Blogular Updates

WHAT DO YOU ALL THINK of my cool new blog banner? Fabulous Robert of BLUE HERON BLAST did this for me, and I have sent copious cyberkisses and hugs his way. IT'S JUST BEE-YOO-TI-FULL! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

I did my last banner over 5 years ago, and couldn't even locate the website where I made it. Without the banner-making-for-dummies software, I had no clue how to proceed in conjuring up an updated banner. The few free banner-maker-sites I managed to find, did not have the crucial KASHMIR font, which I just HAD TO HAVE. (Led Zeppelin fans will undoubtedly recognize the lovely Kashmir font, named for the band who first used it on their album covers.) Also, I wanted outer space, utterly suitably for a flakey hippie like your humble narrator... the two together were nearly impossible for me to combine on the cheesy banner-maker websites. ((sobs)) I sulked for six whole months before wonderful Robert rescued me.

BLUE HERON RULES! Thank you so much, my friend.

Go visit Blue Heron Blast--which always has cool banners, and he changes them all the time, too... not once every five years, like some of us.

~*~

We did the promo for the radio show, today on Another Voice with Jason and Eric... they were kind enough to let us crazy lefties in to promote our new broadcast endeavor. Old-school Gentlemen! Very polite fellas who are all about free speech and everything... obviously, an endangered species in these parts.

Occupy the Microphone will formally debut on WOLT-FM, January 1st (and a happy New Year to you, too!)... WOLT-FM is a pretty snazzy-looking radio station, headquartered in the old McAlister Square mall, which I have written about here before.

~*~

At left: Daisy meets Country Earl, back on the auspicious date of 11-11-11.


WOLT-FM also once regularly featured local legend Country Earl's radio show. I was lucky enough to meet him last year, which was a real thrill for me. It therefore saddens me to announce that Country Earl passed away about a week ago, to the sorrow of upstate South Carolina:

A longtime Upstate radio personality also known for his Simpsonville restaurant has passed away.

“Country Earl” Baughman, 79, died Monday at Greenville Memorial Hospital.

Baughman was a local radio personality/disc jockey for many years, with numerous upstate radio stations including WESC, WCKI, WFIS, WBBR, WAGI and WOLT where he hosted his “Country Earl’s Country Classics Radio Show.” He started his career in the 1950s and continued until 2000s.

He was also known for his restaurant, Country Earl’s Stompin’ and Chompin’. In recent years, the restaurant became less of a restaurant and more of a performance or event venue, becoming known as “Country Earl’s Celebration Place.”

Baughman was native of Greenville County. According to his obituary, he was the son of the late Herbie Theodore and Susie Mae Lackey Baughman.

He was a member of Brookwood Community Church and was an accomplished musician and songwriter and was inducted into the Rockabilly Hall Of Fame.

A “Celebration of Life Service” will be held 2 p.m. Saturday, Dec. 15, 2012 at Brookwood Community Church.

Forest Hills Funeral Home website says visitation will be held at the church following the service. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made in Earl’s memory to The Muscular Dystrophy Association, 25 Woods Lake Rd., Suite 412, Greenville, SC 29607.

Another real gentleman of the old school, who will be sorely missed. :(

~*~

For those who asked (I am SO flattered yall care about me!)--my lifelong, growing, ugly brown skin-blotch was technically diagnosed as a dermatofibroma.

Nobody knows what causes them, but one theory is that they are caused by infected insect bites. Oh, GROSS!

You see??? I just knew all those horrific flea bites I endured would somehow have some negative repercussions; it just stands to reason.

I am TOTALLY blaming them.

~*~

We talked about the recent school-shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, on our last podcast, if you'd like to give us a listen. I don't have much to add to what we said, except the song I played here on Saturday.

There is one quite fascinating link currently making the rounds--Mormon Church 'owns unregulated gun sale website':

One of the most active and unregulated gun sale websites in America is owned by the Mormon Church, an investigation by New York's Mayor Michael Bloomberg has revealed.

You just have to wonder... who else is making a killing, if you will pardon the expression.

My apologies for once again boring my dear readers with Tales of The Call Center, but the fact is, I learned a great deal whilst being cussed out every day, and I was toughened up for the long haul besides (which made me well-prepared for the rigors of talk radio)... My call center took calls for a world-wide shipping conglomerate, whose name (and big brown trucks) you would instantly recognize.

