fuck-customers:

Ok SO boy oh boy do I have a story!!
I work at a fabric store that pretty much caters to three groups of people: young cosplayers, crafty people (usually moms), and old quilting ladies. Mostly the last one.
Now, I’m a trans guy. I have a binder and short hair. But, I’m not out to my household yet, so no HRT. I go by a more androgynous version of my deadname. I promise this is relevant.
So at work the other night I was doing my job. Wearing my binder, because yknow dysphorias a beast.
And I’ve been helping several little old ladies throughout the night. Because of my voice, I get called ma’am a lot, but I don’t really bother with correcting people at this point.
And this lady who id helped a lot gets to the register, and as I’m ringing her up and making the polite small talk I’m taught to make, she asks me what my middle name is. I panic, because I’m not going by my dead name or my first name, I’m going by my chosen middle name. So I dodge the question. Then she asks me what my “real” first name is. At this point I’m uncomfortable and panicking and so I keep dodging the question. Dodge dodge dodge. And then she gives up thank GOD. I thought it was over, and it was a jarring experience but I cooled down after joking around about it to my coworker (who is, btw, also trans).
God, I wish that were the end of the story
But NOPE
she came back in and found me in the store and handed me this hand written note.
So I decided id share it with you.
And when i get married to my trans boyfriend, you can bet your ass that I will be displaying this note right up front. It brings me some sort of eldritch power high.
Don’t shove your religion on innocent trans guys after they help you pick out your fuckin fabric for your stupid transphobic quilt