I’m working at a closed beach advising people against swimming since the water quality is unsanitary. There are signs, but most people are shocked when I tell them they shouldn’t swim since they ignored the signs; others just don’t care.

I approach a woman with three little kids — between three and five years old — and give her my usual spiel.

Me: “Excuse me! Hi, I’m with [City] Parks and Rec! I’m just here to let you know that the [County] health department determined the level of bacteria in the water is unsafe and is advising against wading or swimming.”

As I’m speaking, she turns away like she’s only half interested in what I’m saying; meanwhile, her kids are splashing around in the water.

Mother: “Okay, thanks.”

Realizing I’m being brushed off, I move to a pair of kids in the water. I give the same spiel and they start asking questions, as kids do.

Kid: “Why can’t we swim?”

I can’t really enforce anything.

Me: “Well, it’s not that you can’t swim, but there’s gross stuff in the water and it’s better if you don’t.”

Kid: “Like what, though?”

Me: *Pause* “Sewage.”

The mother from before sees me talking to more people and approaches me, her kids still in the water.

Mother: “So, what is it that’s going on with the water?”

Me: “Well, there’s a sewage leakage nearby that frequently affects the water quality here.”

Mother: “So, when did they decide that it wasn’t safe to swim?”

Me: “I think the decision was made sometime last week.”

Mother: “Oh, well, we were here four days ago and it was fine.”

Me: “The health department decided that it’s not ideal for swimming at the moment.”

She kind of just nodded and walked off. Later, I looked over and noticed she had joined her kids in splashing around in the sewer water. She even dunked one of them under. The internal facepalm was real.

We’re immigrants. My parents aren’t fluent in English so they still make some mistakes with words and grammar. My dad gets a new phone and it keeps calling me on its own.

Me: “Hello? Hello? Huh. I guess he pocket-dialed me.”

I hang up and send him a text.

Me: “Your phone called me again.”

Dad: *Texting back* “Sorry I booty-call you.”

Me: *Texting back* “OH, GOD, FATHER, NO! YOU DID NOT BOOTY-CALL YOUR OWN DAUGHTER! CALL IT POCKET-DIAL!”

He says bum-call now, which I consider a huge improvement. I also got him to reduce the number of pocket-dials by making him add an actual screen-lock so that his pocket can’t swipe his phone open.

My husband and I are visiting my family’s home along with my sister and her husband. The conversation has turned to what we are eating tonight.

Sister: “[Her Husband] doesn’t even like potatoes, which is strange, because he has Russian ancestry!”

Mom: “The Russians didn’t really eat potatoes, though.”

Sister: “Yes, they did! The Russians literally made alcohol from potatoes. Even the Irish never did that!”

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I’m twelve years old and our family decides to move. I’m excited since we plan to move from a condo to a real house. We look around with a realtor, and my dad narrows it down to two houses.

Dad: “Which one do you think?”

Me: “I think the first house was better! It had a big backyard, huge rooms, and a fireplace!”

Mom: “But there were black people.”

Dad: “I don’t know, you decide.”

Mom picked the other house. I was disappointed since this house was dowdy, obviously old, and not in good shape. It had a back yard, but it was a severe slope, covered in poison ivy bushes, so we couldn’t play. We ALL had a miserable time there for fifteen years, all because Mom was racist. I’m glad now as an adult I can live where I want!

I work as a porter at a large branch of a national supermarket chain, dealing with the trolleys and baskets. The front of the store features a large metal A-frame that kids love to climb on but it isn’t safe at all, so we tell them to get down before they hurt themselves. About ten minutes after telling a little girl that it isn’t a climbing frame and asking her to get down, I’m approached by a woman, the girl from before in tow. 

Woman: “Don’t tell her not to climb on there; it’s none of your business!”

I try and explain that it is my business because it’s part of my job but the woman cuts me off, repeating:

Woman: “It’s none of your business!”

She stormed off to her car. I wonder if she’d feel the same way if her daughter had fallen and injured herself?