My dad and I are visiting a certain movie industry theme park, and we decide to go on a holographic ride based on a certain film series about fast cars. 

Ahead of the ride proper, our group files into a little presentation room where a lady on a pedestal sets the theme of the ride for us. A recording of one of the characters from the film series comes up on the screen behind her, and she does a little rehearsed back-and-forth for a few minutes.

After she’s done, the doors open, and we start making our way to the ride proper. As we’re filing out, though, she waves at the crowd and says:

Employee: “Have fun, everyone! I’ll be here responding to this same call again for the next four hours.”

I don’t know if anyone else in the group hears her; if they do, they don’t say anything. My dad and I hear her, though, and as we are following the hall to the ride, I turn to him.

Me: “Do you think that’s what purgatory is like?”

He chuckles and shrugs.

Dad: “If it’s not, I can’t imagine it’d be much different.”

If you’re out there, employee, I hope you got to take a long break that day.

My family, my wife’s parents, her brother’s family, and I were treated to a trip to Disney World by my wife’s parents.

Unbeknownst to anyone in my family or on my wife’s side of the family, I’m spot-on for mimicking Mickey Mouse’s voice and I can do a pretty solid Donald Duck. I decided to take it upon myself to spread some joy and sorrow amongst people, young and old alike, while we were wandering the parks.

The costumed characters at the Disney parks are not allowed to talk. There are a few costumes with built-in speakers and phrases or words can be spoken by button presses — the Storm Troopers, for example. But most people have seen a cartoon or two and know what Mickey and Donald sound like.

As we got in lines for meeting characters — specifically Mickey and Donald — I would patiently wait until I saw that no one was looking in my direction and I would say a quick one-liner in the voice of Mickey or Donald.

People would swing their heads around looking to see where the voice came from, and little kids would scream with joy, “It’s MICKEY!” or, “It’s DONALD!” and they’d spin around looking for them. After a few moments of no one being able to locate the sound of the voice, everyone would go back to what they were doing. Even my kids, who were six and eleven, were excitedly looking for Mickey or Donald.

Watching the joy in people’s eyes as they heard the voices of these iconic characters was magical. You could see the joy on their faces and then watch it fade away.

My wife caught on to me doing the voices after I did it a few times, and she scolded me for my actions, but my kids thought it was funny when they found I could do these voices. They kept egging me on to do the voices to trick people. My daughter would nudge me as we walked behind families and tell me to talk like Mickey, so I’d oblige. The little kids in the family would strain their necks trying to look behind them to get a glimpse of Mickey, only to see some random guy with his family walking behind them. They’d look so confused and sad at the same time. It was awesome.

I’m not sure if that’s evil of me or not, but sometimes it’s the little things in life that make your day, and I didn’t lose any sleep over it.

I was around fourteen years old at the time of this story. Our high school arranged a special trip every four years for the band and choir kids (and some parents to chaperone) to go to Florida to perform at Disney World. The performances were just a tiny part of the trip; the rest of the week was basically just one big vacation for all of us. We caravanned in charter buses from Ohio down to Florida with our bandmates and choirmates and got to stay at a nice hotel and do lots of fun Florida activities.

I was always a loner in school. I was the smart, chubby, quiet girl with basically only one friend; my friend was a guy in my instrument section in band, and he was supposed to be my seatmate for the bus ride down. He bailed on me that morning when we all showed up at the school to load up because he had a crush on a pretty blond girl and wanted to sit with her for the bus ride.

I was a little upset, but as luck would have it, while we were waiting to load the buses, I somehow made fast friends with another loner kid who I’d somehow never really talked to before. (I still don’t really remember how that happened, but I’m grateful it did.) We spent the entire trip in each other’s company, palling around off the beaten path.

One day during the trip, it was arranged for us to spend the day at a big beach that was next to a nice hotel. All the students and adults were happily soaking up the sun, sand, and ocean fun while my buddy and I decided to avoid it. Both of us were pale and didn’t do so well in direct heat and sun, and I wasn’t comfortable in a swimsuit, so he and I found the hotel arcade and spent our “beach time” happily playing video games.

I got thirsty at some point and wandered over to the outdoor pool area to the juice bar to get a drink and maybe a snack. The server gal behind the bar was maybe in her early twenties, slim, blond, pretty, tan — all the things that I wasn’t. This was fine, of course… for me, at least.

