(My mother is singing a children’s song to my four-year-old nephew. My nephew is bi-racial, black and white; I am super pale white.)

Mom: *singing* “God loves all the children of the world, black, yellow, red, and white.”

Nephew: *stops my mom singing with a frown* “Wait, Grandma! There is no such thing as red children! Or yellow or white. There is only brown!”

(He says this so matter-of-factly that mom can’t help but laugh.)

Mom: “Is that so? Then what color is your mom?” *his mom is black*

Nephew: “She’s just brown. I’m light brown. Uncle [Name] is dark brown.”

Mom: *thinking she’s got him now* “What about Aunt [My Name]?”

Nephew: *considers this for a moment* “Aunty is light light light light LIGHT brown.”

(He’s got the world figured out.)

(I have just gotten home from working a twelve hour shift and am about to lie down and go to sleep when my older sister barges in, screaming.)

Older Sister: “[My Name], get to the garden NOW! Mom and [Younger Sister] need your help!”

(Tired and confused, I walk outside and find my mom freaking out and my younger sister sitting on the hill beside the garden.)

Me: “Uh… what’s going on?”

Younger Sister: “My foot got stuck in a hole.”

(I look down, and sure enough her left leg is stuck in a muddy hole up to her knee.)

Me: “How did that happen?”

Younger Sister: “I think this was from where Dad tore down that old greenhouse.”

Mom: “CALL 911!”

(I shook my head and headed over the tool shed to grab a shovel. It took roughly ten minutes to dig my sister’s foot out, all while repeatedly telling my Mom “no, we do not need the fire department.” I was not going to cut off my sister’s foot with the shovel all while my older sister paced behind us nervously — and while my younger sister was laughing her head off.)

(I’m at a family dinner, for the holiday seasons. We are all at the table, ready to eat, when I notice onions in my plate. I hate them, but resign to just pick them out and pass them to my father and uncles who will gladly take extra. My cousin, 13 years old, who’s sitting beside me, notices and decides to comment. I’m 19 years old.)

Cousin: “[My Name], what are you doing?”

Me: “I don’t like onions; I’m taking them out.”

Cousin: *cringe* “I don’t like them, too, but my parents showed me manners!” *she then proceeds to hold her breath in an attempt to numb the taste and forces herself to eat some*

(Truth be told, parenting never was a strong point in this family. I pretty much raised myself up but I always have had a love for education, etiquette, and protocol — which the rest of the family loathes. So, no one cares about “proper manners,” and she’s really only imposing it on herself. I don’t reply, thinking if it makes her feel great, why not? But, soon enough, I can see the struggle. She looks pretty green, has to take a pause to breathe in and out before taking a bite, and is clearly getting a gag reflex.)

Me: “You know, you look super green. Stop. Nobody cares if you just pass on the onions and not eat them yourself. It’s ok, I swear. Don’t do that to yourself, please.”

Cousin: “No, I’m fine. I have manners, [My Name].”

(She’s having tears forming at this point and won’t listen to me. The rest of the family are being oblivious to the situation. I know what’s coming and distance myself as much as I can from my cousin. I make a last attempt to talk her out of it.)

Me: “[Cousin], look, good manners are important but vomiting on the table is not appropriate, too…”

(She opened her mouth to reply to me, only to empty her stomach all over her plate, table, floor, and herself. Cue for the rest of the family to wake up and start a crisis. Who got blamed? Had to clean up? And somehow got talked into taking her cousin to a medical clinic? Yes, that would be me. I didn’t mind as it excused me to leave early. I also know I’m the only one who would decide it was bad enough and not to blame my cousin who just had good intentions despite the results. And, that’s how we found out that night that she has an intolerance to onions.)

(I have an ingrown toenail on my big toe, and my whole family knows. It is very tender and sore. I soak it up very night in some Epsom salt and bandage it. It seems to work, and the pain fades a bit; it’s healing, slowly, but healing. I don’t want to go to the doctor’s, since I’m a student and would rather spend my little money on books than doctors. One day, my mom puts a big pile of hardcover books right outside my closed door. I rush outside, not seeing them, and stub my bandaged toe on them. The wound opens and blood is gushing everywhere. I’m in a lot of pain and it feels like my whole foot is on fire.)

Me: “Mom! Did you put these books outside my door?!”

Mom: *peeps head in, sees blood and me writhing on the floor* “Yah… what happened?”

Me: *explains thru gritted teeth*

Mom: “Oh. Umm…” *leaves awkwardly*

(I managed to clean up my blood and wrap my foot up again, and made an appointment to the doctor. My mom felt bad and took me there and back.)

(A couple, Friend #1 and Friend #2, are hosting a barbeque in their back garden. One of them spots a moth flying towards the garden, before it makes a turn and flies away instead.)

Friend #1: “Yes! It’s flying away!”

Me: “What is?”

Friend #1: “The moth!”

Me: “Why is that important?”

Friend #2: “When we moved in, the house had a moth infestation. [Friend #1] found a company that exterminates them and then treats your house to keep them away.”

Me: “Well, it seems to be working!”

Friend #2: “Yes, but he managed to find the one company in London that had a no-moth guarantee, or they come back for free. Every time [Friend #1] saw even a single moth in the house, he would call them and they’d come back and spray it all over again. Our house was just full of chemicals.”

Me: “How many times?”

Friend #1: “Five times!”

Me: “Wow! And so now you don’t have moths?”

Friend #2: “No, but now we have cancer.”