To the woman who helped us at the Ogden Social Security Office:
I'm not writing to express my dissatisfaction with your services, or to scrutinize you for the horrible experience you lent to my family yesterday. In fact, I am only writing to maybe open your eyes to the the world beyond what you can see from behind the glass that separates you, your pretty pens, and your job from the everyday, tax-paying Americans that come to visit you. And to remind you that without us, you have no job -- or power.
We will begin with our early morning, before we so naively sat before you needing your help. My husband and I, as well as my four-month-old son for whom we needed the new social security card, were sure to wake up at the first signs of sun here in Logan, Utah. It was rainy, and like any new parents we were a bit nervous driving a couple hours in the rain to see you, with a baby. Regardless, we gathered our things in a hurry, ate a quick breakfast and snuggled our sweet Kannon up in his car seat to make the hour and a half journey to Ogden.
After being on edge for the entire drive, the true negativity began with our entry into your work building, as it must for all who enter the chamber of doom [not a dramatization]. We hurried in only to be stopped by a know-nothing security guard/police officer (for the sake of this memory we will go with security guard because I like to think whoever hires police officers has higher standards than those of this man). After he refused to let us pass, he rehearsed his language of not-so-much help, "I don't know anything about that. But a birth certificate won't do." Of course we brought Kannon's birth certificate, but apparently the second most official document of identification is not enough to obtain an individual's first most official document. And I am sure you get these complaints often -- people come through unprepared all. the. time. I have no doubts, but I am sure you can understand how frustrating it can be for somebody who has traveled the distance only to find she was ill-prepared. My husband and I were both disheartened, but we packed up our things and made our way to our welcoming little Hyundai Elantra. Off we were, homeward bound for about 15 seconds.
As we passed your neglected brick office, I found Kannon's January medical card hidden in his diaper bag. "Hallelujah" I thought to myself, and we re-parked, hustled to the second floor, and officially checked in to that too-small room, filled with too many folk waiting for the too-little help you had to offer. The room is so small we apparently had to hold Kannon's car seat as it posed hazardous on the ground. There was more useless office space behind the desks than there was room for the many guests waiting to be helped -- yes we can see through your window. You must be aware of how miserable this area is, I mean, you stare into it five days a week. But I need to point out that our area is much different than your spacious, clean workspace (keep that in mind, readers).
NOW, describing how horrid this waiting period was with words will never do our experience justice. In this too few seat-having, dirty-breadth heated, germ infested, and all around awful waiting area the windows were sealed shut, and the blinds were closed as to make sure any chance of vitamin D or fresh air were halted. Let's not forget the man who mumbled to himself while pacing the room. He was spoken to on a first name basis by the security guard, but claimed "I am not high, officer, I am not high." He was just that cute little cherry that topped it all. Add an infant into the mix and you can imagine the high anxiety we were facing (If you knew Zach and I, you would know that if worrying were a competition we would win, hands down). For the conditions you work through and I can imagine some of the difficult people you work with, I applaud you. Though, I do believe you are there by choice. This is your job -- and I know working isn't always a sunny day, but you chose this job. The people that you help everyday don't always have that privilege. Most do not decide willingly to come visit you. Many are only there because they have to be. Whether it is to collect money needed to survive or to gather a simple number, the majority of people you see would most definitely choose to skip a visit with you. And I can't imagine why...
After much waiting, and even more waiting, a little complaining here and there, okay maybe a lot of complaining, we were up! Eleven people and two and a half hours later we found the gold at the end of the rainbow -- but let me repeat for dramatic reasons, it took two hours and 30 minutes for you and your four-man crew to move through eleven numbers!!
Anyway, you call our number and we take a seat, already looking forward to leaving this soul-sucking room. But you give us a big ole punch in the gut and pester us, while you sit comfortably behind that stupid clean window, for not filling out a social security application. "There were no pens," my dear husband admitted truthfully. With a fake laugh you responded: "You probably drove all the way down here in a $30,000 car, right? And you didn't bring a pen? You brought all this stuff with you," and waved at our belongings that included a car seat, a blanket, a burp rag, and our papers that were crumpled from fanning ourselves, "and you didn't bring a pen?" Okay, without explanation I will admit that I considered hoisting my rear off that dirty seat, mooning you, and walking away without exchanging another word. I thought better of it, lucky for you, and Zach went on to tell you that we actually do not drive a $30,000 car -- and no, in fact, we did not bring a damn pen. You scowled, and admitted you don't provide pens because the $12 pens that were once attached to your desks were stolen within a single day. What a waste. I mean, of our tax dollars -- why in the world would anybody choose to put out a $12 pen? But then maybe if we were handed money that wasn't ours we'd spend it so irresponsibly on luxurious essentials that are also available in 20 cent versions too. Gall. Back to our dialogue: you also apparently have served in our army and whether it was due to your military duty (which Zach thanked you for, my brother is currently a serving U.S. Marine), or that ever so perfectly placed glass that separated you from the rest of us that entitled you to some sense of superiority and the privilege to act with such tactless behavior, it didn't matter. I was and continue to be so disappointed with the way you were treating my family.