At one point on my call center job, I took calls ONLY from South Carolina for about 6-7 months. I became alarmed when I realized how many involved shipping huge amounts of firearms to other parts of the country, where I knew they were illegal. Most involved gun shows (and similar exhibitions), but some had other creative, shifty ways to get around the local laws. And I don't mind telling you, some of the guys on the phone sounded like they were straight out of Lizard Lick Towing. They initially didn't seem too bright, but honey, you shoulda heard them spout those LAWS--they knew them inside and out, backwards and forwards, state by state and county by county. When packages got held up and/or inspected, which happened fairly often, they would cuss a proverbial blue streak. And I used to get seriously creeped out when packages got LOST (and yes, they did), which made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I still remember one guy chuckling at the news that his enormous shipment of guns (to New York City) had apparently disappeared into the ether, and he would have to file a claim. "Bummer," he announced, "Hope whoever found it enjoys alla that fine weaponry," he chortled, "--and I hope nobody pisses him off tonight!"

I remember hoping nobody pissed him off too, whoever he was.

Imagine, a cache of weapons and ammo simply evaporating off of a loading dock? I hate to tell you, but it happens all the time.

The Big Squeeze: Tough Times for the American Worker by Steven Greenhouse

Rarely has a book left me so thoroughly depressed.

I had planned to start writing this review over the weekend, but it was an unpleasant prospect that I kept putting off, rather like changing the kitty litter.

But I knew I had to. Rah rah the working classes, and all like that. But that's just it, I hate to catalog exactly how bad we're getting it right now, and will likely continue to get it. Whilst reading this book, I remarked offhandedly to Mr Daisy that surely it can't continue like this, and he just laughed at me. Sure it can. It can get much worse; just take a look at those exhausted seamstresses in Taiwan hurriedly sewing sewing sewing for a measly 9 cents a garment. Reading this account of working conditions in the USA right now, one comes away with the (thoroughly depressing) idea that the Labor Movement was a mere blip, a momentary pause in the long march towards turning the masses of us into automatons and work horses, not necessarily in that order.

Interestingly enough, what initially grabbed me about this book was the inclusion of a chapter about the company I used to work for. Wow, there it is! I was somewhat dazzled to read it: see, I told you it was bad. Of course, I already knew that, but how validating to see it here on the printed page; the lousy working conditions duly listed with the other shitty employers like Walmart.

The company in question runs call-centers for corporate clients, and although the client in the book-example is different, the description of the work-atmosphere and job-requirements are the same. (I have mentioned this job a few times on DEAD AIR, notably here and here.) I made pretty good money, admittedly, but I paid for it in blood. During rush-seasons, we got bonuses simply for showing up and on time, so that should tell you just how vicious and nasty the calls could get. It was not unusual for people to dramatically walk out on the job with a "take this job and shove it" flourish... or they might simply scurry away in tears. They finally had to bribe employees to stay.

Now, however, in today's economy, they don't even bother with the bribes. Wages are down; bonuses and perks largely non-existent. The layoffs and pay-decreases enumerated in this book started in 2001, which is the year I left.[1]:

They call it the script. But it's actually an arcane list of things you are supposed to say, and things you'd better not say. At the [company] call center in [Anywhere, USA], the script sometimes seems only slightly less sacred than the Bible.

If any of the 550 [my center had over 800] customer service representatives (CSRs) stray too much from the script on one call, they risk a tongue-lashing. If they are caught straying on three or four calls, they risk their job.

You must always say "Thank you for calling ____." [...] You should never call a customer sir or madam, it's always Mr. or Ms. with the last name. And you had better not mispronounce the last name, even if it's Krzyzewski. If you don't slip in the customer's name at least three times during a call, that will mean some demerits. And you'd better mention [special bargain] at least once each call. You need to sound chipper and energetic, and you shouldn't spend more than four minutes on a call [our official call time was three minutes, ten seconds, give or take]. You also need to slip in at least two "pro-actives" [instructions to customer on how to avoid calling back, things they can do themselves, but say it nicely].

[...] And when a call is about to end, you'd better not forget to ask, "Have I resolved all of your concerns today?"

[...] There are more than 60,000 call centers in the United States and an estimated 4 million call center workers. It's an industry at the heart of the American economy. Call centers are the connective tissue of modern commerce, handling airline reservations and stock sales, selling HBO subscriptions and cell phones, taking orders for LL Bean and Dell computers, troubleshooting problems with your hard drive or your credit card.

