(I’m a middle school teacher. For our novel study at the end of the year, I have students do vocabulary periodically throughout the book. I tell students that today we’ll be doing vocabulary.)

Student: “Vocabulary is for nerds.”

Me: “Without vocabulary, you wouldn’t talk, so I guess you’re a nerd.”

(I work in a very popular book store as a cashier. There is a wall between me and the kids section, but I can see a toy being thrown up and down.)

Child: *as loud as they can yell* “HERPES! HERPES!”

Child’s Mother: “NO, BABY, IT’S, ‘WHOOPEE!’”

(I’m the customer in this scenario. I’m around 16, shopping in an alternative-clothing store. The staff are all people with various tattoos, piercings, and dyed hair. The cashier is clearly gay, is wearing all black, and has a nose piercing. My hair is short, and I’m wearing a band shirt, skinny jeans, and combat boots.)

Cashier: “Would you like to sign up with our rewards program? You get coupons and all kinds of deals year-round.”

Me: “Sure, why not?”

Cashier: “Okay, can I have your email?”

(Note, my last name is my email.)

Me: *tells him my email*

Cashier: *looking very scared all of a sudden and stepping away from the register* “N-nazi?”

(The last four letters of my last name are N-A-Z-I.)

Me: *realizing he thinks I’m a white supremacist* “Oh, no, I’m Jewish and that’s my last name.”

Cashier: “Oh!” *starts chuckling nervously*

Me: *laughing* “And if it wasn’t, I probably wouldn’t be shopping here!”

Cashier: “Oh, yeah, fair point!”

(My six-year-old son is flipping through the channels when something catches his attention. It appears to be a French production of the play Hamlet, which my son is familiar with.)

Son: “This is weird.”

Me: “Remember when we watched that play last month?”

Son: “Yeah!”

Me: “I thought you liked it.”

Son: “I do, but this is weird. They don’t speak French in Denmark.”

Me: “It’s in French, because this is a French channel. Do you know what language people actually speak in Denmark?”

Son: “Yeah, they speak English.”

(I would have thought nothing of this had it not been for the fact that we are Danish. Granted, he did speak to several Danish relatives on the phone in English, but still…)

(At the time of the story, my future husband and I are still attending university, and we are regulars at the little cafe in the engineering building. Today, I’m particularly hungry.)

Bartender: “G’day. What will you be having?”

Me: “A coffee and one of those…” *pointing at the kourabiedes* “…what’s their name, here.”

Bartender: *offended* “What do you mean, ‘What’s their name’? We’ve had them for ten years, and…”

Husband: “What? We don’t want ten-year-old pastries, man; we want fresh ones!”

(And that’s how we were never allowed into that cafe again.)