I used to work at a regional fast food restaurant at the intersection of a very busy road and a side street with a church that couldn’t be seen from the busy road.

The church started to put up signs on our restaurant’s lot to try to direct people to them. When they did, the manager would have someone run out and throw the sign away. A few days later, the church would put up another sign advertising themselves, and again, the manager would have it taken down.

This happened a few more times, with the church’s signs getting bigger, until one day when we got a call.

Manager: “Hello, this is [Restaurant], [Manager] speaking.”

Pause.

Manager: “Oh, those signs? I threw them away.”

Pause.

Manager: “No. that belongs to [Restaurant]; it’s not public property.”

Pause.

Manager: “No, I talked with the owner. He did not give permission for those signs to be there. He told us to get rid of them if they appear.”

Pause.

Manager: “That’s your problem. You’ll have to find another way to attract people because the owner does not want any religious advertising on the property, and he does not want anyone to put signs there without going through him first.”

After that, the place no longer had any issues with unwanted signage.

I worked as a cashier at a large chain pet store for a few years before the global health crisis. This particular chain had a policy where all refunds were accepted regardless of reason, and there was this couple who regularly brought in a suspiciously large number of items to return without receipts.

It was an incredibly easy scam to spot as none of the items had been touched by any animal, and they were the kind of items that could be carried out in a brief moment when employees weren’t paying attention.

My first instinct was always to call a manager the moment the couple approached me, but one of the managers told me I needed to ring the return up first and then call for a manager for “approval” since the amount was going to be rather large.

The next time they came in, I did as I was told. I rang up the return, which was in excess of $300, told them I had to call the manager for approval, and sent out the page. A different manager was on shift that day, but he knew full well who these people were. I assumed he would reject it and make them leave, so I stepped away to take care of some of my other duties.

Once the people left, I headed back to the register and the manager stopped me.

Manager: “You did the right thing in calling me, but since you’d already rung up the transaction, I had to give them the return. You should’ve called me first.”

I just stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded by his logic. He didn’t seem to notice and went back to his office, while I just sort of wandered back to the register wondering what the heck had just happened. And this guy was the head manager of the store, so even if the scammers had tried to escalate, they’d have been out of luck.

While I’ve long understood the idea of privilege on an academic level, this is the story of how I really got it. It happened a few years ago when people were reporting random creepy clown sightings, and there was lots of talk of people wanting to react violently to any creepy clowns they might come across. I was sitting in the break room at work with two coworkers.

Coworker #1: “I’m volunteering at the haunted house exhibit near my home.”

Me: “What are you doing there?”

Coworker #1: “I’m a scary clown. It’s fun, and it’s really convenient because it’s only a half mile, so I can walk.”

Coworker #2: “You don’t walk home in your clown get-up, do you? Not in the dark?”

Coworker #1: “Of course I do. The makeup is hard to get off, and I don’t want to bother trying to change in the bathroom or something.”

Coworker #2: “But aren’t you worried someone will try to hurt you, with all those weird clown sightings?”

Coworker #1: *Truly baffled* “No, not at all. Why would I be worried about that? Oh, hey, my break’s over. Talk to you later.”

He left.

Coworker #2: “I can’t believe he’s not worried. I wouldn’t want to walk around at night dressed like that.”

Me: “Yeah, no way would I be comfortable with that.”

Then, it dawned on me.

Me: “Oh… Oh! He’s been six and a half feet tall since he was a teen, and he’s white. You and I are of average height, you’re black, and I’m a woman. He’s never had to look over his shoulder in a sketchy area.”

Coworker #2: “That’s got to be it. He’s never had to think about that, has he? I hope his confidence isn’t misplaced.”

Happily, [Coworker #1] was fine. It was certainly an eye-opening conversation for me.

The company my husband works for employs and sponsors a large number of international workers, which can sometimes lead to amusing cultural misunderstandings. Recently, he told me of a team meeting in which [Coworker #1], a Chinese national, happened to be the only person who was not American or Canadian in a room of twelve people. Their manager was giving a presentation when he ended a sentence with an unintentional cue.

Manager: “…and freeze.”

Coworker #2: *Singing* “Everybody, clap your hands!”

Cue eleven straight-faced people, manager included, raising their hands to clap in perfect, rhythmic synchronization, while [Coworker #1] looked on with an expression of growing confusion and horror.

Their meeting was derailed for another fifteen minutes while they all tried to explain to [Coworker #1] that the “Cha-Cha Slide” was an invasively popular song played at nearly every public dance function, and his coworkers hadn’t suddenly been brainwashed by a cult trigger word.

My kids are fortunate enough to have three living sets of great-grandparents. Each set does something to acknowledge their birthdays, be it a gift, some money, or a card. Considering that they all have several great-grandchildren in addition to grandchildren and children, I appreciate their taking the time to remember so many birthdays, and I always have my children send thank-you notes.

One year, my toddler got money from two of the pairs of great-grandparents for her second birthday. I gave her some crayons and paper. She scribbled drawings for them and I wrote at the bottom of each that we appreciated the fun cards (both had found cards with stickers, which also adorned the toddler scribbles) and the “piggy bank food.”

One pair of great-grandparents called to catch up after receiving their drawing in the mail, and they commented that they thought “piggy bank food” was a funny and cute way to refer to the cash.

The other pair of great-grandparents sent an email chastising me.

Great-Grandparents: “You should’ve let [Toddler] spend that money on something fun! A two-year-old won’t remember who gave them the money that’s being saved for a rainy day. It probably won’t even be spent before we pass away! You should let [Toddler] simply enjoy something fun and tell her it’s from us via the money we sent. We are deeply hurt that you’re not letting her spend it right away!”

I sent a reply email explaining.

Me: “I apologize. ‘Piggy bank food’ was only meant to be a funny euphemism. The next time we are out somewhere and [Toddler] wants a little treat, she will certainly be able to use her birthday money for it.”

That seemed to smooth things over, and the great-grandparents were satisfied. But really, all that fuss over a toddler’s thank-you note for two dollars in her birthday card!