My wife’s family is French, and we try to get over to visit them a couple of times a year. I love my in-laws, but they can be quite outgoing at times, and as a thirty-eight-year-old Autistic man, I find this a bit tiring.

For Christmas a couple of years ago, we were staying with my wife’s sister, her husband, and their son. My wife likes to keep me informed when we are about to meet people so I can prepare myself mentally and emotionally. I’m usually all right once I meet them; it’s just the thought of meeting new people for the first time that makes me anxious.

On this occasion, my wife told me that her sister’s husband’s brother would be visiting with his wife, and told me a little bit about them so I knew roughly what to expect.

When they arrive, I am in the bathroom, so I am unable to properly say hello. I hear them arrive and go through the typical French greeting of a kiss on each cheek. I finish in the bathroom and go to the room where my wife and I are sleeping to grab something, planning to head for the living room and say hello properly.

I turn to leave the room when I am met by a woman at the door, who I assume is the wife in the couple. The following brief conversation happens, in French:

In-Law: “You must be [My Name]!”

Me: “Yes.”

She tells me her name, but I can’t make it out because she speaks so fast.

In-Law: “Okay, hello.”

She shakes my hand instead of kissing my cheeks.

In-Law: “Was your poo good, then?”

Me: *Utterly mortified* “Uh… yes?”

She grins and walks off. I stay in the bedroom, trying not to cry. In my head, I am thinking, “What the actual h*** is wrong with this woman? WHO ACTUALLY ASKS THAT?!”

I decide not to leave the bedroom and instead lay on the bed, reading. Eventually, my wife comes to see what is wrong. The following conversation happens in English:

Wife: “Here you are, [My Name]!”

Me: “Hi.”

Wife: “Are you coming to say hello?”

Me: “Maybe.”

My wife notices something is wrong.

Wife: “Is everything all right?”

Me: “Yes.”

My wife eventually persuaded me to tell her what was wrong, and tearfully, I told her about my “encounter.” She was disgusted and horrified, and she apologised profusely. I told her that the only person I wanted an apology from was “the stupid b*** in the living room who thinks she’s a f****** comedian!” My wife told me I could stay in the bedroom until the visitors left, so I did. She asked me if I’d like her to tell her sister what happened, but I asked her not to because I was too embarrassed.

I haven’t seen this woman since the incident, but if I ever meet her again I’ll have to bite my tongue because I have a few choice words for her!

My two kids are adopted. I’m Caucasian; they’re Latino. When they are toddlers, I make friends with a Latina nanny in my town whose charge is a typical blonde-haired, blue-eyed Caucasian. 

We take the kids out to a museum and a store, with her pushing her charge in a stroller and me pushing my kids in a double stroller. The kids are all giggling and babbling while my friend and I stop to look at something in the store and a random woman comes by.

Woman: *Looking at my kids* “Oh, aren’t you two adorable.” *Turning to my friend* “Are they yours?”

Me: “No, they’re mine.”

The woman gets “Surprised Pikachu” face.

Friend: “This one’s mine.”

She points to the little boy she watches.

Woman: “But… how…?”

She just sort of wandered away, occasionally looking back at us with a perplexed face. I think we broke her.

After reading the Having A Pew Pew Fight story, I had to submit these two incidents. At sixty-five, I AM an older person, although I believe “elderly” is however old I am plus forty years. However, both of these incidents take place when I am in my late thirties.

Incident 1: I am at my usual church for 11:00 am Sunday Mass. I have arrived early as there is always a problem getting a place to sit at this particular mass. I have removed my jacket, settled my purse, and am on my knees praying when two older women come down the same pew. 

Older Woman #1: “Excuse me, miss.”

Older Woman #2: “You are in our pew!”

I cross myself and try to feel loving and kind since, you know, I am here to praise God and all.

Me: “I’m sorry.”

Older Woman #1: “I said you are in our pew. Everyone knows this is our pew!”

Me: “Uh— I didn’t know.”

I look at the pew, which is about eight feet long and which has a column going up through the end where I am sitting.

Me: “I mean, there’s still—”

Older Woman #2: “No, no, no, no. You are in our seats. You are sitting where we sit. This is our pew. Everyone knows that.”

I stare at them in disbelief, and then I decide it’s better to give them the shirt off my back, as it were, than start a fight over whose pew this is.

I gather my stuff and proceed out of the pew and they barely back up enough to let me by.  

Me: “Enjoy. Have a great day!”

Older Woman #1: “Where are you going?”

Me: “Further back.”

Older Woman #2: “Oh, that’s just silly. You don’t have to leave. You can sit on the far end.”