Call centers are sometimes viewed as factories that supply an invaluable product: customer service. One academic study found that "call centers introduce principles of mechanization and industrial engineering into a much wider array of service transactions than was hitherto possible"--thanks to specialized software, networked computers, sophisticated equipment that distributes calls, and recording devices that keep tabs on a CSR's every word. While call centers rely on modern technologies to maximize productivity, their techniques often seem borrowed from the "drive" principles of old.

In short, deviate from the script, take too long, mess it up, and it's your ass in a sling.

And you know, some folks in management tried to be as humane as they could be about it, but rules are rules. I once listened to myself cut off an extremely-talkative jerk (on a tape-recorded call; all are recorded, but only a random few are listened to for monthly quality-review), because he was running up my call-time drastically... After every few word-torrents, I interrupted him with, "Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah" [2] which made my supervisors crack up so bad, they could barely write me up, they were laughing so hard. Nonetheless, I was written up. You have to keep the call short, but you can't interrupt the customer either (even if he sorely needs interrupting); obviously a no-win situation for the CSR. [3]

If you've ever wondered why it often takes two or three calls to straighten out a situation, keep in mind, the CSR answering your call might be working on a backlog of the last several calls. If you are put on hold immediately, it's because she has every window on her screen filled up, and has to clear one first to handle your call. Also, much of the new technology "auto-populates" screens with customer information that is often incorrect. So, she has to fix that, too. And a bunch of other shit besides:

[...] While on a call, perhaps answering a customer's questions about a monthly bill, the CSRs not only were supposed to slip in all the elements from the script, but were supposed to verify names and addresses and type them into the computer. And if the customer changed their cell phone plan [this was the Verizon call center in the book, mine was not] during a call, the CSRs had to type a great deal of additional information and do a credit check, all while navigating among various computer screens. [...] If while juggling all these tasks a call center rep concentrated so much on her typing or her computer screen that she didn't listen to the customer for a second or dropped a beat in the conversation, there would be consequences. "If you ever asked a customer to repeat something, the supervisors had a fit," [recalls one employee] "and you couldn't have dead air."

;) And now you know another reason for my blog name.

And now you also know why your information gets all screwed up.

~*~

As I said, I feel validated reading this account from the labor correspondent for the New York Times. Then again, note the "golly gee whiz" tone in what he has written, above. These are investigative "field studies" for him. It sounds remarkably like anthropology involving a pilgrimage to another culture that the author doesn't belong to, rather than workers in his own country. One gets the distinct impression that Steven Greenhouse doesn't actually associate with the people he is writing about. And see, although his heart is undoubtedly in the right place, I think this is part of the problem. Who is his intended audience, the workers in question? Who is he telling all of this to? NPR listeners? PBS viewers-like-you? People who attend Ivy-League schools? I can't quite figure out who is supposed to be reading this book; I didn't need to read it to know about the state of affairs described therein. I know what's in it. Who doesn't know about the current sorry state of affairs for the American worker? The educated people who will never have a job like CSR? (And are they utterly certain about that?)

Part of the problem is the class-schism of New York Times readers (wherein handbags are advertised starting at $4000 on sale) vs the rest of the country.

The problem is that he has to write this book in the first place, because people like him don't know about the call centers unless they read it in a book.

~*~

The best chapter in The Big Squeeze is (perfectly) titled "Leaner and Meaner," in which Greenhouse delineates the collapse of basic decency among management... something I first noticed during the Reagan era, when Big Business was manically fetishized as the savior of the American economy (and we see how well THAT worked, she coughed). Suddenly, bosses were given carte blanche to rip you a new one and scream stop fucking up whenever they took a notion. Before this time, such behavior was seriously uncool (have a look at MAD MEN again) and could lead to dismissal. After the 80s? The temper-tantrum-throwing supervisor was considered a real go-getter and was promoted to a fare-thee-well. Having no "sentimentality" and screaming at people the day their mother dies, well, that's a guy who CARES ABOUT THE COMPANY and will certainly go far, with hella commitment like that! The longer I have worked, the more I have seen this phenomenon in play. I have seen it increase to the point that I just assume most supervisors will be cruel--and I am pleasantly surprised when they aren't. Cruelty has become a managerial requirement; unkindness and brutality signal that you run a tight ship. A lot like the military.

