(I work for a store that has a very loud and quite spoiled manager who constantly yells and berates the people under him in front of customers. The owner has never done anything about it because he never gets the chance to see it firsthand. The owner is a major “Game of Thrones” fan and all-around geek.)

Manager: *yelling at coworker in front of customers* “I AM THE MANAGER, AND YOU WILL LISTEN TO WHAT I TELL YOU TO DO BECAUSE I. AM. THE. MANAGER.”  

Owner: “Any man who must say, “I am the manager,” is no true manager. Can I see you in my office for a second?”  

(After a few minutes in the office, the manager was fired and escorted out of the store, screaming like a child the entire way.)

I am black, living in Germany as the daughter of a mixed couple. My dad is the one with black skin, and my mum is German. I look more black than mixed, as I took more to my dad’s side of genes, I guess.

I have been asked where I am from on countless occasions, and in varying levels of rudeness. I grew up in Germany. German is my mother language. I speak English rather well because my mom is an English teacher.

Don’t get me wrong; there are tons and tons of wonderful people around me, and in my hometown it rarely happens anymore. But when I am travelling, I just get so many looks and questions in tones that grate on my peace of mind.

One day, a cashier at a store speaks to me like I am mentally disabled — slowly and in easy words, complimenting them with gestures and miming stuff out — despite me speaking German without an accent.

In the end she seriously asks, in the sweetest tone, “Where are you from in Africa? Are you here looking for a German boyfriend?”

I just look her dead in the eye and say, “I’m the queen of Wakanda, here to steal your men to make them my slaves, so you’d better get ready.“

(My mother is helping me sort my son’s clothing to donate anything he has outgrown. I have really small feet, so I have to shop in the kid’s section for footwear.)

Mom: *holds up a small pair of Boba Fett socks* “I think [Son] has outgrown these; shouldn’t we donate them?”

Me: “Those socks are too small for him, but they are mine, so it doesn’t matter that he can’t wear them.”

Mom: “You are a grown woman, and you have Star Wars socks?”

Me: “Does being an adult mean I shouldn’t have Boba Fett socks?”

Mom: “Yeah.”

Me: “I feel a sudden need to do away with such silliness.”

Mom: “The socks?”

Me: *grabs socks* “No, adulthood.”

(I’m 31, going to the Harry Potter amusement park in Florida. My brother and I buy the special wands where you can do “magic” in certain parts of the park. We notice in the newer Diagon Alley you can do it pretty easily, but in the older Hogsmeade, it’s a lot harder, maybe because of dirty windows or bad placement of the sensors. I stumble on a girl who is maybe ten, and her dad. The girl is almost in tears because she can’t get the special wand she got to work.)

Me: *running up to the girl* “If it’s okay with you and your daddy, can I teach you some things I learned? I know it’s hard. I’ve been here all day, but I’ve learned a few tricks.”

Girl’s Dad: “It’s okay.”

Girl: “Okay.”

Me: “Okay. Stand right here. See what it’s telling you on that little medallion? Copy the motions.”

(She tries a couple times and it’s still not working; she’s getting frustrated.)

Me: “No, no, it’s okay. You just need to think really hard, and it’s all in the wrists!”

(I say this really loud and start looking around at other people who may have wands.)

Me: “Keep at it! Focus!”

(At this point, an army of wand-wielding people has gathered right behind us, out of her line of vision, trying to get the sensor to work. It finally works. I give them the thumbs up, then give them a signal to disperse so the girl won’t realize it might not have been her. They all walk away, practically doing casual, “Oh, look at that detail in the village,” looks. The girl runs up to her dad.)

Girl: “I did it! I did it! Did you see it?!”

Me: “See? You are a witch! I knew it! Great job!”

Dad: *to me* “You are awesome!”

Me: “Oh, I didn’t do anything. She did! By the way? What house?”

Girl: “Gryffindor!”

Me: “Slytherin. Guess we aren’t all bad, huh? See you, sweetie!”

(I will never let a kid lose their imagination, even if I have to build an army on the quick to keep it running.)

(My husband and one of his coworkers have to go to DC for a special training course. During their downtime, they go to the Smithsonian. As they’re leaving, my husband stops by the gift shop to pick up a souvenir for me. He finds a pizza cutter that looks like the USS Enterprise and decides to buy it.)

Husband: “[Coworker], look!” *holds up pizza cutter* “Isn’t this cool? My wife is going to love this.”

Coworker: *confused* “But I thought you guys liked Star Wars?”

Husband: “Though she prefers Star Trek and I prefer Star Wars, we like both.”

Coworker: *shocked* “That’s heresy! You’re not supposed to like BOTH!”

(He said she persisted with, “You can’t like both! You’re not supposed to like both!” until they got back to the hotel and went to their rooms. When he relayed the story to me, we both had a good laugh about it. I’ll never understand people who don’t believe that you can like both franchises.)

Related:
About To Start A Star Trek War, Part 4
About To Start A Star Trek War, Part 3
About To Start A Star Trek War, Part 2