Student: “Miss!”
Teacher: “My name is Ms. [Teacher], not Miss. You may also call me Coach.”
Student: “You can’t expect me to remember your name! I have seven teachers!”
Teacher: “And I have eighty students, [Student].”
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(I just got a new job as a cook in a hotel kitchen and am in training on night shift, even though I’ll be working mornings regularly once I’m fully trained. It’s about my fourth day of training. My coworker is Mexican-American and has his phone plugged into the radio, playing music in Spanish in the background. About halfway through the night, he offers to let me plug my phone in instead and pick the music, but jokingly adds “as long as it’s in Spanish.”)
Me: “Oh, yeah. I actually have a few Spanish songs on here.”
(I plug my phone in and pick one of the songs. It’s upbeat, and a little more pop than the hip-hop-sounding stuff he’s been playing all night, but I like it; it really puts some bounce in my step as I move around the kitchen preparing orders. After the second song by the same artist, I look at my coworker and he seems… not angry, but maybe exasperated.)
Me: “Don’t like this song?”
Coworker: “It’s too poppy. This would be like if I was listening to *NSYNC.”
Me: *jokingly* “You mean you don’t listen to *NSYNC?”
Coworker: “Of course not. Bands like that are why I’m homophobic.”
(I stare at him blankly for a minute, trying to decide if he’s joking; he’s not. It should be noted that I’m pretty obviously gay, from my short hair, to my clothing choices, to the rainbow pin on the bag I bring to work every day. The town I live and work in is super liberal, and I even talked about my same-sex fiancée in my interview when it came up, so I really wasn’t anticipating dealing with this sort of thing there.)
Me: “Uh… [Coworker], you do realize I’m gay, right?”
Coworker: “No, it’s okay. I’m only homophobic against gay guys.”
Me: “That’s… That’s really not better.”
(Later that night, he talked about how much harder it is to get a good job because of his brown skin and his accent. You’d think someone who faces discrimination themselves would be the first person to realize why discrimination is never okay! Thankfully, I’m on mornings now and all of my morning coworkers are super accepting.)
(We run a small family restaurant that has been in business for over 50 years; therefore, we have a lot of older patrons that have been coming in for years. Usually, I enjoy seeing them, and since many are regulars, they have become almost like our extended family. One of our waitresses walks into the kitchen with an amused smile.)
Waitress: “There is a lady at table one who wants to see you.”
(I walk out, thinking it is one of our regulars who wants to catch up, but I don’t recognize the older lady, although the young girl with her looks vaguely familiar.)
Me: “I’m [My Name]. Is there anything I can help you with? I was told you wanted to see me.”
Older Lady: “I told the waitress I wanted to see the owner. He always lets me have [menu item] for free, and the waitress is trying to charge me for it!”
Me: “Ma’am, I apologize for any confusion, but I am [My Name]; I am one of the owners. Can you tell me which owner it was that gives you the discount?”
Older Lady: *visibly angry and raises her voice to the point that other customers are noticing* “I don’t know who you are, but you are not the owner! I have known [My Deceased Father-In-Law] for fifty years! We are as close as siblings! I just saw him last week, and I can assure you that next time I see him, I’m going to tell him about you pretending to be the owner, and you will be fired!”
Me: *as calmly as I can after her tirade* “Well, ma’am, I’m sorry you feel that way.” *I turn to walk back into the kitchen*
Older Lady: “YOU WILL BE SORRY! ONCE I TELL [My Deceased Father-In-Law], YOU WILL BE FIRED!”
(By now, it has become a full blown spectacle. Everyone is looking, and a few of our regulars are actually shaking their heads in disbelief. I walk patiently back to her table, trying to stay calm.)
Me: “Then I suggest you stop on your way and pick up a Ouija Board, because [My Father-In-Law’s nickname], the man you saw last week that’s as close to you as a brother, passed away four years ago.”
(She turned bright red, calmed down immediately, paid her ENTIRE bill, and even tipped her waitress. I’ve seen her back in the restaurant a few times. She always looks away when she sees me, but she has never again demanded free food.)
(I am a Canadian tourist in the USA, and I go to mail something to my mom. I get a box and fill out all the information on the sheet they give me, but when I get to, “return address,” I’m not sure what to do. I have only ever sent mail from the place I was living, and always knew a return address as the address it was mailed from. Since I am not mailing from where I live, and have no address here for it to be returned to, I approach the postal worker to ask about it.)
Me: “I’m from out of the country, so I don’t have an address here, so I’m not sure what I should put in this section.”
Worker: *with an absolutely disgusted expression* “You don’t have an address?!“
Me: “Not in the USA, no. As I said, I am from out of the country, so I don’t have an address here.”
Worker: “You have to put a return address! We won’t deliver it if you don’t! YOU HAVE TO HAVE A RETURN ADDRESS!”
Me: “Um, okay.”
(I ended up putting my mom’s address as both the recipient and the sender. She eventually did get the package.)
(My sister is about three years old at the time of this story, and our mother has taken her out to play. It’s time to go home, and naturally, my sister doesn’t want to leave. She’s trying to get back to the playground.)
Mom: “[Sister], Mommy said no!”
Sister: “But Mommy, [Sister] said yes!“
