kind of Florida Buddha and play tunes from old Bollywood classics. He was a pretty good singer and if it had not been for years of smoking when he was a young man, he would have perhaps kept the sharp pitch of his melodic voice.
When he was not singing, he was working in the garage, fixing the car, or cooking. Often happy to step up when my mother was too tired to cook, he would whip up some sub-continental concoction that was both mouth-and nose-watering. My father loved spicy food; he would in fact often eat raw chili peppers. Not swallow them whole, so as to avoid the burn, but actually bite into them and masticate them to mush.
At Verizon, my father worked in a small cubicle where he took about thirty to forty calls per shift. When the call that would be his last came in, it was halfway through his shift and it began like every other call: with someone upset that they were being overcharged, or someone claiming they never made any calls to Maine, or someone whose call kept getting dropped, or someone not understanding what the extra charges on their bill were for, or someone wanting to talk toa supervisor, or someone claiming their five-year-old had made these calls by accident, or that their teenager had visited those websites without permission. Whatever the complaint, the customer service representative’s job was to stay calm and problem-solve. Periodically the supervisors would listen in on random calls, so you never knew when you were being evaluated.
This caller’s name was Carl, and he was already upset that he had been kept on hold for as long as he had. My father apologized for the wait, to which Carl informed him he had to get to work and didn’t have time to be sitting here dealing with this shit. My father said he understood and asked Carl for his account number, however, Carl didn’t seem to understand.
“Can I have your account number?” my father repeated.
“I can’t understand what you are saying,” said Carl.
My father attempted to speak more slowly, but it didn’t help.
“I’m sorry,” Carl interrupted, “Your accent. I can’t understand your accent. Look, I don’t have time for this. Honestly, why can’t Verizon hire people who can speak English?”
“I am speaking English,” my father said, “and I need to know your account number.”
“What is your name?” Carl inquired.
“My name is Hakim.”
“Shit,” said Carl, “have I been transferred to someone in India or Pakistan or some Arab country? I can’t understand what you are saying and honestly I don’t have time for this. I have called three times about this and I just need to get this bullshit resolved. I didn’t make any calls to Palo Alto, wherever the fuck that is. I keep getting these charges on my account and I just want to talk to someone who I can understand, someone in my own fucking country, someonewho I can trust, someone like me, someone who is an American. Now can I please talk to an American?”
“I am in America,” my father replied, “I am in Tampa, Florida, and you can trust me. I work for Verizon and I can deal with your problem.”
“Well, I don’t care where you are and honestly I don’t mean to say I can’t trust you. I apologize. I’m very frustrated and I really just want to talk to someone else. Not to be rude but can you please just transfer me to someone who speaks English?”
“I do speak English,” my father answered. “You are assuming I am a foreigner, because I have an accent, but I am an American just like you.”
“You don’t know what I am assuming,” came the reply, fast and furious. “Now I didn’t want to be rude to you, but here’s what
you
can assume. Assume my son died in Iraq, killed by one of your people. Assume that I work for the FBI and I can have you sent back to wherever you came from before you can say ‘camel shit.’ Assume I am the fucking president of the United States and I want to exercise my right in the land of the free to speak to
When he was not singing, he was working in the garage, fixing the car, or cooking. Often happy to step up when my mother was too tired to cook, he would whip up some sub-continental concoction that was both mouth-and nose-watering. My father loved spicy food; he would in fact often eat raw chili peppers. Not swallow them whole, so as to avoid the burn, but actually bite into them and masticate them to mush.
At Verizon, my father worked in a small cubicle where he took about thirty to forty calls per shift. When the call that would be his last came in, it was halfway through his shift and it began like every other call: with someone upset that they were being overcharged, or someone claiming they never made any calls to Maine, or someone whose call kept getting dropped, or someone not understanding what the extra charges on their bill were for, or someone wanting to talk toa supervisor, or someone claiming their five-year-old had made these calls by accident, or that their teenager had visited those websites without permission. Whatever the complaint, the customer service representative’s job was to stay calm and problem-solve. Periodically the supervisors would listen in on random calls, so you never knew when you were being evaluated.
This caller’s name was Carl, and he was already upset that he had been kept on hold for as long as he had. My father apologized for the wait, to which Carl informed him he had to get to work and didn’t have time to be sitting here dealing with this shit. My father said he understood and asked Carl for his account number, however, Carl didn’t seem to understand.
“Can I have your account number?” my father repeated.
“I can’t understand what you are saying,” said Carl.
My father attempted to speak more slowly, but it didn’t help.
“I’m sorry,” Carl interrupted, “Your accent. I can’t understand your accent. Look, I don’t have time for this. Honestly, why can’t Verizon hire people who can speak English?”
“I am speaking English,” my father said, “and I need to know your account number.”
“What is your name?” Carl inquired.
“My name is Hakim.”
“Shit,” said Carl, “have I been transferred to someone in India or Pakistan or some Arab country? I can’t understand what you are saying and honestly I don’t have time for this. I have called three times about this and I just need to get this bullshit resolved. I didn’t make any calls to Palo Alto, wherever the fuck that is. I keep getting these charges on my account and I just want to talk to someone who I can understand, someone in my own fucking country, someonewho I can trust, someone like me, someone who is an American. Now can I please talk to an American?”
“I am in America,” my father replied, “I am in Tampa, Florida, and you can trust me. I work for Verizon and I can deal with your problem.”
“Well, I don’t care where you are and honestly I don’t mean to say I can’t trust you. I apologize. I’m very frustrated and I really just want to talk to someone else. Not to be rude but can you please just transfer me to someone who speaks English?”
“I do speak English,” my father answered. “You are assuming I am a foreigner, because I have an accent, but I am an American just like you.”
“You don’t know what I am assuming,” came the reply, fast and furious. “Now I didn’t want to be rude to you, but here’s what
you
can assume. Assume my son died in Iraq, killed by one of your people. Assume that I work for the FBI and I can have you sent back to wherever you came from before you can say ‘camel shit.’ Assume I am the fucking president of the United States and I want to exercise my right in the land of the free to speak to
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