Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,107
spawn. Just barely a minute into our meal, the brag session begins.
“Constance has just landed herself a fantastic job,” he booms.
My ears instantly perk up.
Constance and I are only months apart in age, and ever since we were kids, Uncle Stuart has loved making comparisons between Constance and me. Of course, it was always in Constance’s favor. Constance was always the faster swimmer, she always got better grades, and she attended the better college.
When she got admitted to Yale, it was all we ever heard about at every single holiday gathering. To add insult to injury, Constance also majored in Journalism, and so the comparisons have never ceased.
Uncle Stuart strokes Constance’s hair like he’s petting a prized panda bear. “Constance here is a foreign correspondent for CNN. She’s following in the footsteps of Christiane Amanpour and Anderson Cooper.”
From across the dining table, Constance shoots me one of her I’m-better-than-you smirks, preening like she’s the gold medalist.
Keeping sangfroid, I treat her with taciturn indifference. On the surface, everything seems pleasant enough.
But I hate her.
And I wish she’d wipe that pompous smirk off her panda face.
Foreign correspondent, eh? Well I hope CNN deploys her to Afghanistan, or Syria, or Yemen.
“And what is it that you do Madison?” sneers Uncle Stuart.
I level my gaze with his. “I work at a call center.”
“What a shame,” clucks Aunty Benedicta, in a voice dripping with false empathy.
Uncle Stuart snarls in an accusatory tone, “Oh! So you’re one of those people, aren’t you?”
Slowly, I set my silverware down on the table. “And what do you mean by that?”
“You know, customer-no-service,” he says patronizingly. Then he emits his signature scratchy laugh, reminiscent of the noise a dog makes right before it pukes.
After collecting himself, he shoots me a smarmy smile and adds, “No offense kiddo.”
I know exactly what he’s trying to do. He’s been doing this to me my whole life—trying to make me feel inadequate.
Constance laughs a mirthless laugh and my mom’s eyebrows crease with concern when she catches the determined glint in my eye. Resentment and indignation boil inside me, and I have to consciously bite my tongue to repress the remarks I feel bubbling to the surface. But as tradition requires, a lady never speaks with her mouth full. And so, I patiently bide my time.
Crunching on my romaine lettuce, I allow myself to enjoy the tartness of the cranberries and the crispness of the leafy greens while I reflect upon the rampant stigma associated with my job.
I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m fully aware that most people harbor a deep contempt and hatred toward customer service reps. But now that I’m on the other side of the invisible phone line, I understand. The pressure and stress that management puts on me to sell and keep my calls short, callers who yell at me because their world will end if their DSL service is down for ten seconds.
It often feels as if I’m being crushed and compressed from all sides. It takes a helluva lot to keep my composure, yet I always do my best. I am courteous, respectful and go above and beyond to be helpful, as long as the callers don’t make it obvious that they wish for me to die a slow and painful death.
There is bad customer service but there is also good customer service, and I have always prided myself on the latter. And with Uncle Stuart’s unprovoked attack, I feel marginalized, ostracized and victimized. Like I’m pushed against a wall.
I find myself in a situation where it’s me versus them. A customer service rep versus the haters.
Oh I know. I can be a tad bit dramatic and childish at times, but he started it! Plus, I feel this perverse need to defend myself, to defend the honor of customer service reps all around the world—in the States, in India, the Philippines, Botswana, Bolivia, Brazil, Malaysia, Russia, the Czech Republic.
I can’t let him get away with talking smack about my people.
As the Lord said to Moses and in the great words of Martin Luther King, “Let My People Go!”
Meanwhile, the tension at the table continues to crackle and mount. Projecting an image of unflappable calm, I raise my chin at my Quasimodo uncle. Acting like a true lady in the face of adversity, I say eloquently, “And you, Uncle Stuart, are one of those customers. And by that I mean brainless, idiotic, fart-brained fools who call in asking for help, yet think they know everything.”