A real person, a lot like you

A real person, a lot like you

By Derek Sivers

My friend Sara has run a small online business out of her living(ˈliviNG) room for twelve(twelv) years. It’s her whole(hōl) life. She takes it very very personally(ˈpərsənəlē).

Last week, one of her clients sent her a 10-page-long scathing(ˈskāT͟HiNG) email, chopping(CHäp) her down, calling her a scam(skam) artist(ˈärtist) and other vicious(ˈviSHəs) personal insults, saying she was going to sue(so͞o) Sara for everything she’s worth as retribution(ˌretrəˈbyo͞oSHən) for her mis-handled account.

Devastated(ˈdevəˌstāt), Sara turned off her computer and cried(krī). She shut off the phones and closed up shop for the day. She spent the whole weekend(ˈwēkˌend) in bed wondering if she should just give up. Thinking maybe every insult in this client’s letter was true(tro͞o), and she’s actually(ˈakCHo͞oəlē) no good at what she does, even after twelve years.

On Sunday(-dē,ˈsəndā), she spent about five hours - most of the day - carefully addressing every point in this 10-page email. Then she went through the client’s website, learning everything about her, and offered all kinds of advice(ədˈvīs), suggestions(sə(g)ˈjesCHən), and connections. She refunded(rēˈfənd,ˈrē-) the client’s money, plus an additional(əˈdiSHənl) $50, with gushing(ˈgəSHiNG) deep apologies(əˈpäləjē) for ever having upset(ˌəpˈset) someone she was honestly(ˈänistlē) trying to help.

The next day, she called the client to try to talk through this with her.

The client cheerfully(ˈCHi(ə)rfəlē) took her call and said, “Oh don’t worry about it! I wasn’t actually that upset. I was just in a bad mood(mo͞od), and didn’t think anyone would read my email anyway.”

—

My friend Valerie was doing online dating.

She was half-hearted(härt) about it. She wanted a magic(ˈmajik) perfect man to sweep(swēp) her off her feet through divine(diˈvīn) serendipity(ˌserənˈdipitē).

We were at her computer, when I asked her how it’s going. She logged into her account and showed me her inbox. There were eight new messages from men, each one well-written(i), saying what they liked about her profile(ˈprōˌfīl), how they have a mutual(ˈmyo͞oCHo͞oəl) interest in hiking(hīk), or also speak German, asking her if she’s also been to Berlin(bərˈlin), or has hiked in New Zealand(ˈzēlənd).

I felt for those guys(gī). Each one pouring(pôr) out his heart, projecting his hopes onto Valerie, hoping she’ll reply with equal(ˈēkwəl) enthusiasm(enˈTHo͞ozēˌazəm), hoping she might be the one that will finally see and appreciate(əˈprēSHēˌāt) him.

She said, “Ugh. Losers(ˈlo͞ozər). I get like ten of these a day,” and clicked [delete] on all of them, without replying(riˈplī).

—

When we yell(yel) at our car or coffee(ˈkäfē,ˈkôfē) machine(məˈSHēn), it’s fine because they’re just mechanical(məˈkanikəl) appliances(əˈplīəns).

So when we yell at a website or company, using our computer or phone, we forget it’s not an appliance but a person that’s affected.

It’s dehumanizing(dēˈ(h)yo͞oməˌnīz) to have thousands of people passing(ˈpasiNG) through our computer screens(skrēn), so we do things we’d never do if those people were sitting(ˈsitiNG) next to us.

It’s too overwhelming(ˌōvərˈ(h)welmiNG) to remember that at the end of every computer is a real person, a lot like you, whose birthday was last week, who has three best friends but nobody to spoon(spo͞on) at night, and is personally affected by what you say.

Even if you remember it right now, will you remember it next time you’re overwhelmed, or perhaps never forget it again?