(I live in New York. It’s the evening of September 11, 2001. I am eleven years old, in middle school. The teachers let us watch the news, but my parents are working late, and the elementary school my eight-year-old brother goes to has not let the kids see. I am at a loss to explain things to him, and really worried, myself. The phone rings. I pounce, thinking it’s my mom, but it’s a very long, unfamiliar number.)

Me: “Hello?”

(I hear a voice I haven’t heard in ages, and realize why the number on the caller ID was so long. It’s my mom’s colleague, from Germany.)

Colleague: “[My Name]? You’re okay! You know about the terrorist attack, don’t you? I’m so sorry. Let me talk to your mom, all right?”

Me: “I’m fine… I don’t know where my mom is… Still at work I guess. Dad, too. I haven’t been able to reach them. And my brother doesn’t know. They haven’t told the little kids. I don’t know what’s happening.”

(I start to cry.)

Colleague: “But you and [Brother] are okay. Don’t let him turn on the TV or radio. I’m sure your mom and dad are fine, too. The phone lines are just so packed with people calling; it takes several times to get through. You’ll be okay. Hug [Dog], all right? Don’t cry… Shh, don’t cry… Give the phone to your brother, okay? I’ll explain.”

(I get my brother and turn on the speakerphone; the colleague explains in a way a kid can understand, without scaring my brother too much.)

Colleague: “Okay, I have to go to bed, but I’ll let your mother’s other colleagues know you’re all okay. You’re home alone?”

Me: *sniffling* “Yes.”

Colleague: “Don’t cry. I’ll pass the news on.”

(From then on, I ended up fielding calls from everyone my mom knows overseas; I was prepared to tell them that yes, we were all fine, but instead, people I hadn’t seen since I was a toddler just seemed to want to comfort us, since we were alone. To top it off, I realized that by the time the calls ended, it was nearly two am German time; they stayed up, just for us.)

(I am about seven or eight, and my sister is a year younger. My aunt is coming over, and she always bring us treats. My sister and I are very close, and when my aunt has left the room, my sister makes sure nobody is watching and I look in my aunt’s bag. I find a small bar of chocolate. Loving chocolate, I eat all of it, not giving any to my sister. She then turns around, looking to see if I had found anything.)

Sister: “[My Name], have you found anything?”

Me: “Nope, let’s go to the other room and relax.”

(We then leave and are relaxing in the next room when my mom comes running in.)

Mom: “Who ate [Aunt]’s chocolate!?”

(Not wanting to get in trouble, I immediately blame my sister.)

Me: “[Sister] did!”

Mom: “[Sister], get up, and come with me! [My Name], you stay here!”

(I later found out that my mom had taken my aunt and my sister to the hospital. That chocolate wasn’t actually plain chocolate. It was chocolate to help with my aunt’s constipation. So, while my sister was at the hospital getting needles and shots in her, I, the idiot, was sitting on the toilet the whole time. Keep in mind that was roughly four hours. Lesson learned.)

(I answer a phone in the alterations department of a bridal shop.)

Me: “Thank you for calling. What can I do for you?”

Customer: “Hi! It’s [Customer]. I just wanted to check on my dress.”

Me: “Ah, do you want to know when your pickup appointment is, or maybe move it?”

Customer: “Oh, no. I know it’s next month.”

Me: “I see! Sorry, if it’s that far out, we won’t have even touched your dress yet–”

Customer: “Oh, I know! It’s fine! I just wanted to know how it was doing.”

Me: “It’s… Uh, we haven’t worked on it.

Customer: “I know! I just want to know how it’s doing.”

Me: *glances at dress rack* “Well, I see it in the line? I’m sure we’ll get to it next week.”

Customer: “Great! Thanks! See you next month!” *click*

Coworker: *overhearing* “Yes, ma’am. Your dress is very happy here. It likes the other dresses.”

(I work as a supervisor for an electric company call center. I’m a woman, although my voice sounds very deep to the point where most customers think I am a man, especially over the phone. This doesn’t typically bother me. I am on a supervisor call correcting a billing mistake — these calls always have to go to a supervisor. The customer speaks very good English to me, but rants in German to somebody in the room with him that I am actually helping him because I am a “man,” and various other misogynistic comments about how women don’t belong in the workplace, are inept, etc. He doesn’t realize I speak German and understand everything he says.)

Me: *still in English* “Okay, you are all set; you’ll see an adjustment on your next bill and you can simply pay the corrected balance at your earliest convenience.”

Customer: “Thank you very much, sir. You have helped me incredibly.”

Me: *in German* “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

(I hear a gasp on the line.)

Me: *still in German* “Well, as a supervisor, I’m glad I had the opportunity to satisfy your concerns. Again, my name is Frau [Surname], and thank you for calling [Electric Company].”

This story is part of our Women’s Equality Day roundup!

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(A customer is next in line. He is very big, brutish man who is very nastily chewing out his young son.)

Customer: “I don’t give a f*** what you think, you little jacka**. I’m the f****** dad! You listen to what I say!”

Me: “Uh… Sir?”

Customer: *looking up* “What?”

Me: “This is a family establishment, and you need to stop the swearing.”

Customer: “Oh… Sorry.”

(I finish the transaction of the guest in front of him and ring him out.)

Customer: *to his son* “I still can’t believe you! You’re un-f******-believable!”

Me: “Sir! You need to stop the swearing. This is a family establishment.”

Customer: *looking up* “But I wasn’t swearing at you, dips***!”

Me: “I’m calling the manager if this continues.”

Customer: “Okay, sorry.”

(I finish the transaction. The customer is walking away.)

Customer: *to his son* “This place is un-f******-believable! I’ve had it with being told that I can’t swear! Who the f*** do people think they are?!”

(The kicker? Later, I talked to a coworker who heard them before they got in my line. The reason the dad was so mad at his son? Because his son swore. Go figure.)