Customer Service: Some of Us Shouldn't Even Try

Some of us were just not born to work in any area of customer relations. Sadly, I am one of these unfortunates. We are a pitiful crew of happy-go-lucky wannabes, and are often misunderstood in the workplace; of course, this might have something to do with the fact that no matter how many attempts we make, we seem incapable of stopping ourselves from telling an inconvenient truth. There appears to be some broken link between the "oh no; don't say that" portion of our brains, and the "too late -- you're so fired" portion. We are not team players. What some folk just don't understand is that we want to be team players; we just have no idea who is on which team and what game we're supposed to be playing, anyway. The worst aspect of this social disability (ahem) is that it does not respond well to pressure or look kindly on any encouragement to change. In fact, it spits on such pleas. Really, it should be kept in the locker room. Don't put me in, Coach: you'll regret it, I swear. If ya have to, let me sit in the dug-out. . . . Told ya not to put me in, what are you complaining for?

Of course, I had to learn this about myself the hard way. I was such a quiet, shy girl that I really had no idea I was not a people-pleaser. I always assumed that I was. I was brought up to have good manners and to say "please" and "thank you." I mean, I was nice. Wasn't I?

Wrong. I just hadn't been tested. One slight indication that should, perhaps, have been given more attention was when my parents returned from my third-form parent-teacher evening. I attended a very institutional, no-nonsense grammar school, a very Hogwart-ish place -- all masters in gowns, and pupils in uniforms, and school mottoes in Latin, and different houses (I was in Ritchie House because my brother was in Wellington). And this was back in the dark ages of the last century, when people respected educators and what they had to say, so my parents took the whole affair very seriously. They had come home in the past with dreadful tales about what the teachers (who were to be respected) had (rightly) said about my brother (who, bless him, had some issues with authority at the time).

In previous years, all the teachers had related the same story about little me, though: "quiet girl, works hard, good student, nothing like her brother." My parents would smile, and wonder if it was a rehearsed speech, since all the teachers said the same thing. But in Third Form, no. They came home from the meeting looking a little perplexed. What was up?

My mum began to explain. "Well, at first it was just the usual, everyone said "quiet girl, works hard, good student, nothing like her brother," she started, relaying the litany that even I was now beginning to think a bit suspect. "But then," she said, "we got to your English teacher -- Miss Burns."

"Yeah?" I was beginning to feel the slightest discomfort. Maud Burns was not the most intellectual woman I had ever met in my limited exposure to the world, and the fact that I even thought of her as "Maud" and not "Miss" should probably have sounded an alarm.

My father was in the kitchen by this time, pouring them both a drink. Nothing unusual there, but he was taking rather a long time. My mum had to battle on, regardless, by herself. "Well, this Miss Burns -- she wasn't like your other teachers at all -- when we said who we were, she replied 'Your daughter? sarcastic little bitch.'"

Mum was obviously upset that someone had said that about her daughter. I was beginning to feel a little more discomfited, myself, but for a slightly different reason.

"Well," my mum went on, "we thought there must be some mistake, and I said to her 'that's not what any of her other teachers have ever said about her.' And I kept repeating your name -- because, you know, I thought she must have you mixed up with somebody else -- but she just said again 'no; no mistake there. Sarcastic little bitch; talks back in class.'" My mum looked at me.

"Oh," I said, helpfully, because I was only fifteen at the time, and had not yet unleashed the severest of my hormonal teenage bitch-itude upon my parents -- was, in fact, still more or less a very quiet little girl.  We just hadn't cottoned on to the real reason for this quietness.

"Do you?" asked Mum, about the "talking back" bit.

"Don't remember?" I ventured (well, we don't have the Fifth Amendment in Ireland).

"Why?"

Well, it just had to be said -- after all, the woman was an idiot. When my mum said "but you're so shy," we should have realized the truth.