Me: “With all due respect, ladies. yes, I do have to move further back. Trust me.”

Incident 2: It’s right before Easter and I have been trying to get to Confession for weeks, but my church changed the hours of Confession and I am usually working when the sacrament is available. So, I go to another church that has a reputation for being snooty. 

I can attest to the snootiness, too. After I had attended several masses and no one would look at me, much less shake my hand during the sign of peace, I got the message and found my other church.

I have gotten out of the Confessional and, as there is a good half-hour before Saturday evening Mass begins, I grab a pew at the back to go through my penance prayers. And I figure I will then just stay for the Mass as Sunday is going to be a busy day.

I haven’t even gotten through one Hail Mary when I feel a forceful tapping on my shoulder. Think “Woodpecker with a glove over its nose.” Tap, tap, tap.

I look up and see two people, maybe in their early fifties, but acting as if they are over one hundred and two.

Woman: “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you think you are doing, but this is our pew.”

This is literally the worst pew in the world. It’s right at the back of the church and so far to the side in front of the Confessionals that you couldn’t see the Mass if you had one of those telescopes that goes around corners.

Me: “I am just doing my penance and…”

Woman: “I said this is our pew. You have to leave now.”

I survey the whole church, which is still completely empty because Mass doesn’t start for over half an hour.

Me: “But, I—”

Man: “WE ALWAYS SIT HERE ON SATURDAY NIGHT.”

And then he adds the phrase that they seem to think should make sense for someone who rarely goes to their church.

Man: “EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT!”

I start gathering my stuff and pushing my way out because, like the other two ladies, this couple wants to make sure they get IN before I get OUT.

Me: “Enjoy your pew. I guess I will go find a more pleasant place to say my penance.”

Woman: “Oh, well, you can stay at the end if you want.”

What is this obsession with having to sit all the way in? I was taught that you take your seat and move in.

Me: “No, I don’t think so. I just finished Confession. I need to leave right now before what I am thinking turns into words and I have to go straight back in and make another report.”

No, I really wouldn’t do that, but I am so peeved with these two pew huggers I get down on their level for a minute.

Woman: “Oh, really, that’s so rude!”

Me: “Well, it is for one of us.”

I have only been back to that church once and it was for the memorial service for a friend’s infant. My friends were registered at that church because it was close, but even they agreed the vibe was annoying. It was the only time the church was filled with warmth and friendliness as no one else but the grieving couple was a member.

Seriously? I never sit in the same pew twice when I attend church and I don’t worry about someone sitting in my spot. WHO does that?

Related:
Having A Pew Pew Fight

I am an African Canadian working at a local full-service gas station chain. We only have a small office big enough for one employee and a couple of soft drink coolers, all located on the gas pump island. It is summer and gas prices are up so business is slow.

A couple of my friends have pulled their car up near the pumps but left room for customers and they are playing some reggae on the stereo.

While I am fueling up a customer, I see another approaching on foot: an extremely pale caucasian in his mid-twenties with a shaved head wearing torn shorts and a [Heavy Metal Band] T-Shirt. I try to get the attention of my friends to turn the music down but they don’t hear me.  

While I finish fueling the car, he gets some pop from the cooler and waits. I notice that he has started tapping his foot not impatiently but with our music.

Me: “You like this music?”

Customer: “H*** yeah, [Reggae Artist playing at the moment]! Hooah!”

He put his bag with his pop back in the cooler to keep it cold and hung around chilling with us for about ten minutes. I learned that day not to jump to conclusions about customers.

I’m on a long bus trip from Montreal, Québec, to Ottawa and then Toronto, Ontario. It’s something like seven hours, not counting the connecting time in Ottawa. It’s a “night trip” starting at 21:00 in Montreal and ending at 05:00 in Toronto.

There are two women sitting just in front of me for the two-hour trip from Montreal to Ottawa. They chat non-stop for the whole trip. It’s relatively early, so it’s not that bad. They speak some Arabic language, which makes it like “noise” to me, and I’m able to take a nap, not being tempted, voluntarily or not, to eavesdrop.

Then, there’s the leg from Ottawa to Toronto, which is four hours. They are sitting a few rows behind the driver, but are just chatting again non-stop. I am seriously amazed that their vocal cords haven’t called it quits by this time. All we hear is them. No one else is talking.

Then, about an hour into this trip, the bus driver speaks up.

“To whoever is talking non-stop behind me, it’s 3:00 am. Some people might want to sleep. Could you please be considerate and shut the h*** up?”

That might not have been the most courteous way to ask for it, but it did the trick.

I’m sure many travelers, in their heads, clap their hands for the driver. I know I did.