(I’m a huge fan of rock and metal music, so I have brought my kids up with it, although I like pretty much anything. My four-year-old and I are in the dentist waiting room waiting to be seen, and my son is listening to some metal, not very loud as not to disturb anyone else.)

Woman: “You should be ashamed of yourself! Making your kid listen to that heathen spawn!”

Me: “I’m sorry? What’s wrong with it? More to the point, what’s it to you what music my kids listen to?”

Woman: “It’s not Christian! They worship the devil!”

Me: “Not Christian? Your religion doesn’t restrict you in what music style you can or cannot listen to. I have many friends who are both Christian and metal fans.”

Woman: “They are not Christian! They are heathens sent by the devil!”

Me: “Does the bible not say Jesus forgives our sins and loves us no matter what?”

Woman: “Well, yes, but…”

Me: “And does it not say judge lest thee be judged?”

Woman: “But…”

Me: “I’m not religious, and with your judging me, I’m more of a Christian then you are. So, if any of us are going to Hell, it certainly won’t be me. Now, [Son], what do we do to people who judge us purely by our choice of music?”

Son: *whilst doing some devil horns with his free hand* “ROCK ON, LADY!”

(After that, she just sat there giving me the evil eye until we got called in.)

(Growing up, my father had real temper issues. Often when faced with a simple problem he would become unstuck. When this happened, rather than just solving the problem, he would inevitably throw a temper tantrum and start blaming people. One Christmas, we get a PlayStation and we are absolutely thrilled. Our dad, on the other hand, seems to object to it and is constantly moaning about it’s “wasting electricity” and how playing it will “make us stupid!” Over the holidays, we decide to have a party, and we invite most of the neighbours. To keep the kids entertained, we set up the PlayStation in the living room and we all take turns playing on it. Afterwards, we are clearing up, and suddenly I hear my dad making angry noises from the living room.)

Dad: “[MY NAME], GET IN HERE NOW!”

(Nervously, I make my to the living room. I’m not sure how I could be in trouble since we cleaned up and tidied away the console and all the games, and hoovered the room. When I get there, my dad looks really frustrated and is holding the TV remote in his hand.)

Dad: “YOUR BLOODY PLAYSTATION HAS BROKEN THE REMOTE!”

Me: “Sorry… What?”

Dad: “YOU HEARD ME! NOW FIX IT!”

Me: “Dad, that’s not even possible; the remote is not connected to it!”

Dad: “No, you left that stupid thing on for too long, and it’s obviously broken it. Look!”

(My dad tries to turn on the TV, but nothing happens. I’ve had this issue before and I know how to solve it.)

Me: “Dad, there must be a problem with the batteries. Have you tried moving them around or replacing them?”

Dad: “Stop making excuses. Now, turn this thing on and fix it!”

Me: “The PlayStation won’t fix it, Dad! It’s not linked to the remote.”

(Then my dad starts raising his voice again and demanding I repair the remote. I turn the TV on at the base and fire up the console. Reluctantly. I go through the menu options, which are few at the time. All the while my dad is just yelling at me for not immediately making the remote work. Again, I recommend that he just try playing with the batteries as the remote may just be idle. As before, he refuses to listen to any logic and instead tries the same tack again.)

Dad: “I KNEW THIS STUPID THING WAS A WASTE OF MONEY! I’M SICK OF THE BLOODY TOYS BREAKING THINGS.”

(My sister walks into the room looking very annoyed.)

Sister: “Dad, why the hell are you screaming?”

Dad: “Because this thing broke the remote!”

Sister: “Dad, that is literally impossible. Here, let me try!”

Dad: “DON’T MAKE EXCUSE FOR HIM! THIS IS HIS FAULT AND HE NEEDS TO FIX IT!”

Sister: “Oh, for goodness’ sake!”

(She snatched the remote out of my dad’s hand, moved the batteries around, and hey presto… the channel changed! My dad went bright red and sat down without a word. After that day, he learned to be a little more objective about solving issues, and he never bugged about the PlayStation ever again!)

(I am a male. I work in a smallish admin team for a large engineering company. I am also bi, and while I don’t make an issue of it, I don’t hide it when referring to the gender of the person I am seeing. None of my colleagues have ever had an issue with this. until one day when I happen to mention that I am going on a date with a female friend of mine.)

Coworker: “I thought you were gay?”

Me: “No, bi.”

Coworker: “But you used to date [Male Ex]; you brought him to the Christmas party.”

Me: “Yeah, I did, but I am bi, not gay. [Male Ex] and I broke up a few months back, and I thought it was time to get back to dating again.”

Coworker: *confused stare* “So, you are still gay, but you are dating a girl, as well; is she one of those [slur]s?”

Me: *really?!* “No, she isn’t transgender; she is a woman.” *not going to attempt to explain trans/cisgender at this point* “I am bi; I date men and women. I find them both attractive.”

Coworker: *seems to be mulling this over* “Are your parents pressuring you? I think it’s wrong that some people are homophobic. Is that why you are ‘dating’ this girl?”

Me: “No… I am dating her because I find her attractive and I’ve known her for years.”

Coworker: “And she doesn’t mind that you are gay?”

