If you're reading this I can only assume you know me reasonably well. And if you don't know me even a little I suppose you'll just have too take my word for it that I am, generally speaking, a very nice and inoffensive person. I am not, for the most part, mouthy or confrontational; I have no facial piercings or tattoos that might draw undue attention; in fact, with my blonde hair, blue eyes, and unobtrusive demeanor I am pretty much the picture of white, middle class normality. In short I am not the kind of person who, when seen on the street during the course of a regular day, would attract vitriol from passers by. People don't usually feel the need to cuss me, avoid me, or say mean and hurtful things with the express intent of demoralizing me. And yet these things continue to happen to me on a regular basis thanks to my job. For the past 6 weeks I've been working as a street fundraiser, or chugger (charity-mugger for those not in the know). And the next time you come across one of us remember me, and also remember: it's really not that hard to be nice.
You know us. You've avoided us many a time on the busy streets around your place of work or living. I don't mind. Honestly I don't even mind when people are deliberately rude to me anymore. I mostly find it amusing. The incredibly BUSY and IMPORTANT business women ("I'm on my lunch break!"); the self-righteous middle aged business men ("You know what, love? I know we all have to make a living but you are a drain on society."); or those too lazy to even bother ("Oh, um, yeah...I'm in a real...rush."). Also people seem to get really nervous when I approach them. They start spurting out all kinds of words that add up to mean absolutely nothing, and walk away with vaguely confused looks on their faces while I just stand there smirking. But despite the fact that there are a lot of assholes out there, there are also an unexpected number of incredibly nice people about too. I get told I have a lovely smile at least 5 times a day, which is always a nice little ego boost. And even though I'm not a big fan of being touched by strangers, being hugged by a cancer survivor while they tell you you're doing a great job is awfully gratifying.
The thing is, I don't think I'm the kind of person you would expect to find in this kind of job. When I tell people back in Australia what I'm doing for work they seem surprised. For one thing, I'm not really the loud, charming, attention-grabbing type who would instinctively thrive in this line of work. But on the other hand I often get told by the people I speak to that I'm the nicest chugger they've ever met, so I guess that's why I'm sometimes really quite good at what I do (I'm also sometimes terrible, but we'll just overlook that for now).
The other reaction I always get is "God, how do you do that? I've always thought that would be the worst job ever."
To be honest, I pretty much agreed with that consensus for about my first two weeks. In fact the only reason I didn't quit is because both my boss and my team leader basically guilt tripped me into staying with their constant reassurances that I would one day wake up and be good at it. Which seemed unlikely, but is in fact what happened. Mostly. On my aforementioned bad days I get a bit wrapped up in a mental whirlpool of self-doubt and frustration, but you know. Apparently life goes on (I've never been good at being just ok at things. So I guess this job is teaching me valuable life lessons. Or so I'm telling myself). Naturally there is an incredibly high volume of people who quit within a week or two of starting this job. I think the number of people who stay on works out at about 1 or 2 out of every 50 people hired. But the people who do stay are... God. I'm not even sure. Insane? Masochists? Whatever else they are, they're quality people. At the end of the day I really like this job, partially because it's fun and partially because I'm doing a good thing for the world, but mostly because of the people. Admittedly since I've started chugging I've also started partying more and sleeping considerably less, but that's what it is to be 22 and living in London. Right? Besides, I figure my morally reprehensible extra-curricular behavior is cancelled out by the fact I'm working 5 days a week for charity.
Showing posts with label fundraising. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fundraising. Show all posts
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
A little bit of luck
They say bad things come in threes. And I've had such a bad run of it over the last week I'm hoping this is my bad-luck quota for the year well and truly filled.
Two Mondays ago I lost my job. It was hardly something to be upset about - I was working as a door-to-door findraiser and while my colleagues were great, wandering the far-flung streets of suburban London in the cold and the dark only to have doors slammed repeatedly in my face was hardly a joy. Besides, the company was new and shakey, so when they folded it nobody was suprised. A job is a job though, and between rent and food and my travel fund I was beginning to think I'd be stretched a little thin. Luckily I'd got that original job through a recruitment agency, and they set me up right away with some new work. Unfortunately the London job market isn't exactly booming, so the only work available is the jobs no-one else wants. Like, for example, street fundraising. You know; those painfully happy people you see in the city and who, no matter how hard you try to look inconspicuous, latch onto you and guilt you into paying out for a charity you'd never even thought about until about 30 seconds ago. Yep. That's me.
Believe me, I understand how annoying street fundraisers are. I can't say no to save my life, so I am the perfect target. But no matter how many times I'm asked, no matter how little money I have, no matter how guilty I end up feeling, I am always polite. It's just a job, after all. Apparently, though, not everyone is quite so considerate. I felt like crying for two days straight after I started. Being sworn at, yelled at, ignored or shoved aside for eight hours a day is hard work. I started on Tuesday, and by the afternoon it was all I could do not to slink off down a side street and weep for self-pity. My teamleader came up to me around five and all he could say was "Shannon, why do you look SO sad?" Well no, that's not entirely true. He also told me that people are mostly all cunts. And while I don't actually believe that, it's becoming a lot harder to refute.