In the kitchen, my father could be heard making a noise between a splutter and a snort. Oddly enough, nothing else was ever said about the incident. But looking back, I suppose that should have told me everything I needed to know about my future as a people-pleaser. It just wasn't going to happen.

My first job was at the University Bookshop in Belfast, across the street from the beautiful Queens University.  For the first couple of weeks duties entailed clerical tasks, then I was given some of the literature section to look after, and then, oh sadness, I was put on the cash register.  Direct customer nightmare situation loomed.  However, I was efficient, so it wasn't too bad; not until the students started coming in to buy books for the new term.  Then we would see parents with booklists scurrying around, stacking volumes on the counter, and writing the checks, while wee Jimmy or Sharon just stood there, recipient of their parents' largesse.  I was invariably rude to the offspring of these kind parental souls, because they didn't even look interested in the books they were getting and that just annoyed the bejesus out of me. 

After a brief stint in a box factory in Glasgow one summer, I wound up working in the kitchen at a run-down old department store cafe. It was called Grandfare, and it wasn't. I didn't mind working in the kitchen, although the manageress was an ogre and so strict about scraping the butter back off the bread that as soon as she left for any reason we would all go to the dessert counter and eat a strawberry shortcake just to spite her (one between the four of us). It wasn't a particularly large kitchen, and the dishwasher-contraption took up a lot of room, steam belching out regularly just to heat things up. In the mornings I would make sandwiches and salads, and then from lunch time onwards I would wash dishes and clean up. The pig bin was over by the door out to the restaurant itself, and the pig man would come once a month to empty it. One of my tasks was to scrape the wall behind the pig bin, since food would get flung in the general direction of the bin, often hitting the wall above it. Glorious work.

I was a waitress for one day. When a man complained about the price of his lunch, I agreed that it was indeed outrageous, especially as I had seen the manner in which it had been cooked. Apparently the manageress did not appreciate this foray into customer relations, so I was confined to the kitchen after that. Back to the pig bin. . . .

(Sad to say that the building has been torn down to make way for a hotel, so I couldn't provide a photo for this wonderful emporium.)

And then I went into teaching. Luckily, it was at the college level, so I could expect some modicum of sense from the kids, but even so I reached the limit of lame excuses for failure to turn in assignments around 1989 (I believe it was on a Tuesday), and after that would merely ask if there was a good excuse or not. If the student insisted on relating the convoluted details of a failed ink cartridge and computer foul-up, I would just nod occasionally, and think about something else. With strawberries on it. I enjoyed an informal and cheerful atmosphere in the classroom, so when anyone tried to spoil this for the rest of us by being a smart ass, I was quick to demonstrate that I was even more immature and smart-ass-ical than they were. Teaching is a process whereby you make a complete ass of yourself repeatedly until the kids are cheered, harried, or encouraged into thinking for themselves. Then you start all over with the next bunch. I used to dream fondly of the pig bin.

A rather more trying and tiring task of the college professor is to waste large blocks of time in meetings: committee meetings from ad hoc to standing room only; these reunions are purely asinine in intention and finally, after about seven years (the time it takes to receive full tenure, after which you can piss everyone off if you feel like it), I had endured more than enough. The last straw was the SACS accreditation board (have blotted from my mind what the initials stand for, and I would take it kindly if no one were to remind me), who required us all to write detailed accounts of everything we did in the classroom and what outcomes the student could expect from our courses. While this at first sight might even seem reasonable and a task that might even just entail a collation of syllabus and preparation plans, it isn't. Try it, if you're not quite sure! "On May 10th the students will collectively have a semicolon epiphany and suddenly understand the correct use of this tricksy little piece of punctuation. . . ."

After that, I would go to meetings and chat with people about their hair-dos or health, rather than listen to the bureaucratic piffle that was wafting through the room with interminable handouts and powerpoint presentations. No, I never did learn how to be a team player. And now that I'm retired, I don't even have to pretend to be sorry anymore.