(For a time, my father decided he was going to join a particular religion. During that time, he would have some fellows from church that would come over and talk about lessons with him. I have never been religious and after going to his church only once I decided never to go back again due to the men being extremely sexist. They refused to acknowledge my existence because I wore dress slacks to their church and they felt that women should only wear dresses or skirts. One day the church fellows come to the house shortly before I wake up. I wore a tank top and shorts to sleep.)

Me: *wanders into kitchen, groggy, searching for breakfast*

Fellow #1: “Please do not wander about so scandalously dressed!”

Me: *freezes and slowly turns to stare at the three men at the table, not having realized they were there* “I’m in my own house, I just woke up, and you have the audacity to tell me how I should dress in my own house?”

Fellow #2: “Women should not walk around so carelessly dressed! Showing off so much skin is sinful and tempting behavior.”

(This is not the first time these same ones have come at me for my dress. They almost always said something rude about my “daring to wear pants” or “showing off my shoulders.” I have finally had enough.)

Me: “If it was up to me, you would never set foot in this house. I tolerate it because it’s my dad’s choice to practice your faith. Back off.”

Fellow #1: “A woman has no right to tell a man what he can or can’t do in another man’s house!”

Me: “I can tell you whatever the f*** I want. I do not believe in your religion, which I feel is pretty horribly sexist. Now, leave me the f*** alone so I can eat my breakfast.”

Fellow #1: *to my father* “Your daughter is very rude, and you should discipline her for speaking in such a manner in front of men!”

Me: *poking my head out of the kitchen where I went to fix a bagel* “You lay a finger on me and I will break your arm.”

Fellow #2: “Did that girl just threaten her own father?! What blasphemy!” *to my father* “It is your right to punish her for acting so shamefully!”

Me: *storming into the room, slamming my hands on the table, and leaning close to their faces* “I will do it. I don’t make threats. I don’t take s***. I am my own person and I’ll be d***ed before I ever let some man try and act like I am property! I know that you just urged my father to beat me, and I would never let him or any man lay a hand on me! I am not like other meek women who will just do as told because ‘you’re a man.’ Before he found your religion, my father raised me to think for myself and to never let a man rule me or my life. That’s how I was raised, and that’s the father I will listen to, not the man your religion is making him if he thinks anything like you!”

(I grabbed my bagel and went back to my room, leaving them in stunned silence. My dad, who had been quiet through the whole thing, later asked me not to come out when they were around. The next time those same church fellows came to the house, they asked my dad if he had properly punished “the shameful one.” My dad slammed the door in their faces after telling them he would never tolerate someone speaking of his daughter that way. He came and thanked me, because he realized he was changing due to that outburst, and hugged me. It made him realize he was becoming the very thing he always warned me about. He never went back to their church again.)

(I am a Canadian visiting family in Alabama. I am at a mall with my aunt, but we have separated for a bit for some personal shopping time. I am in line to pay behind a white-haired white woman who is behind a younger African-American woman. I am kind of in my own world until I notice how hunched the African-American woman’s shoulders are as she steadfastly keeps her back to us as she unloads her cart. Then, I notice what the white woman in front of me is saying, and hoo boy, is it racist. I plonk my shopping basket down where I am standing and storm around to the white woman’s face and go off. I don’t say anything especially coherent, just a string of abuse, punctuated with demands for her to leave. She tries to respond, but I grow to a level, screaming pitch. Security comes up to break it up, but I don’t stop. A manager appears, but I don’t stop. I won’t stop until the horrible woman drops her basket and storms out of the store.)

Security: “Ma’am, you have to leave.”

Me: “One sec.”

(I turn to the African-American woman who is standing there, tears running down her face.)

Me: *to the cashier* “How much will her stuff cost?”

Cashier: *silence*

Security: “Ma’am! You have to leave.”

(I can see that the total is about $20 and about half her stuff has been input.)

Me: *to the cashier* “What do you think? Like fifty bucks?”

Cashier: *still silence*

Security: “Ma’am!”

(I pull $50 out of my bag — as a tourist, I have quite a bit of cash on me — and put it on the last of her items on the counter. Turning to the African-American woman:)

Me: “The whole world isn’t like her.”

(I allowed myself to be escorted from the store. When I found my aunt, she angrily reminded me that there was a real chance I could have been shot for that – Canadians don’t think of that – and she made us leave the mall.)

(I am Romanian but have lived in the US for a couple of years now. I am shopping for a dress to wear to a friend’s wedding. I am wearing jeans, a cat T-shirt, a bracelet with my country’s colors on it, and a star necklace. The uniform that the employees wear consists of cargo pants, a button-up shirt, and their name tags.)

Stranger: *taps me on the shoulder* “Excuse me, miss. Can you tell me where I can find plus-size jeans?”

Me: *turning around* “Oh, sorry. I do not work here.”

