While on break from a statewide high school ceremony, my family got to watch as several hundred people were officially made US citizens at the courthouse across the street. It was a very moving ceremony for not only the participants, but we spectators were reminded of the greatness of this country and the spirit of the American dream.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, the participants were paraded out to a very American Bruce Springsteen song. My daughter asked me why I was laughing. 

“Because,” I said, “none of these folks were Born in the USA.”

(I pull up to a fast food restaurant. The menu has three choices for slushies: fruit punch, blue raspberry, and sweet peach.)

Me: “I’d like a medium raspberry slushie.”

Worker: “We don’t got raspberry.”

Me: “Oh, are you out?”

Worker: “We’ve never had raspberry.”

Me: “Do you have the other flavors?”

Worker: “What other flavors?”

Me: “The ones other than raspberry: fruit punch and peach.”

Worker: “We’ve got fruit punch, blue raspberry, and sweet peach.”

Me: “So, you do have the raspberry; that’s what I want.”

Worker: “We don’t have raspberry. You want the blue one?”

Me: *pause* “Yes.”

(I was so tempted to ask her, “So, just what flavor do you think the one with ‘raspberry’ in the name is?” But then I realized that if she didn’t already know that “blue raspberry” is supposed to be raspberry, pointing it out wouldn’t do much good. Or maybe she’s cleverer than I and knows that “blue raspberry” flavoring has nothing in common with actual raspberry?)

(I’m driving for Uber, taking a rider to a concert. He’s texting as I drive.)

Customer: “Hey, [My Name], we’re friends now, okay? I’m telling everyone that a friend is giving me a ride.”

Me: *playing along* “Okay, ‘friend,’ can I borrow twenty bucks?”

Customer: “If I give you money, you’re one of my kids.”

My fiancée is shopping for a fancy women’s suit for our upcoming wedding. To save money, she, her brother, and their mom go to a department store. My fiancée finds a great suit that she looks amazing and comfortable in, but now she will need a tie for it. She goes to an associate, an older woman, for help.

The associate gives my fiancée — who does have a butch hairstyle — and her women’s suit a dirty look and tells her that women’s scarves, but not ties, are nearby and men’s ties are upstairs.

My fiancée still got the suit.

(I’m busy working on a painting in the back of my art gallery when an older woman comes in. My painting area is obvious, in full view of the front, so anyone coming in can see what’s going on between the two extremely wide aisles. The woman is somewhat shabbily dressed, but I have no judgments because I’ve previously sold pieces to people in all kinds of clothes, clean or dirty. She’s looking at the paintings on the walls and after giving her a while to look around, as is customary, I walk towards the front to ask if she has any questions or needs help with anything. The woman does not look at me once during the following conversation. Zero eye contact.)

Me: “Welcome to [Name] gallery. Is there anything I can help with?”

Customer: “Not really, but these are very nice prints.”

Me: “Well, actually they’re original paintings, not prints. I do have a couple of print bins at the end of the middle aisle if you are looking for a print.”

Customer: “Well, they look like prints to me. I should know.”

Me: “No, they’re original paintings, all done with brush and paint.”

Customer: “Right.” *smiles sweetly* “Well, you don’t really know. You’re just an employee, after all.”

Me: “Actually, ma’am, I know for a fact because I own the gallery and those are my paintings you’re looking at.”

Customer: “Well, how would I know if they’re not reproductions and you’re just trying to rip people off?”

Me: *trying to be patient and educate her* “For one thing, if you look closely, there are built-up areas of paint in different spots. As well, I can show you the back of the painting if you’d like, so you can see where the paint is on the sides of the canvas and some is actually on the back as well. I only sell prints on paper, not canvas. My originals are always in frames. I never frame the prints, they’re always in the bins so it’s easy to flip through them.”

Customer: “Oh, only originals are in the frames. Okay.”

Me: “That’s right, but if you’re looking for prints, the print bins are at the end, just down there.”

Customer: “Hmm, no, I don’t want any prints. I only buy originals.”

(I watch her for a couple of seconds more and then go back and keep working on the painting, but keep an eye on her. She never once goes to the bins to look at any of the prints or even glances my way while I’m obviously painting an original. As she’s leaving:)

Customer: “Well, thanks for the information. I really do like the prints you have up.”

Me: “… ”

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