Other chapters are also required reading, particularly "Outsourced and Out of Luck" and the well-documented "The Rise and Fall of the Social Contract"--chapter titles that speak for themselves. Although he offers 'solutions' at the end of the book, one can't help but think that companies and capitalists have already found their solution--and he even mentions it himself: Outsourcing. Maquiladoras. India. Mexico. If American workers complain or buckle under the pressure, do what the rich have always done: move on. Textile workers in the north start unionizing? Move the textile industry to the south. Too expensive THERE TOO? On to Mexico. Too expensive to pay call center workers a living wage in the USA? Hey, they speak English in India, and that's the new frontier for call centers.

They will just keep going until they find more people to use. And there seems to be a never-ending supply.

As I said, the book was depressing. The only thing I can think of to make me feel better is to repeat this old expression I learned years ago: Workers of the World unite, we have nothing to lose but our chains.

:)



...


[1] I left the company virtually right before 9/11... one of my first thoughts on 9/11 was how much of a mess it would be if I was still taking calls (my shift was heavily East Coast/New York), which is a terrible, self-serving thought, but one I couldn't suppress. I was so grateful to be off the phones, so that I would not hear the anguish up close.

[2] I sounded rather like the yeah-yeah's at the end of the B-52s song, "Dance this mess around" if you have ever heard it.

On another call, I got a customer named Fernando and asked him if he liked the Abba song of the same name. I nearly got written up for that too, but it turned out he loved the song and started singing it to me. (That one also made the rounds of management, and some would sing "Fernando" to me when they saw me in the hallways.)

[3] What was jarring about the call was how I didn't remember a thing about it, as if my memory banks had been wiped clean ("Did I fall asleep?")... Even now, years later, only a few calls really stand out--most are a veritable blur of meaningless capitalist verbiage in my memory.

How may I help you?

Purty flowers from downtown Greenville... which of course, have absolutely nothing to do with this post. (Yes, I really do own one of those old "flower power" buttons ...)



I wake up and my TV channels are totally scrambled. Panic! How do they expect me to keep up with my scandalmongering without TV? Yes, I know the internet is a great place for snooping about, but I want my talking heads! Michael Jackson's death has just been ruled a homicide, and I must know more.

My rather slack-ass and stingy cable TV-company, Charter Communications, is now bankrupt, but still operating. How does that work exactly? When regular people go bankrupt, they have to STOP operating, don't they? But here they are, taking my money and continuing to provide slack-ass service anyway.

The Charter website does not list any re-set of channels. So, I am attempting to find out the reason though their computerized customer service.

Thank you for choosing Charter Chat Live! A Customer Care representative from Cable TV Support will be with you shortly.
You are currently number 8 in the queue.
All agents are currently busy. Please stand by.
You are currently number 7 in the queue.
All agents are currently busy. Please stand by.

Are these bots or people? As Dead Air regulars know, your humble narrator worked in/was traumatized by customer service for over 5 years, and I think I would have preferred typing bullshit replies to giving bullshit replies over the phone.

At least, when they scream, you wouldn't hear it.

You are currently number 4 in the queue.
All agents are currently busy. Please stand by.
You are currently number 3 in the queue.
All agents are currently busy. Please stand by.
You have been connected to TTD Shazia .
TTD Shazia : Thank you for contacting Charter Video Support. My name is Shazia. How may I assist you today?
Me: My channels are all scrambled up and not in the usual order
TTD Shazia : I'm sorry. The channels are being updated due to the recent changes in the lineup. These channel changes are effective August 25th, 2009. After August 25th, 2009, go to charter.com to view your channel line-up.
TTD Shazia : I can give you a list now if you want.
Me: Yes, I would like that!
TTD Shazia : In order for me to further assist you, may I have the phone number on the account starting with the area code, please?
Me: blah blah blah
TTD Shazia : Thank you. Can you also please verify the name that appears on the account, the complete service address, and the last four digits of your SSN?
Me: More blah blah blah
TTD Shazia : May I verify who I am chatting with?
Me: Daisy
TTD Shazia : Thank you. One moment, please.
TTD Shazia : Thank you so much for patiently waiting.
TTD Shazia : Channel Line-Up Effective August 25th, 2009:

And Shazia/the bot gives me a list which I printed out. Better than the phone, most assuredly, where this wouldn't be possible.

