This story reminds me of a similar one with a trainee. I was training a kid on his new duties working for Meijer. An emergency popped up that needed my attention.

Me: “While I’m off dealing with this, can you collect the stray carts from the parking lot?”

Kid: “Uh…. why?”

Me: “Because someone has to, and it’s not something that takes a lot of training.”

Kid: “Uh… OK.”

So, I went to deal with whatever was metaphorically on fire. When I got back to the parking lot, the new kid was rigging some sort of contraption involving a can of open cat food, an upside-down cart, and some dowels and twine.

Me: “What…. what are you doing?”

Kid: “I’m trying to collect stray cats from the parking lot.”

Me: “…Carts. Carts. Like that thing you’ve got upturned over there. Not the animals that go meow.”

Kid: “…That makes a lot more sense. I thought it was weird when you said it didn’t take a lot of training.”

Me: “So why didn’t you ask for clarification?”

Kid: *Sheepishly.* “…I was intimidated by the whole new job thing? Thought you’d maybe be like a teacher and get upset with me if I asked questions.”

Earlier during his training, he’d mentioned this was his very first job.

Me: “Okay. Let’s both take this as a lesson learned.”

He went on to be a fairly productive worker and eventually left for a better job elsewhere.

This story reminded me of something that happened during my college career.

The state of Michigan has two parts: a lower peninsula that gets pretty chilly north-Midwest weather, and the upper peninsula that gets freezing wind whipping down from Canada and massive amounts of snow. I grew up in the upper part, but was going to school in the lower part.

Freshman year, moving into the dorms, I met my roommate, who was really excited to be experiencing an American winter. He was already feeling kind of chilly. It was late August and over 80 °F (27 °C), so I asked where he was from and if he had a winter coat. Turned out he was from Jamaica, and he proudly showed off a light windbreaker.

Me: “Okay… First thing tomorrow, we’re heading down to the Army Surplus store and getting you a real coat, a hat, some gloves, and some boots.”

Sophomore year, new dorm, new roommate! And a similar story, except this time they were from Guatemala and didn’t even think to bring a windbreaker.

Army Surplus store trip for coat, hat, gloves, and boots. 

Junior year! I’m out of the dorms and into half of a duplex apartment with a shared living room and kitchen. I lived there for two years and had two different housemates over the duration, each of whom had transferred in from out of state.

The first one was from Miami, Florida and had never left their state before.

Army Surplus store trip.

The second was an international student from Hokkaido in northern Japan. Finally, somewhere that gets snow! But his folks were in the diplomatic service, so he’d grown up in Tahiti.

I provided a lot of business to that surplus store.

I work retail in a grocery store. My state was a hotbed for white supremacists just a few decades ago, and the whole country is experiencing a resurgence, so when people display racist behavior, we try to come down hard and fast for everyone’s safety.

One morning, I’m working when I see a customer come through the door, wearing something that catches my eye. I love seeing customers’ weird outfits, but as soon as I turn to look, I freeze. The customer is wearing a white robe, exactly the kind of thing I saw photos of in history classes as a child, but those were paired with white hoods.

I speed towards him, mentally freaking out and hoping to prevent him from even SEEING any of my non-White coworkers, because if he’s wearing that robe in public AND showing his face, he has no fear and is probably dangerous, and I would never forgive myself if he hurt someone and I didn’t try to stop him. I stand in front of him so he can’t get further into the store and keep my voice down, so I don’t scare anyone nearby.

Me: *Panicked, but still in customer service mode.* “Sir, PLEASE tell me you are not wearing what I think you’re wearing.”

Customer: “What do you mean?”

Me: “PLEASE tell me you are NOT wearing a KKK robe!”

The customer goes from confused to alarmed in the space of half a second.

Customer: “Oh, no! No, no, no! I’m a friar! I work for the Church! These are just my clergy robes!”

Me: “…Oh! Oh, thank goodness. I saw the white robe and just about had a heart attack.”

I have never gone from calm to panicked back to calm so quickly. And yes, I did apologize to the friar before I went back to my station to stew in embarrassment. But please, dude, if you’re going to wear the robe in public, at least keep one or two of the other vestments so we know you’re not dangerous!

This story reminded me of a name tag mishap of my own. When I was in college, I worked in a grocery store, usually at self-checkouts. To log into a self-checkout machine, we had to scan a barcode on the back of our name tag and punch in a short passcode.

One morning, I realized that I had accidentally left my name tag at home, so my manager gave me hers to use for the day. Her name was very normal for a woman her age, but very weird for someone my age; let’s say it was Barbara. I honestly wasn’t expecting anyone to notice; I’ve swapped name tags with a male coworker before, and no comments were made about it.

A few hours later, I helped a male customer who saw “Barbara” on my name tag.

Customer: “Your name is Barbara? You don’t see that name much anymore. That was my sister’s name, you know. She died about five years ago now. Seeing someone with her name, it almost feels like she’s still here.”

I remained rooted to the spot and made appropriate sympathetic noises as this guy extolled the virtues of his dead sister, which he clearly needed if he was trauma-dumping on a random worker, but I also felt bad about inadvertently reminding this guy of something so painful when Barbara WASN’T EVEN MY NAME.

Customer: “If you don’t mind me asking, why did your parents decide to name you Barbara?”

Me: *Panicking.* “Um… They didn’t. My name is actually [Completely Different Name]. I’m borrowing my manager’s name tag today. Her name is Barbara. She’s at the service desk if you’d like to see her. And I’m very sorry about your sister.”

This poor man looked absolutely CRUSHED, mumbled an apology, and quickly paid and left. And I started triple-checking that I had my name tag before going to work to avoid that EVER happening again.

Related:
Failed The Name Game, Part 12
Failed The Name Game, Part 11
Failed The Name Game, Part 10
Failed The Name Game, Part 9
Failed The Name Game, Part 8

This took place in October 1984. Before I can go into the story, I must give you some background.

Shortly after I turned ten years old, I learned that I had a mild form of muscular dystrophy. In fifth grade, when my classmates found out about this, I instantly became ostracized. An eighth grader still not having friends and putting up with years of abuse from my classmates, I decided to try to earn some respect by becoming the equipment manager for the football team. This did work to earn me some respect, but it still does not make me any friends.

Fast-forward to 1984, my senior year in high school. 

Before every varsity football game, the varsity team would go to a nearby Ponderosa for dinner. Next to this Ponderosa was a convenience store. They had a couple of video games. The first couple who finished eating would play video games while some of the other team members would stand around and watch them. This one particular Friday, I happened to be playing a video game. 

A real jerk on the football team says:

Jerk: “So, [My Name], have you gotten rid of your stupid disease yet?” 

Me: “No, [Jerk], you’re still hanging around!”

There were about six other football players there at the time, and they all started laughing at the jerk.

Later, while we’re in the locker room, getting ready for the game, the other players kept calling him a disease. When the coach asked why, the captain of the football team told the coach what happened. For the entire game, the coach referred to him as a disease. He never spoke another word to me.