Alumni Gazette

Manners Matter

You can’t judge ‘professionals’ by their occupations, an alumna discovers. By Christie Scotty ’00

Like most people, I’ve long understood that I will be judged by my occupation. It’s obvious that people care what others do for a living: Head into any social setting and introductions of “Hi, my name is . . . ” are quickly followed by the ubiquitous “And what do you do?” I long ago realized my profession is a gauge that people use to see how smart or talented I am. Recently, however, I was disappointed to see that it also decides how I’m treated as a person.

Last year I left a professional position as a small-town reporter and took a job waiting tables while I figured out what I wanted to do next. As someone paid to serve food to people, I had customers say and do things to me I suspect they’d never say or do to their most casual acquaintances.

Some people would stare at the menu and mumble drink orders—“Bring me a water, extra lemon, no ice”—while refusing to meet my eyes. Some would interrupt me midsentence to say the air conditioning was too cold or the sun was too bright through the windows. One night a man talking on his cell phone waved me away, then beckoned me back with his finger a minute later, complaining he was ready to order and asking where I’d been.

I had waited tables during summers in college and was treated like a peon by plenty of people. But at 19 years old, I sort of believed I deserved inferior treatment from professional adults who didn’t blink at handing over $24 for a seven-ounce fillet. Besides, people responded to me differently after I told them I was in college. Customers would joke that one day I’d be sitting at their table, waiting to be served. They could imagine me as their college-age daughter or future coworker.

Once I graduated I took a job at a community newspaper. From my first day, I heard a respectful tone from most everyone who called me, whether they were readers or someone I was hoping to interview. I assumed this was the way the professional world worked—cordially.

I soon found out differently. I sat several feet away from an advertising sales representative with a similar name. Our calls would often get mixed up and someone asking for Kristen would be transferred to Christie. The mistake was immediately evident. Perhaps it was because their relationship centered on “gimme,” perhaps it was because money was involved, but people used a tone with Kristen that they never used with me.

“I called yesterday and you still haven’t faxed—”

“Hi, this is so-and-so over at the real-estate office. I need—”

“I just got into the office and I don’t like—”

“Hi, Kristen. Why did—”

I was just a fledgling reporter, but the governor’s press secretary returned my calls far more politely than Kristen’s accounts did hers, even though she had worked with many of her clients for years.

My job title made people chat me up and express their concerns and complaints with courtesy. I came to expect friendliness from perfect strangers. So it was a shock to return to the restaurant industry. Sure, the majority of customers were pleasant, some even a delight to wait on, but all too often someone shattered that scene.

I often saw my coworkers storm into the kitchen in tears or with a mouthful of expletives after a customer had interrupted, degraded, or ignored them. In the eight months I worked there, I heard my friends muttering phrases like “You just don’t treat people like that!” on an almost daily basis.

It’s no secret that there’s a lot to put up with when waiting tables, and fortunately, much of it can be easily forgotten when you pocket the tips. The service industry, by definition, exists to cater to others’ needs. Still, it seemed that many of my customers didn’t get the difference between server and servant.

Some days I tried to force good manners. When a customer said hello but continued staring at his menu without glancing up at me, I’d make it a point to say, “Hi, my name is Christie,” and then pause and wait for him to make eye contact.

I’d stand silent an awkwardly long time waiting for a little respect. It was my way of saying “I am a person, too.”

I knew I wouldn’t wait tables forever, so most days I just shook my head and laughed, pitying the people whose lives were so miserable they treated strangers shabbily in order to feel better about themselves.

Recently I left the restaurant world and took an office job where some modicum of civility exists. I’m now applying to graduate school, which means someday I’ll return to a profession where people need to be nice to me in order to get what they want. I think I’ll take them to dinner first, and see how they treat someone whose only job is to serve them.