While working in customer service, I was instructed to say "I'm sorry" about everything, or some variation such as "I apologize for that," which I still say in retail if I don't carry a product or we are out of something. Why are we apologizing for something not our fault? I hate that shit. I hate it from Shazia/the bot too. Not her or the bot's fault if Charter is all fucked up and doesn't care about telling customers that the line-up has changed.

Looking up the name "Shazia"--I see it is an Indian or Pakistani name. Did I just talk to India?

I have a lot of mixed feelings about the fact that the job I used to have, is likely outsourced now. I hate that Americans are not getting the jobs, and then again, I know how badly everyone in the world needs a job. I have always prided myself on being a working-class person who connects to other workers, no matter where and who they are. When I saw the 60 Minutes segment in 2004 and learned customer service people in India are making maybe one-fifth (or less!) of what I made, I was livid on their behalf, too:

On any given day in New Delhi and Bombay and Bangalore, the call goes out for new call center recruits as more and more American companies come calling. The call center employees earn $3,000 to $5,000 a year, in a nation where the per capita income is less than $500. The perks include free private transport to and from work plus the sheer heaven of an air-conditioned workplace.

And every time I talk to Luke (Skywalker?), Peter (Parker?) or Jennifer (Aniston? Garner? Lopez? Connelly?), I am also reminded of the 60 Minutes show:

New Delhi is nearly 11 hours ahead of New York, so manning the phones is largely night work. By day, the agents - as they're called - are dutiful Indian sons and daughters. By night, they take on phone names such as Sean, Nancy, Ricardo and Celine so they can sound like the girl or boy next door.

"The real name is Tashar. And name I use is Terrance," says one representative.

"My real name is Sangita. And my pseudo name is Julia," says another representative. "Julia Roberts happened to be my favorite actress, so I just picked out Julia."

American movies are part of an agent's training in how to sound all-American.

Lavanya Prabhu is a call center trainer who guides young Indians through the labyrinth of American English. And she says she is able to pick up some of typical American accents while instructing her students.

"Well, you have Brooklyn. 'You walk the walk and you talk the talk.' And you have the southerner's thing. 'Oh hello, there. What can I do for you today,'" says Prabhu, who spends most of her time trying to de-Indianize her countrymen.

But it's difficult to get in. In fact, Prabhu says they accept approximately five applicants out of 100 applications.

We are spreading our Americanism around the world; colonialism through culture. There appears to be no escape for anyone.

I was recently asked an account-related question by a customer service worker with a strong Indian accent...I couldn't find the information she asked for, and mumbled, Oh God, I'm such a mess, which unexpectedly brought some hardy laughter.

I was glad I could make her day happier, and add to the colloquialisms she would later share with her co-workers.

Is globalizing customer service a good or bad thing for the US economy? Having hung out with the Ron Paul people quite a lot, I am inclined to say no, but then again, I can't keep my personal feelings and work experience out of my assessment.

What say you?

On having a black name

My blog name is my grandmother's name, Daisy. My real name is one that would identify me very easily, so I don't use it. But I recently realized that something is missing in my online identity. While reading about The Carnival of Allies (proposed by The Angry Black Woman), I noted that I have never had to pointedly present myself as an ally to black people (not every minority; I specifically refer to black people) because they have usually assumed that I am.

They assume so, I figure, because I have a black name.

~*~

The first time it happened, I was in the third grade. I had moved to Columbus, Ohio, from a small town near Cleveland, where various types of ethnic names were common. No one had said anything about my name, since there were various names considered genuinely odd and unpronounceable in my class. Mine drew no attention there. But then, we moved. For about a year, the class I was in was mostly white. (As white flight reigned, within the year, my classes ran one-third to one-half black.)

The teacher called the roll. She got to my name, screwed up her face, looked confused, even alarmed. She said my name, _____? (Trepidation? Why?)

I answered.

She looked relieved. "That's an unusual name," she remarked, smiling. Why was she relieved?

I answered dutifully, "My mother made it up," which I believed was true. My mother had said so.

The teacher furrowed her brow, "Well, I've heard the name before," she said. She HAD? I was astonished. I had never met anyone else with my name. I thought it was mine and mine alone. Unique and one-of-a-kind.

"It's a N-GGER name!" some boy in the back of the room shouted, and the room erupted with laughter. I was too stunned to be embarrassed. I was taught that you weren't supposed to use that word. Would he get in trouble?

"Now, now, we'll have none of that!" the teacher injected, obviously slightly amused.

