusions or find a different career.

I returned to class and got a high-five from both twins. We still sometimes joke about it whenever I have to ask “which one” of them I’m talking to.

I am a waiter at a restaurant, and I am currently transitioning (female to male). The vast majority of customers don’t notice or don’t care, but of those that do…

Customer: “Are you one of those… those he-shes?”

Me: “I identify as transgender if that’s what you’re asking.”

Customer: “I do not want to be served by someone who is mentally ill! Get me another server.”

When this happens, I have been advised to call my manager over, so I do. Usually, I run a tight ship, so when my manager comes over for me, he knows it’s most likely the bigotry thing. I’m in my early twenties and my manager is in his late twenties.

Manager: “How can I help you, ma’am?”

Customer: “I do not want to be served by someone who is mentally ill.”

Manager: “As far as I am aware, all of our staff are mentally fit enough to work here.”

Customer: “A person who thinks they can choose their own gender and then mutilate their God-given body to try to make it fit isn’t right in the head. I don’t want them dripping their… hormones all over my food!”

Manager: “Ma’am… you think… you think being transgender is something you can catch?!“

Customer: “I’ve made my request. Will you honor it?”

Manager: “I will not move my staff around to cater to your outdated and, quite frankly, vile ideas, ma’am.”

Customer: “Your generation invented this! We didn’t have all this trans stuff when I was younger!”

Manager: “You did, but they were all miserable. Now they get the chance to be happy, but it’s making you miserable. They didn’t have a choice to be miserable, yet you’re choosing it, and you say they’re the mentally ill ones?”

Thankfully, the customer broke down into Biblical rhetoric and escorted themselves out. I hope they’re happy choosing to be miserable elsewhere…

After many years of dating, my boyfriend and I decided to move in together. One thing I was super excited about was being able to cook for him. I grew up eating different recipes from around the world, and before my father died, he was able to teach me many different recipes.

One week after we moved in together, I had the day off and my boyfriend didn’t, so I decided to surprise him and cook for him. I was able to make a Caribbean/Mexican fusion bowl for him with jerk shrimp and mango, sautéed vegetables, and homemade guacamole over Spanish rice. Then, to my surprise, my boyfriend came home with a container of food his mother had made us. (She lives across the street.)

Don’t get me wrong; I was happy she was thinking about us, but his mom can’t cook. Her opinion of cooking is mashing everything together and boiling it or frying it until it is dark brown. Nonetheless, we put my bowls in the fridge and ate what his mom had made. We had the bowls for breakfast the next day.

After that, whenever my boyfriend had work, I would try to cook something nice for him: Gumbo, Korean rice dogs, Sushi, mocco locco, honey-glazed salmon, etc. No matter what, he would always come home with containers of food from his mother, and whatever I made would be stored away until the next morning.

One day, my boyfriend was working a closing shift, so I decided to try one last time. If he went to his mother’s to get more food, I would eat my food for dinner that day and would stop cooking dinner for him for a month. While I was simmering the food on the stove, there was a knock on my door. I opened it, and to my surprise, it was my boyfriend’s mother with thirteen frozen pizzas.

Mother: “Is [Boyfriend] home? I texted him asking him to come over after work, but he never came.”

Me: “Oh! He’s working a closer. I’m just making some dinner.”

His mother went over and inspected what I was making.

Mother: “What is that?”

Me: “Rogan josh.”

(Editor’s note: rogan josh is a curry dish originating in India.)

Mother: “Good thing I brought these; I don’t think my son should eat stuff like Rohan Seth.”

I stared at her, open-mouthed, and then went back to making sure it didn’t burn. [Mother] opened the freezer to put the pizzas away, lecturing me about how I should stop trying to poison her son with “gross ethnic food”. I angrily glared, but I had an idea. The food was done, so I grabbed a container and went to pour the food into it.

Mother: “What are you doing?”

Me: “Every day I try to cook for my boyfriend, you insist on him eating your food, and my food is never even tasted first, so I may as well give this to his father. I’m sure he’ll enjoy it, and it’ll actually get eaten fresh.”

[Mother] gave me a look of rage as I offered her a spoonful. She took a bite, went, “Hmph,” and left, taking the pizzas with her.

Later that night, when my boyfriend came home, we discussed what had happened. He wasn’t thrilled; he said his mother had apparently told him I would appreciate not having to cook for him, and that’s why he kept bringing home her food, and we actually ate the food the day it was cooked.

His mother sometimes drops off frozen food, but it goes into the freezer for days we both work late. Otherwise, he now says, “No, thank you.”