Knock Knock E-Book

Trish Palmer

• Herausgeber: Upstart
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Extraordinary stories from a lifetime spent conducting interviews. This is the world of the dreaded door-knock from the other side of the door. Trish Palmer has been working as an interviewer and area manager for market research companies for over 20 years, invited into the homes and private lives of an astonishing array of folk from every lifestyle imaginable. Her experiences on the job entail everything from bare bottoms to angry cats, the desperately struggling to the well-off, and everyone in between. There is comedy and sadness, surprises and the downright odd, from witches to boat-builders, dope growers and more. Poignant, hilarious, and always thought-provoking, this is a highly entertaining read.

Leseprobe

KNOCK KNOCK

KNOCK KNOCK

Confessions ofa Kiwi Interviewer

TRISH PALMER

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

ISBN 978-1-990003-21-9ePub ISBN 978-1-990003-27-1Mobi ISBN 978-1-990003-28-8

An Upstart Press Book

Published in 2021 by Upstart Press Ltd

BDO Tower, Level 6/19 Como Street

Takapuna, Auckland 0622, New Zealand

Text © Trish Palmer 2021

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Design and format © Upstart Press Ltd 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Designed by Nick Turzynski, redinc. book design, www.redinc.co.nz

Printed by Everbest Printing Co. Ltd., China

Contents

1 Welcome to my world

2 Children

3 Cold calling

4 Behind closed doors

5 Memorable folk

6 Survey methods

7 Finding houses

8 Access

9 Rural remote

10 Bureaucracy

11 Consents

12 Surprises

13 Animals

14 Weather

15 Family strings

16 Finding that cross-section

17 Connections

18 Interviewers

19 Other types of surveys

20 The human touch

21 Away from home

22 Outside the norm

23 Recognition

24 After the survey

25 Other interviewers’ stories

26 The happiest man alive

 About the author

It’s been an exhausting week; you are luxuriating in a rare moment of peace and quiet at home, when there’s a knock on the door. Unbelievably, it’s someone doing a survey. Really? Now? Your first instinct is to tell me to go away. When I approached your door, I was wondering if this is where I get locked in the kitchen (again), abused (by a parrot), or left holding the baby (literally). Will you be clothed, or stark naked (yes, it happens); all I want is for you to just take part in this interview so that I can stop for lunch, please! Our eyes meet: yours resigned, mine hopeful. Here we go . . .

1

Welcome to my world

I have been an interviewer for over 25 years, mostly door knocking or phoning folk to get their opinions on a myriad of local, national or international issues. Everything from how satisfied you are with your water supply and footpaths to measuring a representative sample of the nation’s ability to read and do maths. Going into people’s homes is an absolute privilege. Hearing your stories has been an amazing, and sometimes challenging, experience. I am visiting you as an observer, but sometimes I come away frustrated that I am unable to help. More often than not, though, you have lightened my day. Every contact has taught me something, not least that we are a diverse and fairly resilient bunch. Also, that most folk are lovely, and that there is no such thing as ‘normal’.

Naturally, some encounters stand out, whether it’s due to the person, their home, or their circumstances and, occasionally, due to the fear I suffered . . .

The house looked shut, with old, faded blinds falling apart behind dirty windows, peeling paint on rotting weatherboards, and weed-covered broken paths. Therefore, I was surprised when not only was there an inhabitant but that he agreed to be interviewed, inviting me in. His closed secretive aura did not suggest a welcome of any sort, and he inspected me closely while I introduced myself. His ‘come in’ was barely an invitation, but I was there to do a job, so in I went.

Stepping into the dark and dingy kitchen, I heard a very distinctive sound behind me; he had locked the door. Terror hit my stomach with such force I thought I was going to vomit. Panic threatened to take over. I was interviewing in a hilly suburb where the residents could see each other, but no one would be looking my way. There was no chance of being heard; the houses were too far apart for noise to travel reliably. The isolation, despite me being able to hear traffic below, was very real.

With huge self-control I stuck to the tricks I’d learned years before. Outwardly pretending nothing was untoward, I sat at the dining chair nearest the door, inviting the man to sit opposite me, and proceeded with the interview. Inside I felt like a mouse, playing catch-me-if-you-can with a very large cat.

As usual, I was wearing sensible flat shoes, and carrying as little equipment as possible, not just for comfort but for safety. Escape is more likely if you can move easily.

The man had a very stand-offish approach to the questions, and he outright refused to answer anything that required an opinion. His answers suggested that he had virtually withdrawn from society. I noticed that there were no photos or pictures anywhere in the room, not even a calendar. A single lightbulb hanging above the sink tried to light the room but failed.