My family, who works hard to make good impressions and to be polite at all times. My family, who makes mistakes but always follows up with apologies. My family, blessed with a baby ray of sunshine, who prays daily, who holds doors open, who has learned respectful living, and who has done nothing that could have possibly wronged you. It was not only your attitude, but you made us feel small, yes, belittled. And who were you? Oh yeah, according to your administration's website, you are "the face of the American Government." How interesting. And how pathetic.
You went on, tap tap tapping our information into the computer. "I know something you don't." You literally taunted us. Little Kannon's social security number blazed on your computer screen, but because our medical card was dated for January and not February, you refused to reveal it and you couldn't order his card. Three hours wasted, ending in a confrontation with you. "Please stop speaking to me so condescendingly," I couldn't help myself, and your rebuttal: "I've worked here for a lot of years, hon. I would listen to me if I were you."
I'll spare those reading the entirety of our conversation, but I am sure that by now they get the point. I know you have a job, and there are rules to follow but our experience with you was not fun. Actually, you had the most awful personality I've encountered. You and all of that glorious attitude inspired me to write a post about how genuinely disappointed I am. You reduced us to a stereotype, and jumped at the first chance you had to call us out for it. I have a knack for understanding most people I meet. When someone is rude or upset I usually dismiss it, and assume it is due to an insecurity or a rough morning. But you carried your horrid demeanor with such confidence, I am sure that this wasn't your first go with a family you've assisted.
The ending? It involves us deciding to return to Logan three or four times before ending up back at that daunting building, and successfully obtaining Kannon's social security number. Truly, it ends with me vowing never in a million years treating somebody, no matter who they are or what their circumstance, the way that my family and I were treated yesterday morning. And I hope that you, after reading this from a waiting room perspective can decide to show up to work, dissolve all that bitterness, and embark on a journey toward a genuine smile. It would make all the difference in your day, as well as the day of those 30, 40, 50, 100 people you might have the opportunity to help. Opportunity. Not obligation, or chore, or job. But the opportunity. You have the opportunity to meet and assist so many new people every single day. You have an opportunity to make up for the lack of amenities provided at your work for all the people who make your work possible. Remember that more of those people than not have a worse job or are worse off than you, and wouldn't mind sitting in that comfy chair with the plethora of flower pens stacked neatly in a fake flower pot decorating your big, dumb desk.
Sincerely,
A very bitter, pen-less (and maybe a bit immature) Mother
read more "The Power of a Pen in a Social Security Office"
I'm not writing to express my dissatisfaction with your services, or to scrutinize you for the horrible experience you lent to my family yesterday. In fact, I am only writing to maybe open your eyes to the the world beyond what you can see from behind the glass that separates you, your pretty pens, and your job from the everyday, tax-paying Americans that come to visit you. And to remind you that without us, you have no job -- or power.
We will begin with our early morning, before we so naively sat before you needing your help. My husband and I, as well as my four-month-old son for whom we needed the new social security card, were sure to wake up at the first signs of sun here in Logan, Utah. It was rainy, and like any new parents we were a bit nervous driving a couple hours in the rain to see you, with a baby. Regardless, we gathered our things in a hurry, ate a quick breakfast and snuggled our sweet Kannon up in his car seat to make the hour and a half journey to Ogden.
After being on edge for the entire drive, the true negativity began with our entry into your work building, as it must for all who enter the chamber of doom [not a dramatization]. We hurried in only to be stopped by a know-nothing security guard/police officer (for the sake of this memory we will go with security guard because I like to think whoever hires police officers has higher standards than those of this man). After he refused to let us pass, he rehearsed his language of not-so-much help, "I don't know anything about that. But a birth certificate won't do." Of course we brought Kannon's birth certificate, but apparently the second most official document of identification is not enough to obtain an individual's first most official document. And I am sure you get these complaints often -- people come through unprepared all. the. time. I have no doubts, but I am sure you can understand how frustrating it can be for somebody who has traveled the distance only to find she was ill-prepared. My husband and I were both disheartened, but we packed up our things and made our way to our welcoming little Hyundai Elantra. Off we were, homeward bound for about 15 seconds.
As we passed your neglected brick office, I found Kannon's January medical card hidden in his diaper bag. "Hallelujah" I thought to myself, and we re-parked, hustled to the second floor, and officially checked in to that too-small room, filled with too many folk waiting for the too-little help you had to offer. The room is so small we apparently had to hold Kannon's car seat as it posed hazardous on the ground. There was more useless office space behind the desks than there was room for the many guests waiting to be helped -- yes we can see through your window. You must be aware of how miserable this area is, I mean, you stare into it five days a week. But I need to point out that our area is much different than your spacious, clean workspace (keep that in mind, readers).
