I started working in a music and recording studio a few months ago. We’re working on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and the boss, an older white gentleman, brings in fried chicken, grape juice, and watermelon for everyone.

I am a white guy, and most of my coworkers are Black (we’re close to a historically Black neighborhood), so I feel compelled to ask a Black coworker:

Me: “Isn’t this… uh… kinda…”

Coworker: “Racially stereotyping African Americans?”

Me: “Uh… yeah?”

Coworker: “Yeah, someone told [Boss] years ago as a joke that to celebrate today, we Black folk eat fried chicken and watermelon and drink grape juice.”

Me: “Wow, and he believed them?”

Coworker: “I mean, he had no reason not to.”

Me: “And no one has told him otherwise?”

Coworker: *Grabbing a plate* “And risk our free fried chicken?!”

At one retail job, we closed at 10:00 and opened at 7:00. After closing, we were expected to clean up our departments and then, when we were done, go help the other departments not yet finished. It was a large store, but my department was easy to handle, and I kept moving all night, so I straightened as I went. I was always done by 10:30, which would have been a normal clock-out time.

But the other departments were a mess. More often than not, I would end up being there past midnight. Of course, I was scheduled to open the next day and had to be there before 7:00 for store meetings. Combined with my travel time, I was lucky to get five hours of sleep.

I started really reading my employee handbook, and I found an interesting passage stating that there has to be a minimum of eight hours between shifts. So, the next night that they had me go help another department, I said:

Me: “Sure, but it’s already 10:25. I won’t be able to help so much in the five minutes before I clock out.”

The manager was stunned.

Manager: “Why would you be clocking out at 10:30? Everyone has to stay to help clean up.”

Me: “Well, yes. However, according to the employee handbook, I’m required to have eight hours between shifts. You have me scheduled in tomorrow at 6:30 to open. So, I can stay to help, but does that mean I’m coming in later? Nobody else is scheduled to open my department. The next person coming in is at 9:00.”

They fretted and grumbled a bit and then said for me to clock out.

I didn’t have a bit of trouble clocking out on time after that.

This happened a few years ago when I was working as a techno-manager in a startup IT firm. It was a small firm with less than fifty employees, and there were two founders. Let’s call them Vicky and Joel.

Vicky had worked a short time in a multinational corporation but was not able to stand authority and had to resign, whereas Joel had no real workplace experience. Vicky managed the place like a king, throwing tantrums, etc. Joel was simply a yes-man to Vicky.

We had a Human Resources lady who was okay with the older employees and strict with the newer ones.

As for me, I was not that good technically compared to my colleagues but was good at people management. Also, I was one of the longest-serving employees. I was friendly with most of the employees, especially the new ones. This was because I knew it was not easy to work with the founders, and I wanted the show to continue as it was my first company, too.

A new employee, Bob, joined, and after six months, he was assigned to a project. We were in India and the client was in Chicago, Illinois, so because of the time zone difference, Bob worked up to 4:00 or 5:00 am. Since he was sleeping late, this guy always reported to the office at nearly 11:30 am.

Out of the blue, Vicky called [HR Lady] and me to ask:

Vicky: “Why is Bob always late to the office? He has to be in the office by 10:00 am like the other guys.”

(Vicky and Joel came into the office only once in a while, and it was before the global health crisis, but since they are founders, let’s ignore that.)

[HR Lady] took the responsibility of asking Bob about that. At this point, since [HR Lady] was not aware of Bob’s working hours, I interrupted.

Me: “Bob isn’t leaving the office until 4:00 or 5:00 am. It’s kind of unfair to ask him to come in early.”

Vicky: “No. He has to follow the rules. This is the basic etiquette when working in this office.”

Me: “Okay.”

[HR Lady] called Bob into her office and talked to him about the timings.

Bob: “Okay, ma’am. I will comply.”

Bob and I had a good rapport, and he came directly to me to tell me what had happened with HR.

