An Unpalatable Conversation

multiple people. Whether at a convention, a shop, a dentist’s office, a social work meeting point, a museum, what have you, a lot of the people who come by are in genuine need of guidance. A customer service employee is often a very stressed person’s first point of call, an island they make for when all around them is confusion but they have something important to do, are going through something, don’t have time for this, others are depending on them, whatever. I always feel good when I can help take away someone’s panic or bring something constructive into a person’s day. When it goes wrong though, customer service can be one of the most abusive, humiliating, exhausting positions out there -- while remaining absolutely essential to the smooth functioning of a society like ours. Customer service employees, no matter how contented and enthusiastic, no matter how great the place where they work, no matter how personally rewarding they may find the work itself, have to put up with a lot.

     Where I worked as a receptionist this one time, many years ago, there was a great deal of need for sensitivity because people were often there to investigate personal issues and it could be very hard. As with many of my jobs over the decades, there will be plenty of stories about this workplace. The time I picked up the phone to be told I was live on the radio. The crows that lived on that street. This time, though, I feel like focusing on a woman who called me once. Just… wow. 

     The call started out normally. I was not born here but have lived here more than half my life, am certified as a near-native speaker of the language, and am often praised for my command thereof. I am from somewhere, however, which conveys upon its citizens a variety of strong, unmistakable accents, one of which I, you guessed it, still have. It’s subtle enough now that people often speak to me for a little while before suddenly exclaiming, “Oh! I hear your accent now! Wow, you speak our language well.” It’s never been a problem – with the exception of this phone call.

     The elderly woman on the other end had a very strong accent herself. It was the fruity, well-trained, boomingly loud accent of the unbelievably posh. I could visualize the huge, lacquered hair vaguely styled after the queen’s, the sparkling of the sapphire and diamond jewelry and the sleek lines of pearls against well-stiffened satin, a small Old Master behind her where she sat in a spider-legged vintage chair at an intricately pieced together table of glowing antique woods. I could just about smell her custom-designed, delicate perfume, the cedar of the paneled room dividers, a whiff of exotic daffodils from her lush garden. She had some pretty straightforward questions about the gleaning of information there at our place, and I answered her happily and, she said, helpfully. And then it happened.

     “Now,” she said to me, “You have been very helpful and nothing but polite and I thank you. I understand the process now, and appreciate it very much that you went above and beyond to get me that appointment. Since we are done with our business, though, may I ask you something?”

     “Of course,” said I.

     “I can hear from your voice that you have an accent.”

     “Yes, ma’am, but I’ve lived here for a very long time.”

     “Well,” she said, “That’s not a problem...” [Ummm... thank you, I guess?] “...and you’re very welcome here. There’s just one thing I don’t understand.”

     “What can I help you with, ma’am?”

     “Well,” she said again, “Well now, I hope you aren’t going to take this the wrong way. It’s just, well, when I was younger we had a lot of immigrants coming in. A lot of them. Like you!”

     Unsure of what to say, I retreated to customer-service-speak: “Yes ma’am”, again.

     “And well, you know, they all had accents.”

     “I understand, ma’am.”

     “They talked like this: nyoo-nyar-noo-myaaar-nyooo-oo-oo.”

     I... Now... I...  what had I just heard? It was at this point that I found myself, unusually because I am very good at my jobs, with literally nothing civil to say. I was struggling for something to gasp out that wouldn't get me fired when she elected to go on, giving me a moment to stagger back mentally from this bizarre brink. My relief was, however, fleeting.

     “So I have a question for you.”

     Oh god, oh god, what is this woman going to ask me now? “Yes, ma’am?”

     “See,” she went on, patiently, kindly, “Back in my day when people came in who talked like that, they taught them not to. They taught them to sound like normal people.”

     I attempted not to make strangling noises into the receiver as my brain tried to get itself around what was happening.

     “So my question to you is, young lady, my question is: why haven’t they taught you not to sound like that? You work somewhere so prestigious, so important, so cultural and here you are answering the phone sounding like that. Why haven’t they taught you to talk like normal people?”

     There are times in customer service when you have to take your pride, your sense of human decency, your very self respect and shove them all right up your own ass. This was, unfortunately, one of those moments.

     “I really just don’t know, ma’am. You have a nice day, now.”

     And click.

     I still feel soiled by having been forced to exchange syllables with that woman, all those years ago.