Me: “Hi. Can I please get a bottle of water?”

Server: *Ignoring my request* “Why aren’t you in a swimsuit?”

I looked down at my dumpy T-shirt and jeans and then back at her. 

Me: “Oh, I’m not swimming today. My friend and I are spending our time in the arcade.”

Server: *Scoffs* “Well, you don’t have to swim to wear a swimsuit, you know.”

Me: *Starting to get uncomfortable* “I know. But I’m fine, thanks. Can I please have a bottle of water?”

Server: “You know, you could at least lay out and tan or something if you don’t want to swim.”

Me: *Feeling more and more insecure by the minute* “I’m just not comfortable with how I look in a swimsuit, I guess.”

She finally handed me my water and looked me up and down.

Server: *In a condescending sing-song voice* “Tan fat is better than white fat!”

I turned red, took my water, and scuttled out of there and back to my friend in the arcade. I told him what happened, and he was pretty upset on my behalf. He reassured me not to listen to people who say things like that.

He and I stayed friends for a long while after that — which was awesome; he was a great friend — and twenty-five years later, I still remember that conversation with that server, verbatim. And though I’ve slimmed down since high school and grown into my looks, I’m still very pale, averse to heat and sun, slightly intimidated by pretty blondes, and not comfortable in a swimsuit.

My family is from Canada, and we’re on vacation at a magical place where all your dreams come true. My fiancée and two of her brothers — ages seven and ten — were invited to come with, so they agreed and flew down with us. Her youngest brother is deaf and primarily speaks using ASL (American Sign Language). He likes to hang around with me but looks nothing like me. I am Native American, while my fiancée and her brothers are Metis. It should also be known that I have my trained PTSD service dog in full vest with me.

I have just returned from getting myself something to eat and have sat down on a bench with the seven-year-old. He starts signing to me excitedly that he has just met one of his favourite characters while I was getting food, but he stops as he sees a little girl, around three, come close and pet my dog. He starts pointing to get my attention and I turn to look at the younger girl.

Me: “Oh, no, no, sweetie. We don’t touch this dog; she’s a working dog.”

Girl: “But I wanna!”

She goes to pet my dog with determination in her eyes like I have never seen before.

Me: “I know you do, but do you see the clothes she’s wearing? When you see this patch on a doggie—”

I point to the large patch on the side of the vest: a red hand with “STOP! DO NOT TOUCH: SERVICE DOG” on it.

Me: “—it means we don’t touch, because that dog is working.”

Girl: *Dejectedly* “Oh…”

She runs off to find her parents. I think this is the end of it, and I go back to signing with [Seven-Year-Old]. A few minutes later, however, I hear crying, and I look up to see a swearing man stomping up to me.

Man: “Who the f*** do you think you are, you [Latino slur]?! How dare you tell my daughter what she can and cannot do?!”

Me: “Your daughter was distracting my dog from doing her job, which puts my safety at risk.”

Man: “I don’t give a f***! All you [slur]s are the same, thinking they can do whatever they want! Why don’t you go back to Mexico where you belong?!”

Me: “First, I’m Native American, not Latino. I don’t even remotely look like I’m Latino in any way, shape, or form. Secondly, I’m from Canada, and I do expect to return in two weeks when my vacation is over. Third, there are children around you and you’re throwing a temper tantrum because I wouldn’t let your daughter touch my working service dog. What a great father you are, showing her that if you get loud and throw a tantrum, you can be a racist s***bag!”

By now, I can feel my dog nudging me to tell me that I am in a situation that I should leave or I risk having a meltdown of my own. I go to stand, but the man looks at [Seven-Year-Old], who has been playing with the light-up ears I bought him.

Man: “You and your [very racist slur for Native Americans] dad should go back to your reserve; you don’t belong in the white world.”

I lose it. I stand to my full 6’4” height, towering over the man before I lean over to look him square in the eye. By now, we’ve drawn a slight crowd.

Me: “Say that again, but to my face this time.”

The man began to stammer before a cast member arrived with security.

In the end, they took statements from everyone and kicked the man and his family out of the park.

About ten years ago, I worked part-time as an assistant to an old woman in her eighties. The circumstances of how this came to be can be summed up as happenstance and being in the right place at the right time. The details are a bit lost on me nowadays, but I do remember her splitting into a big smile when she realized I was tall enough to reach the top shelf of a grocery aisle.

