I bring up a composer I like to a friend of mine.

Friend: “Oh! I love [Composer]; he’s one of my favorite geriatric composers.”

Me: “Geriatric?”

Friend: “Yeah, that’s how you use that, right?”

Me: “[Composer] is in his fifties…”

Friend: “Like, it means someone who’s older and fun?”

Me: “[Friend], it means ‘elderly’ — you know, like sixty-five and up. It’s rarely used outside of health contexts.”

Friend: “Oh… No wonder one of my favorite professors looked so sad when I called him that.”

Me: “You did what?!”

I am looking for a place to get my bike fixed, so I take the train one stop into the closest town to my suburban college. I get off the train and exit the station, and I begin to receive comments as I walk.

Cop: “You shouldn’t be here; it’s not safe for a girl like you.”

Me: “???”

I keep walking because that just seems patronizing.

Man At The Gas Station: “Hey, little girl, what are you doing here? Go home. It’s not safe.”

Me: “???”

I keep walking because everything looks fine and the white guy is probably just being racist toward the people around here.

Homeless Man: “Hey! Hey, miss, excuse me?”

Me: “Oh, hi. How are you?”

Homeless Man: “Um, good, but what are you doing here? This isn’t a good place for someone like you.”

Me: “Why?”

Homeless Man: “A little white girl like you? Isn’t it obvious?”

This guy is Black, so maybe the concern isn’t just racism.

Me: “It’s not obvious. So far, everyone I’ve met has seemed pretty nice.”

Homeless Man: “There are all sorts of unsavory folks around — drug dealers, gangs, you name it.”

Me: “…What do you think I’m going to be doing to piss off those people? Or do they just go hunting for the stray innocent to sacrifice? Where I come from, if I mind my business and am nice to everyone, I generally don’t have any trouble.”

Homeless Man: “Sure, but this isn’t like the suburbs.”

Me: “I’m from Oakland, California.”

Homeless Man: *Laughs* “Oh! You’ll be fine, then.” *Laughs more*

Me: “Thanks…”

I keep walking. Later, an old lady on a stoop calls out to me.

Old Lady: “Sweetheart! Oh, my goodness, sweetheart, did you get lost?”

Me: “I’m actually just a block from the bike shop where I’m headed.”

Old Lady: “But it’s not safe for a sweet thing like you.”

Me: “You seem fine. A sweet thing like you? Surely, I’m fine.”

Old Lady: *Sighs* “Thanks, sweetie, but I’m not sweet.”

Me: “From where I’m standing, you are. See you later.”

Later, I arrive at the bike shop.

Bike Shop Owner: “How did you get here?”

Me: “I walked.”

Bike Shop Owner: “But it’s not safe out there for a little white girl like you!”

Me: *Pauses* “So, can we fix my bike?”

Other than all the concern, it seemed like a perfectly fine place. It was a weird experience, though.

I worked in technical theater in college. Often, between the end of my classes and the start of rehearsals, I’d do assignments in the fly loft, a small landing above the stage where people would work the pulleys during shows. 

One afternoon in the second week of my first year, I was doing a problem set in the fly loft while students on stage were painting wall sections for the next show’s set. These were made of plywood and called flats. I tuned out the sounds of busy industry until the technical director’s exasperated voice rose above them:

Technical Director: “[Student], you cannot lift the flat while you are standing on it!”

I don’t think I’ll ever forget that particular quote.

My parents got divorced when I was about five, shortly after my mom started law school. She would bring me to law school with her. I remember one class in particular, though I don’t remember the topic.

Mom: “All right now, you have to sit very quietly for two hours. Do you have something to do?”

I nodded silently and held up my little backpack. I didn’t really talk much back then. We sat in the very front row, a few seats left of the middle. 

Professor: “Oh, a new student! I expect you to keep up and take notes!”

I nodded dutifully and got out paper and crayons. I did try to pay attention, though I had little ability to understand. I drew a “My Little Pony” that I had brought with me. We would always sit in the same seats, and I would draw ponies. 

Professor: “Everyone, turn in your essays on your way out!”

I turned in a pony drawing.

Professor: “Wait, you don’t actually have to give me that!”

Me: *Whispers* “I want to.”

Shortly after that, I wasn’t allowed to come to class anymore. Another student complained that I was looking at her too much. I remember her. She was pretty.

As such, my law school career was short-lived. I’m pretty sure I got an A on that pony, though.

I worked in tech support for a university about twenty years ago when we still had some 486 computers without CD-ROM drives in a few of our computer labs.

A young lady asked for some help getting her CD out of the computer. “No problem,” I thought as I grabbed a handy-dandy CD removal tool, commonly called “an unbent paperclip”.

Me: “Where were you working?”

She directed me to the lab with the oldest computers — those 486 machines without any CD-ROM drives I mentioned earlier.

I was a bit confused, but I soldiered on.

Me: “Can you show me the problematic computer?”

“This is going to be interesting,” I thought to myself. “The paperclip is NOT going to help.”

She had managed to put the CD into the five-and-a-quarter-inch floppy disk drive.

Me: “What did you do?”

Woman: “I was just following my teacher’s instructions.”

Me: “Why didn’t you use one of the labs with the newer computers with the CD-ROM drives?”

Woman: “I’ve never used a computer before.”

Me: “Why didn’t you ask for help?”

I did my best to explain that we would have to dismantle the computer to get her CD out and that it may not be usable once retrieved. She was upset by the prospect of losing her disk.

Well, not only did we have to remove the drive from the computer, a desktop case, but we had to destroy the drive in the process.

Related:
Their Knowledge Is A Bit Floppy, Part 3
Their Knowledge Is A Bit Floppy, Part 2
Their Knowledge Is A Bit Floppy