T he Jumbo herd was not stampeding in anger over last week's call to ban the Daily, proving my column's ineffectiveness. Thankfully, the pitchforks I ordered could be resold to the Tufts Gardening Alliance. My column's popularity was, however, affirmed by the student body's decision to not ban the Daily, despite its obvious shortcomings. To take advantage of this unanticipated second chance for the "Ban Together" series, I present my second ban proposal — this time of Tufts Telefund.
Telefund is the front name for the third−party company that turns a profit by calling people and asking them for money. Telefund's goal infects its culture and employee experience, in which rewards are based on how much money an individual can procure in one shift or call. The stakes are high and the pressure is real. You could be an all−star one night and win an iPod for getting someone to pay via credit card. Yet by the end of your next shift, you could get fired for going soft on a caller.
This dynamism might make Telefund seem like a great job — one that comes with high wages, a flexible schedule and a convenient location, at that. But I worked there for longer than anyone I know (3.2 months), and even though it was over a year ago, I still steer clear of classes in Eaton Hall just to avoid the horrific memories.
My experience working at Telefund can only be compared to the movie "Boiler Room" (2000). Both feature jobs in which workers desperate for cash do whatever it takes to charm strangers into blowing money on unbeneficial things. A donation to Tufts may not be equivalent to spending on millions of shares of fake stock, but the methods employed are largely the same.
This becomes apparent when you enter the Telefund calling center, where legions of cubicles are packed into a small basement chamber beneath Eaton and, for hours on end, only the dim hum of false kindness and forced conversation can be heard. Absent from these conversations is the word "no." Telefund trains employees to avoid the word, encouraging instead the use of non−confrontational alternatives to be repeated at least four times per phone call. Managers are there to prevent collateral damage; after an elderly woman broke down in tears upon confessing her financial plight to me, a manager had to approve my decision before I removed her from our calling list.
The average Telefund call uses a classic bait−and−switch method to trap unassuming callers into giving away their money. Like some cheesy pickup artist, the caller lures in his victim with a false sense of comfort, often steering the conversation toward the target's fondest college memories. The caller then channels that nostalgia into his first pitch — that Tufts can only continue with the help of the target's $50 donation. If rejected, the caller begs until the target hangs up on him.
Very few people seem capable of earning a livelihood based on this system of institutionalized begging, especially when that money may be going toward something that's not exactly the most charitable cause (e.g., a professor's salary, a lacrosse stick, a new TV for a freshman dormitory).
Tufts knows that soliciting donations is a dirty but necessary job. That's why it outsources this duty to a private company, RuffaloCODY. This organization is the one we must set our sights on. It is trapping our fellow students into positions as mercenaries squaring off directly against alumni and Cat Fancy Magazine subscribers. Tufts may be able to turn a blind eye to the employment practices and psychological manipulation the organization uses to acquire as much money as possible — we no longer have that luxury.
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CJ Saraceno is a senior majoring in political science. He can be reached at Christopher.Saraceno@tufts.edu.