"But IT IS!" he shouted back, his comrades hooting with hysteria. "IT IS!"

"Well, maybe it is," she answered, "but that's nothing you should be saying like that!" She pursed her lips in disapproval; she didn't seem all that upset by it. Then she smiled sweetly at me, "And I'm sure _____ doesn't want you to talk about her name like that!"

I didn't, but I also didn't know why. I just wanted to cry. I told my mother.

"I made UP that name," she yelled indignantly, at no one in particular. "And they shouldn't be saying 'n-gger' in school!!! I hope you know you STILL AREN'T ALLOWED to use that word?!?" I nodded; I knew.

"I made UP that name," she repeated. "Well, damn!" She lit a cigarette. "Sorry, kid. It's so hard to be original."

(Lately, with all the appropriation issues in the feminist blogosphere, that line has been echoing in my head.)

~*~

I am a white woman, a blond, blue-eyed white woman, and I have a first name strongly associated with black women. My mother, a southerner by birth, never stopped telling me she made the name up. The fact that she truly could not remember ever hearing the name before, is a testament to the strength of southern segregation. It is likely she heard it once or twice, and simply forgot it until later. Just like those legendary blues riffs that got lifted from black musicians. (Is it plagiarism if you just FORGOT where you heard it?) And so, even at 50 years old, I have a name that makes people do a double-take. "You're _____?" is something I have heard all my life. "Yes, that would be me," is what I say, as they look confused. I have upset the social order. Names, I have learned, are a big, big part of it.

I always knew, for example, without really articulating why, that I should go in person to fill out a job application. Make sure they see you, I would think, unconsciously. I always called after sending in a resume, made sure they heard me. But even so, it's always been a problem; I have always had trouble securing interviews if I didn't already know someone in the company. And I have always known why. I was happy when the experts vindicated me.

And I only got my silly record and book reviews published when I started using a pseudonym. Were they suddenly more readable?

In the south, a few white women have my name--some have made sure to tell me about their aunts or cousins who have the "unusual" name, and how they spelled it (since nobody spells it exactly the same way). But it remains a "black" name--to the extent that several racist parodies have used my name, for instance, in places like The National Lampoon. Googling my first name, I find: an African-American Olympic medal winner, an African-American recipe website, a still-unknown jazz singer, a model, a teacher. All black women.

In addition, I've received black-oriented catalogs, mass-mailings, spam, coupons, radio station advertisements and invitations to church.

Saturday Night Live even assigned my name to a black crackhead-character in a comedy skit. I was at a small social gathering of mostly-white people when I saw it, and a roar of laughter went up at the mention of the character's name. Just like when I was in the third grade.

For some reason, it's always considered funny. Mistaken identity, ha ha ha. People of all races confide to me, laughing, that I'm the only white ____ they have ever met!

Why, exactly, is that funny? Because I've never understood why.

~*~

When I did customer service, I worked with mostly black women. And we were supposed to give our names, like good customer service robots: "Thank you for calling blabbity blabbity, I'm _____, how may I help you?"

"WHAT did you say your name was?"

Here it comes.

I always repeated it, obediently. And I often heard lots of illuminating stuff after that. A few:

"Are you a n-gger?"

"Are you black? Give me someone white. I want someone who can find their ass with both hands, no offense."

"Oh, God no."

(to someone else in the room) "Oh guess what, guys? I've got ______ on the phone, and she's gonna -solve- our problem!!!!" (room responds with hoots, hollers, boos, laughter, etc.)

"Give me someone white, and don't argue with me about it, just do it." (On these calls, I very much enjoyed getting the black supervisor with the British accent on the line; we both enjoyed putting one over on them. But I always made sure to tell the supervisor what was up.)

In other cases, I dug my heels in. Fuck you, I thought.

In short, on the phone, when assumed to be black, I reacted that way. When asked point-black if I was black, I wouldn't tell. "Why?" I'd ask.

"Because I need to get someone who KNOWS WHAT THEY ARE DOING," they'd reply, screaming. They would wait a half-hour for a supervisor they believed was white, before they'd let me deal with their situation, as I could have done in 5 minutes or less.

They made all sorts of assumptions when I wouldn't tell. "Most white people don't want to be mistaken for black," said one woman authoritatively, "so I think you're black, but you don't sound like it." Obviously, she thought this was a high compliment.

"You never know," I said.