He asked me how I’d chosen him, where I lived, did I have family, and, chillingly, who knew where I was. When respondents ask questions, and many do, I always answer honestly; how can I expect them to take part in the survey if I’m not prepared to be upfront with them? However, my answers vary from being brief and vague through to full detail, depending on the circumstances. Sometimes sharing a wee bit of myself helps establish rapport and trust, which are vital for a worthwhile interview.

Sitting in that locked room, I answered truthfully but kept the details vague, except for one item which I made explicitly clear — the bit about leaving a note for my husband each day outlining precisely where I would be working. This is a safety practice I’ve always done, so that at least police would know where to start looking if something went wrong. Sitting in that man’s kitchen, I was certain that the day had come.

The interview seemed to take forever; I was worried that my fear would show. At intervals I surreptitiously glanced around the room, noting where potential self-defence tools might be found, all the while earnestly being the professional interviewer. I took the opportunity of a supposed coughing fit to turn and take a look at that exit door and lock; thankfully the key was in its place.

With the interview nearing its end, I organised my gear for a quick exit. Still talking, before the man could realise we were done, I was out of that chair, turning the key, and out the door. Fresh air never felt so good!

As I breathed in, a hand touched me on the shoulder, scaring me half to death. I turned, facing the man, who looked at me without threat and quietly said, ‘Thank you, no one has visited me for years.’ He turned and went inside, locking the door behind him. My heart broke for this lonely man, locked in his silent world. How I wished I’d left something behind so that I had an excuse to knock on his door again.

§

Even in the same street there can be a wide variety of people and experiences. In one middle-class suburb I met someone who had walked through Asia, yet further on there was a resident who had never been out of their own region and had no interest in travelling to explore the other main island of New Zealand.

Every day, interviewing is a voyage of discovery; not only finding valleys, streets and parks that I hadn’t known existed, but also meeting ordinary folk who have done, or are doing, extraordinary things, with resilience, courage, kindness and positivity.

There’s the neighbour who runs errands for the housebound, the retired couple voluntarily welcoming local kids to their table after school each day to help with homework and make sure that simple needs like clothing and food are met, the lady knitting for charity, the mum caring for her severely handicapped son, the frail gent making his wife a cup of tea, the busy mum coaching her son’s soccer team, the dad ignoring his cell phone in order to read his daughter a story, the couple who had put their New Zealand lives on hold to work for Habitat for Humanity in a poor region overseas; the list goes on and on.

Some folk, of course, don’t have the resources to help others, yet they too are amazing. For instance, the solo dad trying his very best to give his children a good start in life. He was learning to read so that he could help his kids with homework. How difficult would it have been to front up, admit the gap, and ask for lessons? He was looking forward to being able to read school newsletters, text friends, enjoy community newspapers, and maybe even get his driver’s licence, though he didn’t think he’d ever be able to afford a car. He was also hoping to be able to read and understand the many official forms that he’d had to sign over the years: tenancy agreements, enrolment forms, custody papers, bank letters. He said he wanted to be a good dad one day. Looking at his healthy, happy, polite kids, it was clear that he already was.

2

Children

Children can be an interesting addition to an interviewer’s day. They might ask me to read them a story, dance with them, build Lego, dress dolls, push the swing or join them for lunch. Kids ask questions without reserve: who are you, what do you want, why do you have a badge, are you going to be long because Daddy promised me a swim, do you have children, why is there mud on your shoes, where do you live . . .? Anything goes.

They will also tell you things that Mum and Dad would probably prefer you didn’t know. ‘I’ll get Mum; she and Dad are in the shower.’ ‘Mum’s cross with Dad ’cos he forgot her drink.’ ‘Dad’s got false teeth.’

The interview goes much more smoothly if I take the time to acknowledge the child, thereby relaxing everyone involved. Sometimes World War Three breaks out between siblings during an interview, so the parent needs time to sort it, before the situation evolves into a crime scene.

One afternoon a very excited and proud child insisted I try one of her personally made biscuits, her first ever. Such a privilege. Fortunately, they were tasty, and my praise was completely genuine.

On another occasion, an intellectually impaired eight-year-old stroked my hair during the entire interview. Her mother was surprised and grateful that I accepted the child’s need.

Of course, then there’s the child who sits facing me for the whole interview, picking their nose and eating the result; it’s hard not to gag, which would be utterly unprofessional and likely to upset the parent. The trickiest situation to negotiate, especially as my instinct is to respond to a child’s needs, is the child with the runny nose or who is covered in mud who wants to make physical contact when I’m trying to stay clean and presentable. Usually the parent bails me out, thank goodness.