She was practically a South Korean grandmother stereotype; she was absolutely tiny — she barely reached my chest and I’m 6’0″ — she was very sweet and kind, and English was her third language. I worked full-time nights, so when I was done with my night shift, I went to her house at around 7:00 am, stayed with her for four to five hours per weekday to keep her company, assist her in getting around, drive her to the grocery store sometimes, and help her cook, as the rest of her family had school and work of their own to do. Then, I went home, usually between 11:00 and 12:00 when her daughter came back, to sleep until I needed to wake up again and get ready for work.

Safe to say, I — a big, 260-pound Caucasian man with a red beard — was a fixture of her house for a good few years. I met a lot of her family and even got invited to a couple of their reunions, though everyone seemed to be under the impression that her youngest daughter and I were dating, despite our protests.

I have plenty of stories, but one stands out in particular: the day about a year into working with her that this less-than-five-foot-tall grandmother protected me from potentially getting my butt kicked.

We were in a grocery store, and [Grandma] was holding onto my arm as we walked, with me pushing the cart and her holding the list of essentials she needed for one dinner or another. We’d just started going down the soup aisle when, as I bent over to grab a can, something bumped into my hip. There was a loud crash behind me, and I looked back to see another man, who had evidently dropped a big can of tomato soup when he bumped into me. The can had broken open and splashed his khaki pants up to his knees, as well as his formerly-shiny black dress shoes.

I’m not sure what his financial situation actually was, but his clothes certainly looked fancier than mine.

At that moment, I could see his face growing as red as the tomatoes, and I had a feeling that he wasn’t about to be gracious about it. So, I went full damage control, taking full responsibility and putting my body between the angry man and [Grandma] in case he started throwing stuff.

Me: “Oh, man, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Man: “YOU’RE D*** RIGHT, YOU’RE SORRY! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I PAID FOR THESE PANTS?!”

Me: *Trying to deescalate* “Look, I’ll pay for the damages and your groceries—”

He cut me off, continuing to scream and making a big scene in the middle of a grocery store, while a woman who I could only assume was his wife kept trying to get his attention. His wife certainly looked pained and embarrassed, but also resigned. The man pulled himself away from her, moving toward me threateningly. As I said, I’m a big guy, but I was not looking for a fight, and my main priority would, of course, be to protect [Grandma]. This angry man was a little bit shorter than me but also fairly beefy, and I had no doubt he’d be able to throw his weight around if he made to attack me.

In my efforts to lead him away from [Grandma] so it was less likely for her to get hurt, she’d apparently moved like a ninja, as the next thing I — or the angry man — knew, a tiny hand came up from below and grabbed the man’s ear. As only a very perturbed grandmother of any race or creed can do, she wrenched him down by the ear so hard that I was worried she’d rip it off, and she started yelling point-blank into it.

Grandma: “HE SAY SORRY! STOP YELLING IN [GROCERY STORE]! FAMILIES AND BABIES HERE! YOU ACT LIKE BABY!”

At that point, she descended into what I could only assume were Korean insults and curses before she let him go, and the angry man stumbled away from the, frankly, quite scary Korean grandmother. I stepped back, as well, to put distance between myself and the formerly angry, now thoroughly dressed-down man, who mumbled something about not worrying about the pants or shoes and shuffled off in shame, his wife following with an apologetic look.

I looked back at [Grandma], who had immediately gone back to sweet old lady, holding up her grocery list, a smile on her face as though nothing happened.

Grandma: “We need soup.”

I did, of course, pay for the damaged soup can, and our shopping trip went on without any further incident, though I did jokingly call her “my bodyguard” when I relayed the story to [Daughter] when we got back home. [Grandma] made pretend martial arts moves when I said that, laughing heartily, obviously quite proud of herself.

I eventually moved on from assisting [Grandma], though I still kept in touch with [Daughter] and her other family members. A few years ago, [Grandma] passed away peacefully in her sleep, and I related this and other stories at her funeral, earning happy, tear-filled chuckles.

Later that day, [Daughter] took me aside.

She explained to me that the day she stood up for me in the grocery store had been the day that I, evidently, had basically become adopted, because [Grandma] had a history of being a bodyguard to her family; between nosy neighbors and angry fellow customers, she met them with just as much aggression and then immediately calmed down when the situation was rectified. 

I’m man enough to admit I cried even more after learning that.

Related:
Never Pick A Fight With An Old Scottish Woman

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