~*~

:: At a retail location, a white male sales rep asked who was purchasing the books for a display, which was my job: _______ is, he was told. He blanched, shook his head adamantly and had something of a fit. He needed someone who knew about READING.

:: Employees are attending a seminar and a list of attendees' names given over the phone, to reserve seating . Wait, WHAT'S that name, again, who? "Has she finished high school?" (Everyone must finish high school to have the job in the first place, so why this question?)

:: "That's the worst name I ever heard, unless you're black, and you ain't!"

:: "Did your mom expect you to be black, or wasn't she sure who your daddy was?"

:: Lots of canceled dates, due to my name. Lots of changed invitations. And these were (white) guys my friends wanted me to meet, fellas they assured me were nice. I would invariably hear that the guy snorted derisively and/or initially freaked out: "I'm not going out with ______!!!" --until informed that I was blond and pale. Then he would.

But then, I wouldn't.

~*~

Various factors have influenced my politics. My mother was an EEOC representative and disability activist. She believed all people should be treated equally, and she lived her politics. And somewhere along the line, she gave me a black name, which has helped to guide my life. I have been forced, even against my will, to identify with a despised people.

"I know, I gave you a black name! I still thought I made it up," she told me, some time before her final illness.

"But it's been GOOD FOR YOU!" she announced. And then she smiled, satisfied.

It has been.

Chinue Tao Hashim 1977-1998

Left: Chinue Hashim, 1996



In so many ways, and despite all the international enterprises moving into the area, Greenville is still a small town. I know three generations of women connected to Chinue, although I did not know him personally. I know his mother, girlfriend and daughter, Mia Hashim (whom he never lived to see).

I was working in customer service when it happened. It is so vivid to me because I was working with Chinue's mother, Cynthia. We were on the same team, taking hundreds of calls a day at a major call center for a mega-corporation. She had a New York accent, and a very direct New York way of speaking. She wouldn't take a lot of shit from customers. She would interrupt them, pointedly asking, sir, do you want me to help you or not? If they didn't stop yowling, she would "introduce them to Michael Bolton"--i.e. put them on hold. I loved her.

I was one of only a handful of white people working on the floor when it happened. And afterwards, I could feel the tension. Of course, there was tension. I remember thinking that I had always heard that key phrase "police shoot unarmed black suspect"--but this time, I was working among the people who understood these events intimately. It wasn't a political rally or TV show. It was Cynthia's son.

It was in the newspaper.

The police raid was described to me in detail by Chinue's fiancee, Erica Mardis, who was then pregnant with Mia. She was sitting outside in the car waiting for Chinue to return, when law enforcement forcibly yanked her from the vehicle, slammed her to the ground and put a gun to her head. She heard a blast, and then "dozens of cops" invaded the house that Chinue had entered only minutes before.

And so, on February 19, 1998, twenty-year-old Chinue Tao Hashim, the beautiful, gentle, talented, unarmed son of my co-worker Cynthia, was dead. The same dreadlocked young man whose photo I had seen so many times, smiling peacefully at us as his mother talked to customers.

On the day after, Cynthia was not at work. African-American co-workers were whispering angrily in the restrooms and breakrooms, the white cops just shot him dead. At first, I didn't realize that the newspaper-story was about Cynthia's son, since their last names are different.

Within hours, I learned the truth. I was heartsick, and I wept.

The police raid and murder of Chinue was controversial enough to warrant a lawsuit, the details of which I don't know and aren't public. The raid itself was written up by no less than the Cato Institute in their groundbreaking report titled OVERKILL: The Rise of Paramilitary Police Raids in America:

A deputy in Greenville County, South Carolina shoots and kills unarmed drug suspect Chinue Tao Hashim during a SWAT raid.

While negotiating a drug deal with Hashim, one undercover officer says over the radio, "a gun is on the table," meaning that a gun was part of the alleged drug bargain. When the SWAT team raids, Master Deputy John Eldridge interprets the radio remark to mean Hashim is armed. As the raid commences, Eldridge thinks he sees Hashim reaching for a gun, and opens fire.

A subsequent investigation revealed that what Eldridge thought was a gun was actually the glint from a wristwatch. Prosecutors declined to press charges against Eldridge.

Erica says there was no "gun on the table" either, and that's all bullshit. He did not enter the house with a gun, period.

But there is another detail missing: Chinue couldn't have been reaching for a gun, because he was holding a boxer puppy in his hands.