By Friday I have to admit I was honestly enjoying myself. The sun was out, I was getting better numbers, rude remarks had quickly become like water off a duck's back. The people I was working with were fun and great company. I was in a good mood. Exhausted, but happy.
And then I went out and got hit in the face. Again.
Never in my life did I think I would have to say that even once, let alone two weeks in a row. I left the club because I was tired, had drunk enough and needed to get some sleep before work in the morning. There is a 24 hour bus to my house from the station nearest the club, so I went there. But it wasn't coming for ages, so I figured a taxi would just make my night that much easier, and would only cost me about a tenner. That was a mistake.
I hailed a black cab and asked the driver what it would cost to get me home. He told me £15. Admittedly a bit pricey, but at 2:30 on a Saturday morning it still seemed reasonable. But when we got to my road he tried to charge me £10 extra, and when I got out of the cab having only given him the original amount he followed me, threatened me, and then hit me. Unlike last time I was alone. So I ran. I literally turned around and legged it. Not exactly a hero, me.
Anyway, I woke up the next morning with a bruised nose, and fat lip, and the strangest feeling. Even though I was hurt worse this time around, I didn't feel as scared as the first time. My friends railed, and I rallied. I just didn't think about it. I thought about my friend Laura, when she had a fat lip. I thought about how, despite my landlady's assurances that London is a mean place, this could have happened anywhere. About how I still love London. About how this bad thing had happened, but I didn't have to let it have far-reaching consequences.
Really it's just a run of bad luck. But sometimes bad things are just the forerunners of better things. I lost my job, but got a better one. I got hit in the face, but I'll be stronger for it. On Tuesday evening, right at the end of the day, my teamleader came up to me again, to tell me that he didn't really think people were mostly cunts. Maybe he just didn't want to be the one to ruin my bright and shiney outlook on life, but it's true. Sometimes people are rubbish. But in the end, people are mostly good. Or at least I will continue to resolutely believe so.
Two Mondays ago I lost my job. It was hardly something to be upset about - I was working as a door-to-door findraiser and while my colleagues were great, wandering the far-flung streets of suburban London in the cold and the dark only to have doors slammed repeatedly in my face was hardly a joy. Besides, the company was new and shakey, so when they folded it nobody was suprised. A job is a job though, and between rent and food and my travel fund I was beginning to think I'd be stretched a little thin. Luckily I'd got that original job through a recruitment agency, and they set me up right away with some new work. Unfortunately the London job market isn't exactly booming, so the only work available is the jobs no-one else wants. Like, for example, street fundraising. You know; those painfully happy people you see in the city and who, no matter how hard you try to look inconspicuous, latch onto you and guilt you into paying out for a charity you'd never even thought about until about 30 seconds ago. Yep. That's me.
Believe me, I understand how annoying street fundraisers are. I can't say no to save my life, so I am the perfect target. But no matter how many times I'm asked, no matter how little money I have, no matter how guilty I end up feeling, I am always polite. It's just a job, after all. Apparently, though, not everyone is quite so considerate. I felt like crying for two days straight after I started. Being sworn at, yelled at, ignored or shoved aside for eight hours a day is hard work. I started on Tuesday, and by the afternoon it was all I could do not to slink off down a side street and weep for self-pity. My teamleader came up to me around five and all he could say was "Shannon, why do you look SO sad?" Well no, that's not entirely true. He also told me that people are mostly all cunts. And while I don't actually believe that, it's becoming a lot harder to refute.
By Friday I have to admit I was honestly enjoying myself. The sun was out, I was getting better numbers, rude remarks had quickly become like water off a duck's back. The people I was working with were fun and great company. I was in a good mood. Exhausted, but happy.
And then I went out and got hit in the face. Again.
Never in my life did I think I would have to say that even once, let alone two weeks in a row. I left the club because I was tired, had drunk enough and needed to get some sleep before work in the morning. There is a 24 hour bus to my house from the station nearest the club, so I went there. But it wasn't coming for ages, so I figured a taxi would just make my night that much easier, and would only cost me about a tenner. That was a mistake.
I hailed a black cab and asked the driver what it would cost to get me home. He told me £15. Admittedly a bit pricey, but at 2:30 on a Saturday morning it still seemed reasonable. But when we got to my road he tried to charge me £10 extra, and when I got out of the cab having only given him the original amount he followed me, threatened me, and then hit me. Unlike last time I was alone. So I ran. I literally turned around and legged it. Not exactly a hero, me.
Anyway, I woke up the next morning with a bruised nose, and fat lip, and the strangest feeling. Even though I was hurt worse this time around, I didn't feel as scared as the first time. My friends railed, and I rallied. I just didn't think about it. I thought about my friend Laura, when she had a fat lip. I thought about how, despite my landlady's assurances that London is a mean place, this could have happened anywhere. About how I still love London. About how this bad thing had happened, but I didn't have to let it have far-reaching consequences.
Really it's just a run of bad luck. But sometimes bad things are just the forerunners of better things. I lost my job, but got a better one. I got hit in the face, but I'll be stronger for it. On Tuesday evening, right at the end of the day, my teamleader came up to me again, to tell me that he didn't really think people were mostly cunts. Maybe he just didn't want to be the one to ruin my bright and shiney outlook on life, but it's true. Sometimes people are rubbish. But in the end, people are mostly good. Or at least I will continue to resolutely believe so.
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