I am English. I was sixteen years old when my family decided to go for a vacation to Florida to visit the theme parks.

Everything was normal. It was a good holiday and the people were friendly and lovely.

One day, we were at one of the famous theme parks, waiting for a water ride. I was wearing large sunglasses and waiting with my mother and my younger brother.

People started to disembark the ride and a girl, around my age, stopped and started to stare at me. My mum made a joke that she fancied me, I ignored it, and we all forgot about it until later.

My family and I were eating lunch at one of the restaurants when a group of 16-year-old girls marched over to my table. They started to berate me for “lying to them about being sick” and saying things like, “If you didn’t want to come out for my birthday surprise, you could have just said!”

The main girl — who stared at me earlier — began to cry quite loudly and my family and I were thoroughly confused.

After one of the girls dumped a drink on my head — this confrontation went from 0 to 60 very fast with little opportunity to speak — I finally removed my sunglasses.

Suddenly, everything stopped. The girls went bright red and rushed away without so much of an apology.

I guess it was a case of mistaken identity.

Don’t worry, America; I don’t hold it against you. I fully admit that teenagers can be crazy regardless of their country of origin.

It was my first week of working in a thrift store and it was our half-off sale day. People lined up outside of the store for hours prior to us opening, Black Friday style. Once the doors were opened people ran in, pushing and shoving to get carts and go to the furniture section. 

I looked over to our toy area and saw an 80-something-year-old woman ram a pregnant lady holding her toddler so that she could get a better look at the puzzles. 

I worked there for six more years.

As I come into work at the department store where I’m head of maintenance, I am greeted by my manager telling me that this is a rock, paper, scissors type of incident, and then he leads me upstairs. I am very confused until I see a customer with his pants around his ankles, bent over, pooping.   

He methodically goes along a good distance… pooping. Then, security arrives on the scene. This man continues pooping. I observe that he’s been storing this up for a special occasion.  

Eventually, the police arrive. We all stand around until he finishes. I have to clean up. Not a great way to start my shift.

(In the early 2000s, I work as a cashier for a beer retailer. As you would expect, we have a good mix of customers, some friendly, some not so much. It is about five minutes to close when a customer shows up. There is only one person working besides me.)

Customer: “Give me [beer order].”

([Coworker] goes to get the order.)

Me: “Your total comes to [total].”

Customer: “Oh, s***! I forgot my wallet at home. Stay open until I get back!”

Me: “Sir, we close in five minutes. I can’t promise we’ll be open.”

Customer: “You stay open or I’ll drive my f****** truck through the window!”

(Ten minutes later, he comes back. We haven’t closed off the till yet, so we let him back in to buy his beer.)

Me: “Sir, we’re just part-time employees doing our jobs. There’s no need to threaten us.”

Customer: “Have you heard about the bank robberies in the neighbourhood?”

(There have been two or three bank robberies in the area in the past few months.)

Me: “Yeah…”

Customer: “Maybe you’ll be next!”

(With that, I typed up a report of what had happened, which both my coworker and I signed, and left it for the store supervisor. We also included the guy’s license plate number, which the store supervisor included in his police report the next morning. The customer was banned for life when he next returned.)

(I am 17, visiting my grandparents in southern Florida for a few weeks during the summer. I am bi and I wear a gender-equality necklace at all times on plain display. This has rarely ever been an issue to people. I am looking around for peppers to make a homemade jambalaya with my grandmother when a man approaches me wearing a familiar red trucker cap.)

Hat Guy: “Hold on, boy. Do you know what that necklace means?”

(One worker looks over and sees my necklace. She gives me a pained “I’m sorry” face and goes off to find her manager.)

Me: “Oh, I know it pretty well, buddy. May I ask, do you know what that hat means, big guy?”

Hat Guy: “It means that people like you should get out of our d*** country!”

(Quite a few people turn and look at both of us in apparent disgust. To my relief, the worker from earlier appears to be returning with a manager.)

Me: “Oh, look, a manager.” *gesturing towards him* “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

(Hat Guy looks at the manager, who happens to be a tall young man wearing a pin that says “Gaymer,” but Hat Guy doesn’t notice.)

Hat Guy: “Get this d*** [gay slur] out of here! I thought this was a Christian place!”

(The manager says something to the worker who quickly scurries off.)

Manager: “Sir, we are not affiliated with any religion, race, or political party. But we will not have people harassing paying customers.”

(As he says this, the worker returns with a security guy, or at least a loss prevention guy; I never inquired.)

Guard: “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, or I will call the police and have you removed for disorderly conduct.”

(Hat Guy turns to the manager, who gestures to his pin, causing Hat Guy’s eyes to widen.)

Hat Guy: “That’s why! You’re one of them! D*** [slurs] trying to taint my food! I’m never gonna be like one of you!”

(He then proceeded to SPIT ON MY FACE and leave the store. I thanked the manager and complimented his pin. He offered to help me find my items and gave me a 20% discount, too. If you read this, gay manager dude, thanks for helping, and the jambalaya is now my trademark family dish!)