The library I work at recently had to put up signs reminding patrons that discrimination against any kind of minority will not be tolerated and will result in being banned from the building.

A middle-aged, Caucasian, male patron feels the need to approach us about these signs.

Patron: “Excuse me, but those signs about discrimination you posted — if you put something like that up, you need to actually heed what it says.”

Coworker: “What do you mean by that?”

Patron: “I’m being discriminated against here almost every day. Each time I want to use one of your computers I’m rudely told I need to go next door!”

Coworker: “Sir, our computers are reserved for children.”

Patron: “See? That’s exactly what I mean. You are a public library. How can you say you’re not discriminating if you’re picking and choosing who gets to use your computers?”

Coworker: “The ‘no discrimination’ policy is about protecting minorities from being the objects of hate speech in this building. It has nothing to do with using our computers.”

Patron: “But you are being hypocritical if you’re not letting everyone use the library computers.”

Coworker: “You are absolutely welcome to use the computers in the rest of the building. There are ten on this floor and ten more upstairs.”

Patron: “But they’re always occupied! These are vacant!”

Coworker: “They are right now, and they’re reserved for children.”

Patron: “How is that fair?“

Coworker: “Sir, this is the kids’ library.”

I have used the word “niggardly” in a WRITTEN REPORT in reference to my manager. The word means the same as “miserly” or “tightfisted.” My manager is white and I can pass for white, though I’m partly Indigenous. My manager calls a meeting with us and his boss, the office manager.

Manager: “[My Name] is being racist! He says I’m like a n****r!”

Me: “[Manager], please read the report again. I never put anything like that. Being a member of a minority myself, I know about racism and how horrible it is.”

Manager: “Yes, you did! Right here!”

He points to the word “niggardly.”

Office Manager: “I could see you being confused if [My Name] had said the word out loud, [Manager], but it’s in a written report! Your complaint is denied. Look up the meaning of any words you don’t know in the future.”

The office manager turns to me.

Office Manager: “[My Name], in the future, only use words the average person would know. In this case, use the word ‘cheap,’ instead.” 

From then on, I only used words of no more than two syllables in written reports.

Due to a staffing shortage, I’m filling in at a location in a town that is infamous in our part of the state for racial issues.

It used to be a sundown town, and the high school mascot had the same name as an Asian slur until the 1980s.

I’m mixed-race but am light enough that I pass for white. I’m doing some paperwork at the counter when an older couple walks in. My coworker calls out a greeting. They smile and wave.

Coworker: “What are you guys up to this afternoon?”

Wife: “Oh, we’re getting all our errands done before the game tonight.”

Coworker: “I forgot. [High School] is playing at home tonight, right?”

Wife: “Yep. We’ll probably head over there later. I’ve got my [New Mascot] gear ready to go!”

Husband: “I should pull out my old gear and wear it.”

Wife: “You know that wouldn’t be a good idea.”

Husband: “Good old [High School] [Asian Slurs]!”

Completely shocked, I stop writing and stare at the man. My coworker’s jaw drops.

Me: “Come again?”

Husband: “[Asian Slurs]. That’s what they used to be called. I’d wear my old gear if people weren’t so sensitive about it.”

My coworker and I exchange shocked looks. The wife looks like she wants to crawl in a hole.

Me: “Sir, please don’t use that word.”

Wife: “Okay, I think we’re done here. Honey, let’s go home.”

She pulls on his arm. He stares me down.

Husband: “It’s not an offensive term, you know.”

Me: “Yes, it is.”

Husband: “It’s a term of endearment. They like being called that! Just like blacks are okay with being called—”

Wife: *Pulls on his arm harder* “Let’s go!”

Me: “That’s it. I’m done. [Coworker], I’m going in the back. Let me know when they’re gone.”

As I’m walking away, I can hear the husband yelling that he’s right and I’m just sensitive, and the wife attempting to drag him out the door. My coworker comes back a few minutes later.