Me: “Some people are gay, some people are straight, and other people are bi. I am bi. I like men and women. Oh, look! My lunch time is over.” *dashes from staff room*

(Apparently the idea is too much to understand, as she continues to refer to me as gay.)

Coworker: “Do you watch that Ru Paul’s Drag Race?”

Me: “No, I don’t really like drag.”

Coworker: ” I thought all gays liked drag?”

(Later:)

Coworker: “Gays have such good style. [My Name], will you take me shopping?”

(Later:)

Coworker: “Are you on that Grinderer thing? Someone said all the gays use it.”

Me: “Again, I am not gay, and I don’t think my girlfriend would like me using it.”

(At my last work’s night out, I had to explain to my girlfriend why one of my coworkers might try and check her for a penis.)

(My son has a name which is uncommon but by no means unheard of. After his first day at a school the teacher calls me into the classroom for a chat.)

Teacher: “Hi, Ms. [My Name]. I just wondered if we could discuss your child for a moment.”

Me: “Ah, sure.” *a bit concerned*

Teacher: “We just want you to know that we want to support them in any way we can and if you need anything let us know.”

(I’m happy to hear this, but also slightly confused since I have a perfectly happy, healthy thirteen-year-old.)

Teacher: “If, for example, they feel they need to talk to a counsellor, or if they feel they are unable to express themselves, we just want them to know this is a safe space where they can do that.”

(Now I’m seriously baffled.)

Me: “Sorry, I think I’m missing something here; what exactly do you think my son needs counselling for?”

(The teacher gives me a disapproving glare.)

Teacher: “Ms. [My Name], you are showing enormous disrespect to your child by not using their preferred pronouns.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but my son has never mentioned anything about using different pronouns.”

Teacher: “How can you be paying so little attention to your child? They clearly have gender dysphoria!”

Me: “Okay, whoa. My son and I have discussed gender and sexual identity plenty, and he has told me time and again he is an ally of the LGBTQ community, but he is a straight male and he is very happy.”

Teacher: *with a smug face* “Then how do you explain this?”

(With a painfully-practiced flourish, she flips a worksheet onto the desk in front of me. It’s an “About Me” first-day type deal. My son has written his name, birthday, hobbies, what he wants to be when he grows up, etc. There is nothing here that would make anyone think he has gender dysphoria or needs to see a counsellor.)

Me: “Sorry, this is meant to be proof of what?”

Teacher: “Look at the name! They have signed with their preferred name, Beth! Clearly your child is transgender.”

Me: “Oh, Christ alive, his name is Seth! He just has cursive handwriting.”

Teacher: “That’s not a name! You are denying your daughter’s existence. You’re misgendering her! This is erasure!”

Me: “Look. You are misgendering him. My son is named Seth, after the Ancient Egyptian god of chaos. He should fit right in in your class.”

(I’ve had enough and leave the room with the teacher still screaming about trans erasure and how Seth isn’t a real name. I leave the school and get into the car, where my worried son is waiting to hear what he got into trouble for.)

Me: “Well, darling, I have good news and bad news. The good news is that your teacher is incredibly supportive and accepting of LGBTQ students. The bad news is that she refuses to acknowledge your name.”

Son: “Okay… But we’re good? I’m good?”

Me: “Honey, you will always be good with me, whether you’re Seth, Beth, or Slartibartfast.”

(His first term assignment was to present a project on a god who is no longer worshipped… Guess who he picked!)

CONTENT WARNING: Animal Death

(My first job when I turn 16 is at a high-end department store in the UK, famed for its customer service. I normally work in the tech section — a teenager’s dream — but today they are short on the customer help desk, so I am drafted in to help. This is my second day assisting. I’m stood at the desk, keeping myself busy, when a lady in her 70s appears, in floods of tears.)

Me: “Hello, madam, is there anything I can help with today?”

Customer: “Oh, God… It’s just… Ohh…” *wails uncontrollably*

Me: “How about you take a seat here and calm down?”

(She sits, and gathers herself slowly.)

Me: “Okay, what’s happened? How can we help?”

Customer: “Well, you see, I had a delivery of my washing machine booked in this morning, for my new kitchen.”

Me: “Okay, and did the delivery team arrive on time and with the machine?”

Customer: “Yes, yes, that’s not the problem. They arrived on time, they came upstairs to the flat to check it could fit, and then they went down to the van to get it.”

Me: “Sounds good so far?”

Customer: “Well, yes… They got up to the flat, and started moving the washing machine down the corridor. As they got to the kitchen door, my cats decided to run out of the kitchen as they were startled by the machine… I think the first man saw this coming, but the man holding the back of the machine didn’t, and after my first cat appeared, he dropped it.”

Me: “Dropped the machine?”

Customer: “He dropped the machine onto the second cat.”

Me: “Oh. I see. Well… I’m so sorry… Let me go and find a manager, then; I’m not sure of what to do or say.”

Customer: “That’s not all.”

Me: “…”

Customer: “Once they realised what they’d done, they said they’d take the machine back and replace it.”

Me: “And did they?”

Customer: “Well, they were in such a panic and rush to leave they reversed the lorry into my new brick wall.”

Me: “Oh.”

(Three minutes later in the office, where four section managers are:)

Me: “Okay, who wants a great situation to deal with today?”

(The chain paid for her entire new kitchen in full, all works to repair the wall, and the cremation of a cat.)