Me: “What are you going to do?”

Bob: “I will ask for clarification via email, and then I will comply.”

I understood where this was going and wished him the best of luck, trying hard to contain my laughter.

After ten minutes, [HR Lady] came to me with her laptop in a panic and showed me the email Bob had sent. He had CCed [HR Lady] and the founders and sent it to the client he was reporting to, and he’d written something like this:

Bob’s Email: “Hi, [Client]. This is to inform you that as a request from my office to comply with the office timings, from tomorrow onward, my work time will be 10:00 am IST to 7:00 pm IST, i.e., 9:30 pm to 6:30 am Chicago time. I request that you change your meeting times to the times when I am available. If this is inconvenient, please contact [HR Lady], Vicky, or Joel. Thanks.”

Me: “You should take the matter to Vicky.”

In Vicky’s office, Vicky scolded [HR Lady] and asked her to correct this. [HR Lady] went to Bob and asked him to change his mind, to which Bob firmly said no. [HR Lady] stupidly told him she was doing this because Vicky had asked her to. Bob stood firm.

Bob: “If Vicky said it, then ask Vicky to formally reply in the email thread asking me to revert to my old times. I won’t go back to those times unless Vicky emails. We have about four hours before [Client] will read the emails and react.”

[HR Lady] came to me for help, and we went together to Vicky’s office and briefed her on what Bob had said. Vicky started to lash out at [HR Lady], but I interrupted.

Me: “It’s best to address the issue now; in four hours, [Client] will get involved, and we have to make a decision before that.”

Vicky hesitantly sent out the mail saying it was a mistake, as Bob’s special case had not been considered during the decision-making, and Bob could continue his earlier timings.

As I walked back to the office, I saw Bob looking at me and laughing really hard, and I had to hold a straight face as [HR Lady] was also behind me.

Needless to say, Bob has his times intact!

I’m working the graveyard shift at a warehouse store; we stock shelves while the place is closed. My boss comes by one night.

Boss: “I need you to help out with a spill in aisle seventeen.”

I figure someone dropped a jug of detergent or something. It turns out one of the guys with the forklifts knocked into the shelving causing pallets of material to slide off. There had to be a six-foot pile of stuff on this forklift.

The mess is a mixture of detergent (dry and liquid), pet food, and random light bulbs. I spend all shift cleaning it up, and my clothes are completely caked by the end.

I am off the next day, but I still get a call from my boss.

Boss: “You okay?”

Me: “Yeah, why?”

Boss: “Well, that bin we made you fill up with that junk from yesterday…”

Me: “Yeah?”

Boss: “It spontaneously caught fire…”

Me: “…”

Boss: “Thought you’d like to know…”

I just read this story and thought I’d share my own experience.

In the early 2000s, my wife and I went on holiday to Spain with my wife’s family. This was not long after the World Trade Centre attack, and airport security was a little bit crazy.

As we were going through security in the UK, I got stopped. There was a screwdriver in my bag: a small one, about two inches long, for repairing my glasses. It was in a case WITH my glasses. (I also wore contact lenses.) The security guard insisted that it had to be dumped into their sharps bin. I argued that it was for my glasses; no, it still had to be dumped.

Me: *In exasperation* “Look, I’m not going to do anything with that. I could do more damage to someone with a fistful of my housekeys. Are you going to confiscate them?“

Well, that got me a warning and the threat of being barred from the flight, so I complied. And, in case anyone is reading this and thinking racism, no; I have Celtic ancestry, so I’m as pasty white as they come (and I was ginger in those days).

So, I surrendered my tiny screwdriver, and we passed through security into the departure lounge.

In the departure lounge, there was a gift shop. One of the things it sold, for about £5, was a combination corkscrew/bottle opener — with a two-inch, foldout knife blade — which I could have bought and carried on to the plane without anyone to stop me.

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White Privilege Is Screwed Up