#Fact: I was called a cracker and then questioned if i was too salty

Sometimes you are ahead ...sometimes you get (or give) head ... and sometimes things go over your head.
Funny, when it happened I was "praised" for how I "handled the situation," when in reality I was an undiagnosed autistic female that processes words and phrases VERY LITERALLY.

Maestro ...

Exhibit A: When I lived on the island I briefly worked for a newspaper. Every year they hosted this event at Pigeon Key, which is a super awesome private island you can rent that feels like an adult version of summer camp.

My last boyfriend had a child (shared custody), and because of the excursion he made sure we had him that weekend.

We drove down to Pigeon Key, parked the car, and rode the golf cart down the long strip to the cabins. (We weren't spending the night, only the day.)

We got settled dropping everything off, and I took my bf's son over to play with some of the other kids. There were ton of water toys, sports, again, it was heaven.

As we got down to main dock, I introduced myself to the group (spouses and friends of the newspaper).

Is he yours, asked one of the guests?

No, I said. He's my boyfriend's son down visiting us for the weekend.

As sunscreen was applied, and drinks were cracked I started to relax and enjoy the beautiful day.

Now, if you've never dated someone with a child before, it is a very very different ball game. Being a big kid myself, I love them, but there's a lot of responsibility that comes with it. It was my job to take care of that (then) 5 year old nugget, and make sure he got back to his mom safely. My boyfriend was/ is a great dad, but being part of that "team" meant that it was also my job to step up to the plate.

About an hour or so into the party, still on the dock, I noticed that the little nugget tripped and almost fell into the water.

I called out his name reminding him to be careful on the dock (which he knew, but all kids are the same and act like goofballs around each other). As I turned back around to the group, one of the mothers said, "oh, you must be one of those 'helicopter' parents."

The rest of the group quietly laughed.

I stared blankly having absolutely no idea what that term meant ...

... BUT figured based on context clues that she must mean that I'm like Rambo and white on rice to his ass, protecting him, and making sure he's in one piece when he's given back to his mother.

Am I Rambo, I thought? Yes. Yes I motherfucking am.

I smiled proudly.

<tangent> I grew up on a lake, and had my own boat (a put-put, aka a row boat with an engine) and boating license before I hit double digits. Do I think kids need to rough and tumble, falling down to learn that that sometimes life doesn't need to operate on full throttle? Absofreakinglutely. But again, not my kid, not my rules, and unlike in the store children don't come with a "you break, you buy" policy. </tangent>

It wasn't until a week or so later that I saw a headline on the news touting something about helicopter parents being a detriment to this "next generation." I then googled the term and laughed at the memes:

It then (obviously) struck me that her comments were less "you're a rambo bad ass" and more, "awww look at her trying to do the thing we all know not to do." Due to blissful ignorance, I moved about the day and there were no further reactions from the others, because I wasn't playing the game they wanted me to play.

Your honor, I would like to now present Exhibit B:

Back back back in the day when I was 17...

I moved to NYC and stayed there for a year studying and working. I quickly realized it wasn't for me as I felt like a rat in a cage going from one tall building to another, and not seeing natural light. (I lived in Union Square, Manhattan and worked by Madison Square Garden for Fuse.)

Realizing NY wasn't for me, and still not knowing where to go, my parents let me move into their condo in Tampa, FL on two conditions:

1) It was temporary.
2) I paid rent.

I moved down to Tampa, and quickly got a job at the Longhorn Steakhouse on Dale Mabry.

<tangent> Florida is an interesting place. I mean outside of being the home of just about every WTF headline, it also has this "clash of racial tension" for lack of a better way of saying it. As a white girl from Connecticut, I never mentally viewed people as "you're this" and "I'm that" and "that and this" don't mix - quite the opposite. My parents purposefully raised us to be very kind and open minded (can you tell they were children of the 60s?). Black, white, yellow, green, I genuinely never cared to think about it. This was the first time in my life that I started to recognize how important it was to other people. </tangent>

I was a few months into serving, and I had three guests sit down in the section known as the 10s. (All tables are numbered in restaurants.) I remember walking up to their table, my hair in pig tails (I got bored wearing a pony tail every day), while wearing a purple longhorn shirt with grease and au ju stains.

Demeanor as perky as a peach, I took their drink order, and like any other table brought their food out at the expected time. There were no red, or confederate flags present.

After they got their check, she pointed asking me to take certain items off the bill. The customer always being right, I asked why she felt it needed to come off the bill, and if there was something I could improve about their experience.

Instead of answering my questions, one of the guests stood up, towering over my 5'7 self -getting as close to my grill as their steak was earlier.

Confused, I took a couple of steps back recognizing that this is an intimidation tactic.

Then, the main guest that initiated the complaint also stood up and said, "what are you going to do about it you ... Cracker."

All three guests were now standing, as they paused, waiting for my reaction.

Not knowing what the term "Cracker" meant, I cocked my head to the side like a spaniel.

The guys then chuckled to themselves and left the restaurant (without paying). The whole thing happened within a matter of moments, so by the time my manager Eddie realized there was an incident, they were already gone.

He came over and congratulated me on keeping my cool. "You've got manager written all over you," he said.

Without skipping a beat, I asked, "What's a Cracker? Did they mean that I flaked on a food request? Did I have too salty of a demeanor? I genuinely don't know what that word means."

Eddie started laughing, not realizing that I was being dead serious. He cut my shift early, and on the way home I called my parents. (This was pre-smartphone era.)

"What does the word Cracker mean?"

My father said, "it depends upon the context. It's traditionally a derogatory term for a white person."

OOOOOHHHH, I said the lightbulb finally turning on.