§

A wee boy of about two insisted that I listen to him count. I crouched down to show him I was paying attention, and away he went; one . . . two . . . free . . . four . . . six . . . seven . . . eight, and then TEN with a triumphant whoop. This is a bit tricky. Some parents expect that I will praise, despite the missed numbers, but occasionally there’s one who clearly mistakes me for a teacher and wants me to help the child go over it again to find the missing numbers. Now when a child counts or tells me the alphabet, I find something else to praise, be it their excellent pronunciation or their spacing between each offering. There’s usually something that will uphold the child and keep me out of trouble with the parent. And to think I’m just there to interview about something as mild as town infrastructure concerns.

One child sticks in my mind as quite extraordinary. I knocked on the door of a townhouse, completely unaware that the family were refugees who had been in New Zealand for less than a year. A ten-year-old child answered the door, and, as usual in this situation, I asked to speak to an adult. The girl brought her mum to the door, and then translated to the mum what I was there for. I assumed that Mum’s lack of English would mean no interview, so I apologised for interrupting them and went to leave. The mum touched my arm, indicating for me to continue with the interview; the daughter translated that the Mum thought it was an important topic and she wanted to have her say, via her daughter.

That wee lass translated every question, listened respectfully to her mother, and then carefully translated back to me. She would ask me what a word meant or for clarification if she didn’t quite understand the question, and she reflected the response to me before sharing with her mum. I made sure that they could both see everything I was writing, so that it was open.

I was monumentally impressed. At the end of the interview, the mum indicated that she wanted to ask me a question. She wanted to know where she could find information about hiring a clubroom or hall in order to start up an ethnic dance group for the community. I was able to suggest a few places that may be able to access information on suitable venues, and I wrote them down for her, including how to contact them; she appeared delighted.

Through her daughter she explained that her husband worked all day, and, with the child at school, she had no way of communicating in English during the daytime. However, she had been thrilled to discover that the local city library had a whole section of books in her language, augmented by a computerised request system so she could access what interested her. She said this had been her lifeline.

It’s lovely how easily we can connect with folk from different ethnicities if we are open to it. During the interview, in response to the questions, this mum had made some thoughtful suggestions as to how certain public areas in her city could be made safer and more user-friendly. That interview was valuable on so many levels.

§

In a quiet cul-de-sac one morning I inadvertently adopted a wee boy of about three years old. He had been watching me as I made my way around the homes in the street, towards his house. He was riding his trainer-wheeled pushbike up and down the street, doing circles, and racing along the footpath, with no heed of cars coming out of driveways. He called out ‘Hi’ each time he saw me. It was nearly lunchtime when I finally got to his house. I asked him where Mum or Dad were. ‘Mum’s asleep with her new boyfriend, and I don’t have a dad.’ I queried who was looking after him. ‘My brother.’ I then asked him if he could go and tell his brother that there was a lady at the door. He disappeared inside, coming back with a lad who looked about 13, and who was clearly unhappy at being disturbed. I asked him when would be a good time to call back to see his mum, but he had no idea, as they had been out all night. I suggested, as kindly as I could, that the wee boy was perhaps safer if he stayed inside their gate, but the older boy just shrugged and said he was busy gaming. The wee boy said he wanted breakfast, but the older one said he had to wait until Mum went to the shops because there was nothing in the fridge.

As I moved on to the next house, the wee boy followed, listening from just behind me as I introduced myself and the interview to the homeowner. Upon spying the wee boy, the lady commented that she had only recently moved into the street, but her teenage kids had expressed concern about the lad. They had noticed that he was out most days on his bike unsupervised, to the point that they had not yet actually seen his mother. Confidentiality is an important part of my role, so I could not share with this kindly member of the public what I had seen and heard, even though I was also concerned for the boy. However, the lady said that her teenagers had been giving him fruit and I remarked that it was a lovely thing to do. I also asked her if she knew who to contact if she was concerned; hopefully she understood the implied suggestion.

When I moved on to the next house, that wee lad followed me, despite my encouraging him to go home. At each house he stood just behind me like a shadow, listening intently, and not offering any comment. I was really struck throughout the whole time by his politeness and friendliness. But this child was also hungry and bored, so I fear for his future. What happens as he gets older and starts looking for solutions to his immediate problems? Will this lovely wee lad become a delinquent purely through the need for food and company? Maybe the friendship of kind neighbours will prevent such a tragedy.

Some of the families that I’ve encountered go to extraordinary lengths to give their kids the best chance possible to have a good start in life. It’s not unusual to find parents who run themselves ragged taking kids to after-school and weekend activities, especially sport; the commitment these parents make is awesome.

Even more impressive are the families with virtually no resources who manage to give their kids memorable experiences, just by being creative.