Years ago, my dad and brother went to Mexico. One day, they were in the nearest town for supplies when my dad ran into a woman in the grocery store who gave him a recommendation on mango juice. They chatted for a bit, then said their goodbyes. Later, they were in the parking lot, and the woman walked by. She noticed his license plate, and they discovered that they were from the same area of islands in Canada, though she had been living in Mexico for several years. So they exchanged contact information, and my family returned to camp.

A couple weeks later, my brother was surfing on his short-board. During a wipeout, his board went between his legs, and the fin sliced his calf rather deeply. Someone in camp bandaged his leg, while another fetched Dad from out in the water. Dad threw his mattress into the back of the truck, loaded up my brother, and drove to Guerrero Negro as fast as he could (which couldn’t have been at all pleasant for my brother, considering it’s a one- to two-hour trip, 30 minutes of which on a very bumpy dirt road).

Eventually they reached town and got him to a doctor, at which point Dad called the woman he’d met at the store to help him with translating. When she arrived, all the work had been done, and Dad wasn’t sure what to do about payment. He had her ask about it, and according to her, the doctor laughed and asked, “We charge for this?”

Afterwards, my dad returned to camp while my brother stayed with the woman and her family, since it seemed cruel to have him lying on the beach, watching everyone else in the water, doing what he couldn’t. He was with them for a month, and made good friends with the daughter, who was about our age.

Dad stayed in touch with them over the years, and a decade later, I went down with him and got to meet them. When I mentioned the story to the daughter, she was really surprised about how it happened. Apparently, my brother told her he was attacked by a shark, and she believed it right up until I told her otherwise.

(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.)