Patrick's Rants

It has been one of those weeks at work. Last Wednesday, the phone was ringing at the rate of two to three calls per minute. This is the day before school started and people were only getting around to find out about their children’s bus stop information. Now that would have been fine if there were only a few parents doing this. It would not be that big of a deal. But that’s hundreds of phone calls. Add the special needs route problems (written about in the Arizona Daily Sun) and the phone was pretty much non-stop. For nearly a week.

Now. This is not the official position of the school district, yada yada yada. This is my position, my opinion. I am the afternoon dispatcher. I had literally hundreds of calls per hour – four per minute is 240 per hour. My phone lines were flooded. Our new phone system will send me as many calls as I can take – I think. It’s an internal Cisco VOIP phone system, there could be a limit on the number of incoming lines on my extension, I don’t know. I do know that every other phone in the building – with the exception of the reception station – handles one, one phone call at a time; additional calls go to voice mail. Dispatch gets to answer every incoming call. And that’s the way it should be. If you have an immediate dispatch problem, I and the morning dispatcher, need to be able to answer the phone, not shunt you to voice mail after three rings. But here’s the thing. We don’t have a receptionist so your question about your kid’s lunch box – as important as it is to you – only ties up my phone line. When you call I need you to get to the point. I don’t need the story about how you called and talked to so-and-so, and then you called and talked to such-and-such. Or tried to. Get to the point immediately; no rambling dissertations. And when you call, don’t yell at the first person you get to talk to because, “I tried all the other extensions and only got voice mail.” Well, if it’s not a current near emergency, I’m not the one to talk to and guess what? I’m transferring you to the extension for the person you really want. And if that means voice mail, then suck it up, buck, and deal with it. Leave your message and wait for your return phone call. Don’t call me back and yell at me. I have three other lines on hold wanting to do the same thing, and a fourth call coming in with – what? gasp! – a missing child. That’s the real emergency. That’s the real thing that I need to deal with right now. If you really need to let someone know how you feel about only getting through on one extension, call the Administrative building. They have literally hundreds of extensions.

In the comments on the newspaper article we find this nugget:

That said, I’ve got a suggestion. And it’s a pretty basic one. To FUSD: Please employ people with the proper attitude and behavior that answer your phones and field calls. They are the first point of contact and a representative of your dept. Make sure they are true non-judgmental listeners who know how to properly take a message, if who to forward it to in a timely manner. Better yet, make sure there is someone in the office to actually take the call and not be buffered at being able to avoid the call. Make sure whoever it is will not confront, patronize, condescend or minimize a parent’s concerns. The last thing you need from any of your staff is to have a negative reputation with parents. The last thing a parent needs is to feel like their child’s transportation safety and wellbeing is not being addressed properly by the folks that have been legally & contractually obligated to provide that.

I feel like this comment might be partially aimed at me and my morning dispatcher cohort – who are we kidding? Might be? Is. I will reiterate, 240 calls per hour. Or more. I’m trying to transfer you to the person who can help you. You instead called me back to yell about voice mail. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I don’t sound sympathetic or empathetic. If I can’t help you, I can’t help you. Leave your message after I transfer you again to the person who could have helped you the first three times you called. If you don’t leave a message no one will call you. It’s that simple. Keep in mind, I haven’t yelled at one caller, I have not cursed at one single parent. I have not gone “postal”. I have not started smoking. I sometimes realize at 5pm that I haven’t heard from my own kids that they made it home safely. I am exhausted after my eight hours of manning the phones. I drag home eat dinner and crash.

When we do it right, you don’t care. When you think we did it wrong it’s in the newspaper. As Mark Anthony said of Julius, “the evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.” Are we going to see the story on our record efficiency with the Climb to Conquer Cancer walk on August 15? Will you write in to the paper to gush about your child getting home on time? Will you congratulate the Transportation Department for finding your kindergarten student who was placed on the wrong bus (by the school)? Will you give an “atta boy” to the bus driver who got your child home despite the 71 other kids on the bus (because it would never be your child) acting up and trying to create an unsafe ride? Will you stand up and say what a great job the Transportation Department is doing despite having to lay off six to eight bus aides along with a couple of drivers; after having to lop 15% off the overall budget and cutting $250,000.00 from the fuel budget – read that again; one quarter of a million dollars less in gasoline and diesel fuel. 15% fewer replacement parts for buses. 15% is almost one day every two weeks. We’re even told – not so jokingly – to expect to have to bring in our own toilet paper by the time March rolls around. We could skip picking up every other Friday, but I’m sure the phone would ring off the wall. Will you stand at the board meeting and tell them you want bus drivers and special needs bus aides as much as PE and music teachers? Will you stand up? Will you so much as write a letter to the editor from the comfort of your home in support of bus drivers? I doubt it. The good will be interred with our bones. As it always is.