My ex-husband is anti-trans. Apart from generally being a nasty person, his intolerance of anyone “other” is one of the reasons we are no longer together.

We don’t speak much, but we do have a little boy together.

Whilst our child is very active and likes toys that people generally associate with boys, he has a love of all things My Little Pony. He also does ballet, gymnastics, and karate. This is all by his choice. 

My ex isn’t really involved in any of the after-school clubs, though he does like to rant and rave about our son doing “girly” activities. I ignore him. It makes our child happy, so I don’t care.

One day, our child has a ballet recital after school, outside of his normal timetable and on one of my ex’s visit days. I ask my ex to take our son and he agrees very begrudgingly.

The next day, my ex drops off our child and hands me a Barbie in a firefighter outfit. He says nothing, and just walks away.

I ask our child what happened and why we now have a firefighter Barbie. My child explains that his father took him to the toy shop after the recital. My ex proceeded to offer him Legos, cars, and a vast array of toys that he deemed acceptable. My son wanted a firefighter to go with his fire engine, as he had lost the figure that came included.

The only firefighter doll in the shop was a Barbie.

My ex apparently went nuts, ranting and raving about our son becoming one of “those.” My son wasn’t scared, just confused. I asked if that was why Daddy was in a bad mood when he came to the door.

My son replied, “No, Mummy, it’s because the nice lady at the shop called daddy a bigot.”

(I just found out that my fiancé of five years has been cheating on me for three of those years. To be safe, I make an appointment to have a full STI panel done. The only appointment I can get is with the physician’s assistant and not my usual doctor.)

PA: “Okay, dear, I’m just going to give you the swab and let you take the sample.” 

Me: “You aren’t going to do it? I don’t know what to do.”

(She explains how to take a culture and leaves the room to give me privacy. When I finish, she collects the swab and begins to leave again.)

PA: “Okay, we should get results in about a week and we’ll call you.”

Me: “Aren’t you going to take my blood, as well, for HIV and syphilis testing?”

PA: *laughs* “Oh, you only have to worry about that if you’re gay.”

Me: “You know what, I’ll just go and make an appointment with the actual doctor.” 

(That was the second issue I had with her, and the last time I ever saw her working there.)

(To set the scene, it is important to know that while I am fair-skinned, my maternal grandmother is Hawai’ian and Portuguese. I am the ONLY person in my family who even remotely looks Caucasian. As a result of this strange background, I have a good handle on rudimentary Portuguese. I am at work in my own classroom during my planning period, making a quick phone call to my grandmother who lives in another state. A coworker I don’t really know comes in. It’s also important to know my grandfather was half-Caucasian. I tell my grandmother that I need to go and will call her later, in Portuguese.)

Coworker: “What the h*** is that?”

(I tell my grandmother in Portuguese that I love her and end by calling her Avo, my pet name for her, which means “grandmother,” to my knowledge.)  

Coworker: “What was that?! Don’t you know English? What kind of [Hispanic slur] language is that?!”

Me: “My grandmother prefers to use Portuguese with me on the phone. It’s kind of how we preserve a little piece of her mother. Anyway, what did you need?”

Coworker: “You speak that [Hispanic slur] language on purpose? I don’t know if I want to ask someone who doesn’t know to use English in public for help!”

Me: “I clearly know English, [Coworker]. My family isn’t largely Caucasian. Didn’t you know that?”

Coworker: “Oh. So, you’re like, mixed?”

Me: “Sure, why not. What. Did. You. Need?” 

(I just want them gone.)

Coworker: “Oh, I wanted to know if you could help me with this history class I have to take for my degree. I need to write a paper on Pearl Harbor. [Department Chair] said you were the person to ask about where to get good sources.”

Me: “Sure, I can give you a list. I’m kind of confused, though. Why are you having trouble finding things?”

Coworker: “I keep seeing f****** [Hispanic slur] in the pictures and these weird-a** long names with vowels. Why were we so hung up on a place with no white people?! I mean, it looks like it was in Mexico!”

Me: *head-desks*

(I work in a home improvement store in Canada. After speaking with a customer for a while, the conversation turns a little prejudiced.)

Customer: “Too many of them coming up from the south.”

Me: “The south? You mean, the States?”

Customer: “No, I mean from Mexico.”

Me: “Oh…”

Customer: “But you’re all right.”

Me: “How do you mean?”

Customer: “Well, you’re Mexican, aren’t ya?”

(I am of Irish, Scottish, and Norwegian descent and am obviously white in complexion. Also, my family has been in Canada since Colonization.)

Me: “Uh, no.”

Customer: “Sure you are.”

Me: “Nope.”

Customer: “Well, you’re from somewhere down south. You’re not Canadian!”

Me: “Sir, I’m from Barrie, Ontario.” *a city two hours NORTH of this location* “You can’t get more Canadian than that.”

(The customer scoffed and waved me off like I’d just told him the Moon was made of cheese, and found a more “Canadian” employee.)

Customer: *picking up a beautiful Zulu basket made of telephone wire* “Oh, I love the rainbow pattern in this one! But y’know, it’s too bad they took the rainbow and made it into something it wasn’t supposed to mean.”

Me: “…”