(I am a tom-boyish girl who prefers to wear jeans and a hoodie wherever I go, mainly because I have a certain body shape that most boys at my school like to… look at. My dad asks me to go to the store to buy a few things. I’m looking at the candy aisle because my dad asked for me to pick up some chocolate. I have just grabbed the chocolate when a woman suddenly comes up to me with an accusing look, grabs the chocolate from me, and starts yelling at me.)

Woman: “You wretch! Why are you grabbing that?! Are you planning to take that without paying?! To take things when you could be paying with normal money?!”

Me: *extremely confused* “Lady, what are you talking about? I’m going to pay for it!” *leaning down to pick up the chocolate*

Woman: “Take off that hoodie immediately, young man! You aren’t homeless! And what is that you’re hiding under there?!” *points at my chest* “Lettuce?!”

(I start to get that the woman thinks I’m stealing, just because I have a hoodie on. I start to get angry, embarrassed, and self-conscious because customers are starting to look at us.)

Me: “Lady, I’m wearing a hoodie because I want to! I’m not stealing anything! I’m going to pay for this stuff, including the chocolate!”

Woman: “BULLS***!”

(The woman then throws my things on the ground and stomps on them, then tries to empty my pockets to see if I stole anything else. I pull off my hoodie to reveal the “lettuce heads” I had been hiding under my shirt near my chest. I am crying now, and calling for help because I am now genuinely scared for my life. The woman is completely surprised to find that I don’t have lettuce under my hoodie, but instead, a certain body part that women have as they mature. The woman turns bright red as I start to yell at her.)

Me: “LADY! I’M A TEENAGE GIRL WHO WEARS HOODIES BECAUSE I HAVE BIG BOOBS THAT I AM SELF-CONSCIOUS OF! I AM NOT TRYING TO STEAL ANYTHING! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!”

(The woman was completely speechless and bright red. Just then, my dad and several employees came up and managed to pull the woman off of me. They locked her in the employee break room before calling the police. The woman was arrested, we pressed charges for assault and sexual assault, we got a discount on our items, and I started to wear even thicker and larger hoodies in hopes that this would never happen to me again.)

(I’m in a convenience store perusing the aisles when a couple of middle-aged blonde women walk down the aisle I’m on. I’m pretty sure they are tipsy, and they’re talking really loudly in thick southern accents… but I am in a good mood and they are all smiles and giggles, so I can’t bring myself to be annoyed. I see them staring at coffee brands before I walk to the next aisle over, and I can hear them on the other side of the aisle trying to sort out what coffee brand they should buy.)

Lady #1: *after a couple of minutes of loudly discussing it with her friend* “We should call someone over here to help. I can’t decide.”

Me: *snickers to myself as her friend starts bellowing*

Lady #2: “Blondes in aisle twelve need service! Blondes in aisle twelve need service, over!”

Me: *from opposite the rack on the adjacent aisle, in my best official mock-intercom voice* “Customer service suggests that the blondes on aisle twelve chose the [Brand], over.”

(They burst into laughter asking one another who the heck had said that. Meanwhile, I walked down the aisle with a grin on my face, and one of the employees told me that they ought to hire me for customer service. Made my day, and the women’s day, too.)

(I’ve just moved and I decide to have dinner at a cafe-style restaurant near my new apartment. I sit down with my meal only for a girl around 12 years old to start playing a song in the same vein as Rebecca Black’s “Friday” on her tablet, seemingly at full volume. At first, I’m not sure if it’s really that loud or if I’m just tired and grumpy from the move, so I switch seats to the opposite end of the restaurant. It takes about two minutes for me to realize that no, it’s not just me, and people all over the place are glaring. After another couple of minutes and realizing that I can’t get through an entire meal with that, I go up to the girl, her mother, and her mother’s friends.)

Me: “Excuse me. Could you please turn your music down? I moved seats to avoid it and it’s still really loud.”

Girl: “Sure!” *starts turning the volume down*

Mom: *standing up* “No, no, my daughter can listen to her songs as loud as she wants.”

Girl: “Mom, it’s fine–”

Mom: “No, it’s not fine.” *to me* “Who do you think you are, telling my daughter what to do?”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m not asking her to turn it off, just down a bit so I can eat in peace.”

Girl: “Mom, it’s not a big deal. I can still hear it.”

(The mom kind of harumphed and sat back down, and her friends shook their heads and tutted their tongues at me, but at least it was quieter than the music. I went back to my table and noticed a few other people looking relieved. About two minutes later, I saw the mom reach over to her daughter and try to turn the volume back up, but the girl pulled it out of her reach before she could do it.)

(My cousin is cursed and blessed with a very young-looking face. Despite the fact she is 35, she sometimes still gets asked for ID. I am 21 and have also inherited the family baby-face. We’re walking round a well-known mother-and-baby store chain. She is pushing her oldest child — still a toddler — in a pushchair, whilst I have her younger baby in a papoose on my back, to make things easier for her whilst she shops. We get everything she wants and join the line for the tills. Behind us are a pair of older women who start to make snippy comments about us.)

Old Lady #1: “Look at those two. Can’t keep their legs shut!”

Old Lady #2: “Ridiculous. Our generation didn’t fight in the war so that ungrateful girls like them could sponge off our war pensions.”

Old Lady #1: “I hope their mothers are ashamed.”

Old Lady #2: “I bet they’re not married. Probably no father in sight!”

Old Lady #1: “Probably a [racial slur] who slept with them for drug money.”

Old Lady #2: “Disgusting.”

(Finally, my cousin has had enough of this and turns around to speak to them.)

Cousin: “Excuse me, were you talking about me and my cousin?”

Old Lady #2: “Your ears work as well as your ovaries, then, love?”

Old Lady #1: *sniggering* “As if they know what ovaries even means!”

Cousin: “Not that it’s any of your business to judge who would and who wouldn’t make a good parent, but I’m 35, I’m married, I have a biology-based PhD, and I’m the head of Science at [Local Large Secondary School]. [My Name] here is my cousin and is just carrying my youngest daughter for me so I don’t have to use the bulky double pram on what I’d only planned as a very quick shopping trip. You’ve done nothing but make hateful assumptions, which, whilst we’re on the subject, reminds me, if – unlike me, obviously – you look your own age, then there’s no way you’re from the WWII generation. This would make you baby boomers, who’d be relying on my and [My Name]’s generation to foot your whopping NHS bills. I suggest you think before you open your mouths next time.”

Old Lady #1: *massively backpedalling* “Well, I didn’t mean my generation; my father…”

Old Lady #2: “We didn’t mean you, dear, we meant…” *looks around hoping to see a legitimate teenage mother in the store* “I… uh…”

Cousin: “Come off it! I don’t want to hear it. But I seriously hope you think before spouting any of your nonsense to your children or grandchildren without being sure of your facts!”

(They didn’t quite have the good grace to apologise, but did at least look a bit ashamed of themselves.)

(I just got off work as a hotel receptionist, which means that I have been standing for the past seven hours. My feet and knees are very much in pain, but I need to make a detour before I can head home. While I head towards a traffic light, a guy from what looks to be a charity thing tries to catch me. I try to remain polite, even when I’m in a bad mood, but I do not want to deal with this any more than necessary.)

Guy: “Hey, we just need some good people for a few minutes–”

Me: “I am not a good person.”

(He did not push the issue, even though I had to wait at the light to turn green for me to cross.)