NOW, describing how horrid this waiting period was with words will never do our experience justice. In this too few seat-having, dirty-breadth heated, germ infested, and all around awful waiting area the windows were sealed shut, and the blinds were closed as to make sure any chance of vitamin D or fresh air were halted. Let's not forget the man who mumbled to himself while pacing the room. He was spoken to on a first name basis by the security guard, but claimed "I am not high, officer, I am not high." He was just that cute little cherry that topped it all. Add an infant into the mix and you can imagine the high anxiety we were facing (If you knew Zach and I, you would know that if worrying were a competition we would win, hands down). For the conditions you work through and I can imagine some of the difficult people you work with, I applaud you. Though, I do believe you are there by choice. This is your job -- and I know working isn't always a sunny day, but you chose this job. The people that you help everyday don't always have that privilege. Most do not decide willingly to come visit you. Many are only there because they have to be. Whether it is to collect money needed to survive or to gather a simple number, the majority of people you see would most definitely choose to skip a visit with you. And I can't imagine why...
After much waiting, and even more waiting, a little complaining here and there, okay maybe a lot of complaining, we were up! Eleven people and two and a half hours later we found the gold at the end of the rainbow -- but let me repeat for dramatic reasons, it took two hours and 30 minutes for you and your four-man crew to move through eleven numbers!!
Anyway, you call our number and we take a seat, already looking forward to leaving this soul-sucking room. But you give us a big ole punch in the gut and pester us, while you sit comfortably behind that stupid clean window, for not filling out a social security application. "There were no pens," my dear husband admitted truthfully. With a fake laugh you responded: "You probably drove all the way down here in a $30,000 car, right? And you didn't bring a pen? You brought all this stuff with you," and waved at our belongings that included a car seat, a blanket, a burp rag, and our papers that were crumpled from fanning ourselves, "and you didn't bring a pen?" Okay, without explanation I will admit that I considered hoisting my rear off that dirty seat, mooning you, and walking away without exchanging another word. I thought better of it, lucky for you, and Zach went on to tell you that we actually do not drive a $30,000 car -- and no, in fact, we did not bring a damn pen. You scowled, and admitted you don't provide pens because the $12 pens that were once attached to your desks were stolen within a single day. What a waste. I mean, of our tax dollars -- why in the world would anybody choose to put out a $12 pen? But then maybe if we were handed money that wasn't ours we'd spend it so irresponsibly on luxurious essentials that are also available in 20 cent versions too. Gall. Back to our dialogue: you also apparently have served in our army and whether it was due to your military duty (which Zach thanked you for, my brother is currently a serving U.S. Marine), or that ever so perfectly placed glass that separated you from the rest of us that entitled you to some sense of superiority and the privilege to act with such tactless behavior, it didn't matter. I was and continue to be so disappointed with the way you were treating my family.
My family, who works hard to make good impressions and to be polite at all times. My family, who makes mistakes but always follows up with apologies. My family, blessed with a baby ray of sunshine, who prays daily, who holds doors open, who has learned respectful living, and who has done nothing that could have possibly wronged you. It was not only your attitude, but you made us feel small, yes, belittled. And who were you? Oh yeah, according to your administration's website, you are "the face of the American Government." How interesting. And how pathetic.
You went on, tap tap tapping our information into the computer. "I know something you don't." You literally taunted us. Little Kannon's social security number blazed on your computer screen, but because our medical card was dated for January and not February, you refused to reveal it and you couldn't order his card. Three hours wasted, ending in a confrontation with you. "Please stop speaking to me so condescendingly," I couldn't help myself, and your rebuttal: "I've worked here for a lot of years, hon. I would listen to me if I were you."
I'll spare those reading the entirety of our conversation, but I am sure that by now they get the point. I know you have a job, and there are rules to follow but our experience with you was not fun. Actually, you had the most awful personality I've encountered. You and all of that glorious attitude inspired me to write a post about how genuinely disappointed I am. You reduced us to a stereotype, and jumped at the first chance you had to call us out for it. I have a knack for understanding most people I meet. When someone is rude or upset I usually dismiss it, and assume it is due to an insecurity or a rough morning. But you carried your horrid demeanor with such confidence, I am sure that this wasn't your first go with a family you've assisted.
The ending? It involves us deciding to return to Logan three or four times before ending up back at that daunting building, and successfully obtaining Kannon's social security number. Truly, it ends with me vowing never in a million years treating somebody, no matter who they are or what their circumstance, the way that my family and I were treated yesterday morning. And I hope that you, after reading this from a waiting room perspective can decide to show up to work, dissolve all that bitterness, and embark on a journey toward a genuine smile. It would make all the difference in your day, as well as the day of those 30, 40, 50, 100 people you might have the opportunity to help. Opportunity. Not obligation, or chore, or job. But the opportunity. You have the opportunity to meet and assist so many new people every single day. You have an opportunity to make up for the lack of amenities provided at your work for all the people who make your work possible. Remember that more of those people than not have a worse job or are worse off than you, and wouldn't mind sitting in that comfy chair with the plethora of flower pens stacked neatly in a fake flower pot decorating your big, dumb desk.
Sincerely,
A very bitter, pen-less (and maybe a bit immature) Mother
.jpg)
.jpg)