(I’m in Montréal visiting my grandparents. I don’t know enough Quebecois to have a full coherent conversation. Since most employees can speak both Quebecois and English, I usually start the conversations in English to avoid any complications. I walk into a clothing shop and one of the employees approaches me, speaking very quickly in Quebecois.)

Me: “I’m sorry; I’m only fluent in English. Were you telling me about the sales?”

Employee: *to cashier* “UGH, mon dieu! Crisse de cave. Petite cave…”

(This roughly translates into ‘Oh, my god, what a little idiot.’)

Me: “But I do know enough to ask for your manager. Or should I say, ‘Je ne suis pas un peu idiot! Où est votre gestionnaire?'”

(The employee turned beet red and retrieved a manager, who apologized profusely for her language. He offered me one free accessory from the sale rack, and said he will remind his staff to assume that primarily English tourists might know some basic French!)

(My three-year-old daughter has decided that I have to give her a pedicure. She wants to use the Crackle nail polish, which she, unfortunately, calls “crack.”)

Daughter: “I want some crack.”

Me: “I don’t have any crack left.”

Daughter: “But I want the crack.”

Me: “I promise as soon as I get some crack, you can have it.”

(Pauses.)

Me: “This is a terrible conversation.”

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(I am a female woodworking student, shopping for a specific kind of saw in a hardware store. There’s only one on the shelf, so I grab it and start to move towards the register.)

Customer: “You can’t have this saw.”

Me: “And why not?”

Customer: “Because I need it!”

Me: “Well, I’m sorry about that, but I picked it up first when you weren’t even near it. They’ll probably order some soon.”

Customer: “Give it to me. I really need it.”

Me: “As much as I do. I’m sorry, sir, but it’s mine.”

Customer: “I clearly need it more than you; you’re a woman! You can’t have any use for a saw!”

Me: “I’m doing woodworking and I need this saw for an order a client placed with me. I am not going to give it to you and delay my client’s order.”

Customer: *sheepishly* “Oh, I’m sorry, I couldn’t know… If I knew you were a woodworker, I wouldn’t have said that.”

Me: “You shouldn’t make sexist comments like that, regardless of what field I work. Every woman is allowed to buy a saw… not only woodworkers.”

(I’m in the back, preparing for my shift. It’s past rush hour, but the station is still busy. My coworker is working the till, and there’s a line of customers.)

Coworker: “Good evening. What pump did you have?”

(Suddenly, the customer pulls out a BIG hunting knife.)

Customer: *threatening* “Give me the cash!”

Coworker: *annoyed* “Did you have gas to pay for or not? It’s late. There are people behind you in line waiting to pay and go home, and you’re holding up the line.”

Customer: *lowers knife* “Oh, sorry.”

(To everyone’s surprise, the would-be robber leaves, dejected. Everyone just stares at my coworker, dumbfounded.)

Coworker: “Wait, was he trying to rob us?”

Next Customer: “Balls of steel, man!”

(My coworker realizes what he’s done, and starts freaking out. He was a bit shaken for an hour or so, but was okay afterwards.)

(My ethnic heritage is a bit of a mish-mash. On one side, I am of recent European immigrants, while on the other I am native and English. This occurs on the first day of my first job as I am sitting with coworkers and my supervisor in the lunch room. My coworker is getting increasingly vocal about his disdain for native Americans due to recent news items including a blockade of key roads in the Montreal area. The conversation takes place in French.)

Coworker: “Natives are s***! They don’t pay taxes. They’re into smuggling and criminal gangs, and they all drink themselves into prison. I hate them!”

Me: “Um, I’m part Mohawk.”

Coworker: *embarrassed* “Uh, I have to go and compile that program…”

(My coworker leaves. My supervisor, who has overheard everything, approaches me.)

Supervisor: “Well, that ended wrong, didn’t it? I guess every generation has its problem with one group or another. In my day, it was the f***ing DPs. You know what a DP is? Displaced Person. God, they flooded the city after the war. Useless, and I bet most of them were Nazi sympathizers. They were filthy and they brought disease. They took jobs away from good Quebecers!”

Me: “Um, my mom was a DP. I’m part German.”

Supervisor: *laughs* “I put my foot in it that time didn’t I? Well, at least you’re not English.”

Me: “Um…”

(I quit very shortly thereafter.)

This story is part of our Native-American roundup.

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