(I’ve just finished ringing up a woman who has otherwise been quiet.)

Me: “Okay, you’re all set. Thank you!”

Woman: “Thanks. Oh, do you know any nail salons run by white people?”

Me: “I… no?”

Woman: *shaking her head* “There’s one down the hall, but I don’t want my nails done by foreigners who believe in Buddha. Oh, well. Thanks, anyway!”

(Setting aside how shocked — and baffled — I was by her attitude, I have to wonder how she thought someone with uneven nails and chipped polish in mismatched colors would even know where a nail salon is outside the area they work in. When I told her about it, my manager said the only salon she knows of run by white people is in an extremely shady part of town.)

(I’m far from being the most feminine girl and there are few things I hate doing more than shaving my legs. It’s tedious, time-consuming, and just all-around unnecessary, so I do it MAYBE twice a year at most. Neither of my parents really like this fact but my dad’s a little more vocal about it, leading to some variation of this conversation happening every couple weeks or so:)

Dad: *looking at my legs disapprovingly* “You need to shave. When are you going to do it?”

Me: “I’ll start shaving my legs regularly when you start shaving yours.”

Dad: “Humph!”

(Sigh.)

(During a particularly heavy period, I end up bleeding through my pad and onto my sheets during the night. When it doesn’t initially come out, I spray some stain remover on the faded stain and throw it back in the washing machine, something my dad notices me doing.)

Dad: “What’s going on? Did you spill something?”

Me: *deadpan* “Yeah, my vagina.”

Dad: *pause* “I guess I asked.”

(Every year, the Archdiocese my school is a part of puts on a “Keep Christ in Christmas” contest for anyone from 1st to 12th grade. For it, you can submit one of three things: a poster, a 250- to 300-word essay, or a piece of poetry. While the actual prompt is incredibly obvious, you can spin it in literally any direction you want. My high school is one of the only ones that actually makes all of its students do the contest for a grade each year; however, all of the religion teachers go through their submissions and only actually turn the best ones into the contest. It’s my last year doing this contest and I decide to write an essay on the Santa Lie and how commercialism is replacing the original meaning behind the holiday. I finish up and leave my hard copy on the counter so I don’t forget to bring it to school the next day. Unfortunately, my mom finds it and she barges into my room waving it in her hand.) 

Mom: “[My Full Name], what is this?!”

Me: “Uh, my ‘Keep Christ in Christmas’ essay?”

(She then goes on a rant about how terrible and cynical my essay is before reading it out to my dad, who ends up agreeing with her.)

Me: “It’s my last one, Mom. I honestly don’t care anymore.”

(After a bit more arguing, she begrudgingly lets me turn it in. Fast forward about two days.)

Mom: “I got the email that your essay was graded; what did you get?”

Me: “I got full points, 40 out of 40.”

Mom: “I don’t believe you. Show it to me now.”

(She isn’t very happy when I confirm my grade. The next day, I go to my religion class.)

Teacher: “All right, everyone, here are your ‘Keep Christ in Christmas’ submissions back.”

(He finally walks around to my desk.)

Teacher: “Oh, yeah, [My Name], I’m keeping yours to turn in to the Archdiocese. I really like angry screams against capitalism.”

(My mother was not at all happy. Unfortunately, I didn’t win.)

(This event happens more than halfway through my junior year in high school. It’s important to note that prior to this, I have only missed about four or five days of school during my ENTIRE high school career, half of which were from when my grandmother died unexpectedly last year. This one particular morning, I wake up feeling like complete and utter crap. I also just so happen to have two major presentations today after lunch and my parents know about both of them. They basically have to fight to get me out of bed, accusing me of either lying or exaggerating to get out of my presentations. I manage to power through the first half of the day before breaking down at lunch and having my counselor essentially force my mother to come and get me. Naturally, she isn’t happy about it as she still thinks I’m purposefully trying to avoid my presentations.)

Mom: *in a very condescending tone* “I hope you’re prepared to go to the doctor. I’m bringing you back right after, too.”

(It’s very clear she’s trying to call my “bluff” and scare me into backing down, but I just quietly shrug. And just as she said, she brings me to a walk-in clinic near my school. After going through the standard procedure, the nurse seeing me takes a snot sample for a flu test.)

Mom: “I’m thinking it’s just a little cold at most.”

Nurse: “If that’s the case, we’ll probably just do a steroid shot, but let’s see the test results first.”

(She leaves and returns a few minutes later. To my mother’s surprise, the nurse is now wearing a procedure mask.)

Nurse: “So, he has the flu. We’re lucky y’all caught it within the first two days so we can write him a prescription for some Tamiflu that y’all can pick up at your preferred pharmacy. We’ll also give you a doctor’s note that says he can’t go to school until at least next Monday. Until then, make sure he gets plenty of rest and that he doesn’t have a fever for at least 48 hours prior to Monday.”

(My mother was horrified and ended up asking to have herself tested, too; she was negative. Although I feel bad for all my friends and classmates who sat by me that morning, I can’t help but gleefully remember my mom’s face when she realized that I wasn’t faking s***.)