Coworker: “All clear. I’m sorry you had to hear that. Just so you know, not everyone here is racist. Some of the old people can’t let the past go, but I promise the rest of us are normal.”

Thankfully, they haven’t come back while I’ve been there!

Our grocery store has its own brand line of bulk goods, and I manage that department. We get a notice that the coconut flakes have been held and placed on recall due to salmonella contamination, so we have to pull all our stock on hand, and we have no estimation of when we can reorder.

We put up a health advisory notice on the shelf to notify customers that they shouldn’t consume any they’ve purchased and that they should bring it back for a refund.

One of the cashiers calls for the bulk manager on the overhead, and I go up to find a very huffy customer waiting.

Customer: “Are you the bulk manager?”

Me: “How can I help you?”

Customer: “No, I want to speak to the manager. I expected a man.”

Me: “Well, you’re speaking to me.”

Customer: *Speaking slowly in a condescending tone* “Are you. Or are you not. The. Bulk. Man-a-ger?”

Me: “I am… the specific person you asked for, yes. And here I am. Now that we’ve established that, how can I help you?”

Customer: “You need to do your job better because you’re out of my coconut flakes.”

Me: “They were recalled due to salmonella. There’s a sign. We have other coconut flakes in another brand that is unaffected by the recall.”

Customer: “I don’t want those flakes; I want the bulk ones.”

Me: “Well, they’re not available.”

Customer: “So, when are you going to reorder?”

Me: “When they have been cleared as safe for consumption, they will be available again. But the recall was just announced, so we have no estimation yet of when that will be.”

Customer: “Have you ever even tried these coconut flakes? Do you even know what they taste like?” 

Me: “I know what coconut tastes like.”

Customer: “But do you know what this coconut tastes like? Because if you ever tried it, you would understand why I’m so upset, and why you shouldn’t try to pawn off that inferior crap on me.”

My soul leaves my body and goes to lie on a beach somewhere.

Me: “Okay.”

Customer: “Well, if they paid you enough to try your own product, you might be knowledgeable enough about them to do your job.”

I’ve already decided that trying to reason with this person is going nowhere, so I’m just focused on cutting the conversation off so I can get back to my tasks.

Me: “Well, unfortunately, doing this right now is my job. So, if there isn’t anything else I can do—”

Customer: “I don’t know, is there?! What am I supposed to do?”

Me: “I can only offer you the other coconut flakes we carry.”

Customer: “But I don’t want those. You don’t have the ones I want.”

Me: “No, we don’t. All right, then, have a good evening.”

Customer: “You don’t have what I want! What are you going to do about it?”

Me: “I’m afraid there’s nothing else I can do.”

Customer: “Nothing?! You’re not going to help me?”

Me: “The CDC issued a recall. We pulled all of our product from the shelves and are prohibited from selling it. Let me be clear. No one has the power to help you.”

Customer: “Well, if you still have some in the back and you can’t sell it, why can’t you just give it to me?”

Me: “Absolutely not. It’s going to be destroyed for safety reasons.”

Customer: “What do you mean, no?!“

Me: “It means request denied. We’re done here. Goodbye!”

The customer gasps, obviously shocked that some of his sass got thrown back at him, and storms out tearfully.

Customer: “This is the worst service ever!“

Cashier: *Rolling her eyes* “It could have been worse. You could have been hospitalized with salmonella.”

Me: “That could have easily been arranged out the back door. Lord knows I was tempted.”

I’m walking through a park and a very sweet puppy comes over to say hello. I don’t pet it in case that isn’t okay with its owner, but I greet it as warmly as I can.

Me: “Hey, cutie!”

The puppy’s owner whirls round to glare at me.

Owner: “He’s a boy, actually!”

The owner stormed off, pulling the poor puppy behind him. I didn’t think puppies had a concept of gender, let alone one so fragile that being called a cutie might threaten one’s masculinity.