From Found in Translation by David M.. Maal … Maalik … Malkowsky!
…….You’ve probably had that experience too. You exchange pleasantries, swipe your Safeway card and then your debit card (or, heaven forbid, hand over your cash), have your groceries bagged, and what remains in this service encounter is the personalization: waiting for the cashier to tear off the receipt, search for the letters between the total amount you just paid and your Club Card Savings, and thank you by name as she or he follows Management’s scripted protocol:
“Thank you very much, Mr. Mal-Mal-Mal…kowski”.
That’s usually how it goes for me, anyway. And the agony of getting to and through that point in the exchange is palpable. Not because I don’t want others in line to hear my name, or because I dislike at all having my last name mispronounced. That part is just fine for me, for what it is. And to be fair, I should warn the checker beforehand that the given name that appears on the receipts is my mom’s and not my own, since I myself am not (yet?) a Club Member.
No, the agony here is of a different kind, maybe the flipside of the sort of thing described in this Open Letter to the Cashiers at Safeway by Sara Hov, who says she relives a whirlwind of highs and lows every time she hears the cashier read out the name of her ex-fiancé…as hers.
For my part, I can’t accept the very fact of my name being read off of that receipt in the first place–not then, not there, not by a cashier, not in Safeway. Sure, it sounds remotely like my name, but what place does it have passing from the database of a computer that wouldn’t know a person from a barcode, to the eyes and lips of an employee who’s never seen me, never met me before and won’t ever again? What right does Safeway have to call me by name in public, when all I want to do is exchange some money for a head of lettuce and a box of Cheerios?
So it was last night that I waited impatiently at the front of the line, hands resting lightly on my bagged groceries, as the cashier pulled the receipt from the register and looked for my name, to send me on my way with that personalized thank-you and mandatory smile. I hate this moment.
She was taking a little longer than usual, though, and spoke slowly as she began: “Thank you very much, Mr…”
A slight pause as she brought the receipt closer to her face, straining to read.
“…Safeway Shopper!”
She looked up triumphantly (or was it with a flash of heartfelt resignation?) from the receipt, and our eyes met for the first time. I think both of us were slightly taken aback by this permutation in Standard Procedure, and suddenly I felt guilty for (no doubt) letting my long-standing annoyance at a corporate policy color my interaction with someone who had shown me nothing but kindness and goodwill, right here, and in the moment.
“Thank you, Ms. Safeway Checker,” I stammered in response, trying to find my bearings. And we both laughed as we began the final stage of the service encounter–she, turning to the next customer in line, and I, lifting my bags and heading for the door.
Reflecting on this now, of course, I wouldn’t want to make assumptions about whether or not she thought about this moment as much as I have in the time since, or even remembers it at all. But it does make me happy to imagine that, in the face of the over-personalization of language in our corporatized culture, there are these little spaces in which we can experience, ironically, moments of joy in our categorical identities.