(I am colorblind, but everyone calls me “Fire” because of my supposedly fire-red hair. I see a short woman trying to reach a shirt on a high shelf, and I am tall enough to reach it.)

Me: “Hello, ma’am, can I help you with that?”

Customer: “I need that blue shirt up there.”

(She waves up in the general direction.)

Me: “Which shirt?”

Customer: “It’s the only blue one up there!”

Me: “Ma’am, you’re going to need to be more specific than that. I’m colorblind.”

Customer: *obviously ignoring me* “It’s the ONLY BLUE SHIRT!”

Me: “Ma’am! I’m COLORBLIND! I can’t see blue!”

Customer: “I need to speak with you manager!”

(I go and fetch my manager, after telling him what had happened.)

Manager: “What seems to be the problem, miss?”

Customer: “She won’t get me that blue shirt!”

Manager: “My coworker has told you already that she is colorblind, and therefore cannot see the color blue.”

Customer: “It’s B-L-U-E! HOW CAN YOU NOT SEE THAT?!”

Me: “It’s a medical condition, ma’am, I can’t see colors.”

Customer: *she turns to my manager* “You get it down!”

(He retrieves the shirt and looks at it.)

Manager: “You could have just told her that it was the shirt with a heart on the front. Or you could have LISTENED when she told you multiple times that she was colorblind. Now, will that be all today?”

Customer: “Yes.”

(The woman looks incredibly angry, but I take her over to check out, and she looks down at my name tag.)

Customer: “Fire? What kind of a name is that?”

Me: “It’s a nickname, ma’am, because of my red hair.”

Customer: “You said that you were colorblind! You’re a liar! How do you know that your hair is red?”

Me: “A lot of people have told me what color my hair is.”

Customer: “Oh…”

(She picks up her bag and walks out of the store.)

Manager: “Some people just have no clue how to listen.”

(My mum is a doctor at a local general practitioner. She is currently on maternity leave, but comes into the GP to pick up a prescription. She bumps into a regular.)

Regular: “[Mum], wow, you’ve really slimmed down.”

Mum: “Oh, thanks! I’ve had my—”

Regular: “You’ll just put it on again though. You fatties always do. You do some stupid diet that makes you lose it super quick—” *laughs* “—then you put it all on again, and then some. Really, you should try something more permanent! You were obese!”

Mum: “…I was pregnant.”

Regular: *unashamed* “Really! What was it?”

Mum: “Two boys.”

Regular: “Well, I’ll be. I just thought you were fat! No wonder my complaints weren’t taken seriously.”

Mum: “Complaints?”

Regular: “Every time I came by, I would complain about your size. It’s so unhealthy, being a doctor AND obese!” *leaves*

(My mum asked about the complaints, and it turns out that HR withheld them because of her pregnancy. No one bothered to correct the regular. She managed to get hold of some of the complaints, and there were so abhorrent she refuses to let me see them. My mum’s looking for somewhere else to work once she comes off maternity.)

(I’m in a plastic surgery center, waiting to be called back. I’m flipping through a book, and the woman next to me keeps glancing at me.)

Woman: “Going for surgery, too?”

Me: “Hopefully.”

Woman: *nods to my chest* “Aren’t they big enough?”

Me: “That would be why I’m here: to make them smaller.”

Woman: “What does your husband think of that? He might not stay if you do that. Might leave you for a REAL woman. Maybe you should focus on that big tummy of yours first.”

Me: “My wife was actually the one to first suggest a reduction. So, are you here about that botched face-lift? Don’t worry; I’m sure they can fix it.”

(She stomped off, fuming. My wife returned from her coffee hunt and nearly spit it out with laughter when I told her.)

Mum: *hands me a garbage bag* “Here you go!”

Me: “Why are you giving me this?”

Mum: “Because it’s time to clean the car, like you agreed.”

Me: “No, I agreed to cut the lawn. [Sister] does the car this week.”

Mum: “Well, she’s lying down. It’s her—” *whispers* “—time of the month.”

Me: “How long does the ‘time of the month’ last?”

Mum: “About a week. Surely you knew that!”

Me: “I do. It’s just, she used that excuse two weeks ago.”

(I leave and start cleaning the car. I hear shouting from inside, and after a while my mum appears with my sister.)

Mum: “[My Name], you can go back inside. [Sister] will finish up, AFTER apologising.”

Sister: “But MUM! I’m really on my period this time!”

Mum: “Then this will be a good lesson for you. Pretending to be on your period to get out of chores… It’s no wonder men don’t take us seriously at work!”

(I sneaked out later to help, feeling a bit sorry for her. She wasn’t too happy with me. My mum doesn’t trust her at all now, and marks off a calendar whenever she says she can’t do her chores because of her period.)

I am currently attending university. Sadly, I am also suffering from ovarian cancer. I have been on chemotherapy over the last semester, and have always missed every other Wednesday of class, as that is my treatment day. My last tutor was always very considerate about this, and (in private) made my lecturers aware of the situation. She retired at the end of last semester, and I was allocated another tutor. He was made fully aware of my situation, and I had a sit-down with him before the semester began. He, however, wasn’t the most considerate, and repeatedly lambasted me every Wednesday class I do not attend. He ignored my emails reiterating the reason, and became more and more irate.

This was a treatment day, and I was sitting in the hospital being fed poison, when an email popped up on my phone from said tutor. The mailing list included all of the department faculty, including the dean. It said that I had missed my morning lecture “yet again” and that he would be seeking my removal from the course if “I [could not] find an adequate and verifiable reason for my failing attendance.” He requested a meeting with me and the dean on my next treatment day, stressing that if I failed to attend, the dean would have no other choice but to remove me. As I was reading the email, another one came through from the dean confirming everything that was said (the dean was not made aware of my treatments).

I was feeling pretty crap at this point, and I lost my patience. I saw there were other emails coming in from my lecturers, but I decided to “reply all” to the first email. I got my nurse to take a picture of me and I sent it through along with, “IS THIS A GOOD ENOUGH REASON?”

All the email chatter stopped, and I got on my with miserable day, making sure that I would be seeing my tutor the next day. When I came in, several of my lecturers found me and gave me a big hug before following me to my tutor’s office. It was locked, but I saw him inside. I knocked, but the second he turned around and noticed me, he blushed and turned back to his desk, ignoring me. We went to the dean, but she refused to see me.

Nothing much has happened since. I have a tutor who ignores me, but now isn’t doing anything else to make my life more difficult. One of my lecturers has offered to be my tutor until everything is sorted out. Thankfully, my treatment is going better than expected. Next year though, my tutor is expected to review and grade my final dissertation. I just hope everything will be sorted out by then.