Stranger: “Oh, sorry. My mis—“

(He notices my necklace and bracelet, crosses himself, and runs away. I am confused but I shrug it off. A few minutes later while I’m talking on the phone with my grandma who doesn’t speak English, the same man comes back with who I assume is the manager.)

Stranger: “There she is. Throw this heathen out of the store!”

Manager: “Sir, I cannot throw anyone out without proof.”

Stranger: “Has she made you stupid with her devil magic? Look at her. No good Christian would wear that necklace and a symbol of those [gay slurs]!”

Manager: “Sir, I simply can’t—“

Stranger: “I am a God-fearing man and I demand you throw this [bad word], [slur] pagan out!”

(Having had enough, I finally speak up.)

Me: “Sir!”

Stranger: “WHAT?!”

Me: “First of all, although it is none of your business, I am in fact Christian born and raised. Second, this necklace is a star, not a pentagram which I assume you thought it was, and my bracelet is the flag of Romania, not any LGBTQ+ flag I’m familiar with. Third, I doubt God would be very happy with a self-described God-fearing man who uses such profane language and takes the Lord’s name in vain.”

(I begin reciting Peter 3:8 and 9 and Luke 6:31. The irate man stutters, trying to find a reply, before giving up and leaving the store with his head lowered.)

Manager: “Wow. Usually, I have to call security for people like that.”

Me: “In my opinion, a good follower of any religion doesn’t use it as fuel for bigotry but to spread morality and acceptance.”

(I am at the high school for my sixteen-year-old son’s parent-teacher conference. I am about to meet his English teacher. My son has warned me that she is not an incredibly nice person nor a good teacher, but I have until this point thought he was exaggerating.)

Teacher: “Okay. Just before we start, I wanted to let you know that your son is kind of a loser nerd.”

(My son is a big nerd, but I’m not sure he’s a “loser,” as he has many friends and is good at making more. Besides, he seems happy with his situation.)

Teacher: *continuing* “Also, he’s good friends with some girls.”

(He has a group of about six or seven good friends, of whom two are girls.)

Me: “Why would that matter?”

Teacher: “Oh, nothing. It’s just that he might be gay and some parents don’t like that.”

(I do not believe my son to be gay, not in the least because he has a girlfriend. But even if he was, it wouldn’t really make a difference for us. Also, I’m pretty sure that if the parents were not okay with it, the last thing you would want to do would be to tell the parents.)

Me: “I believe that we were here to talk about my son’s performance in class.”

Teacher: “Right. Well, your son seems to have trouble making friends in class; he only talks to his friends when given the option to. In group projects, he would prefer to work with his friends over other students.”

Me: “I feel this is how most teenagers act.”

Teacher: “Oh, just a side note: do you think your son is unathletic? All the other boys in the class are on sports teams, and they always come in wearing their jerseys except for your son and his friend. Do you think you could convince him to join the track team or something? I’d like the seating chart to be symmetrical, and with two boys not on any teams it’s a bit harder.”

(My son is not too fat nor too thin, not terribly weak — though not very strong, either — and I see no point in making him join a sports team that he won’t want to participate in.)

Me: “Could we continue talking about him in class?”

(She gives actual important information about how he’s struggling in something and recommends some tutor or something. Then, I’m about to leave.)

Teacher: “I saw him talking to a crippled girl once.”

(The “crippled girl” is a freshman with one leg, who is my son’s friend’s sister and my daughter’s good friend, and I do believe he was comforting her about something — she has low self-esteem and my daughter brought up something about an interaction between the girl and my son. Luckily, this teacher retired from teaching at the end of that school year.)

(I am a female estimator, the only one working in the dealership this day. I’m used to men not wanting to deal with me because I’m a woman. The receptionist comes to get me to write up a man who has just pulled in.)

Me: “Hello, sir! What damage are we looking at today?”

Customer: “I already told that other little lady that I need an estimate on my car. Now, be a doll and get someone for me.”

Me: “Well, sir, I am that someone. It looks like your front bumper has the majority of the damage. Anywhere else before I do my inspection?”

Customer: “The only inspection you need to be doing is finding someone to look at my vehicle!”

(I don’t want to argue, so I just turn and go back to my office. After about ten minutes, the receptionist comes to tell me the man is still waiting.)

Me: “So, have you decided to go ahead with the inspection, sir?”

Customer: “D*** it! I WILL NOT HAVE A WOMAN LOOKING AT MY VEHICLE! THIS IS A MAN’S JOB!”

Me: “You’ll be waiting a very long time, then, I’m afraid. See, I am the only estimator working today. I am the only person here who can tell you that I think the bumper got pushed into your radiator, and that is why there is a greenish liquid all over the ground. I am also the only person here who can tell you that your vehicle isn’t safe to drive, and if you insist on taking it home and waiting for a man to be here, you will cause more damage than if you were to just let me take care of it. Any other concerns I can address for you right now, or are you going to let me do my job?”

Customer: *very sheepishly* “Do you need my keys?”

This story is part of our International Women’s Day roundup!

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