Not just any customer

By Herman M. Lagon

She stood quietly, unsure—just a slip of paper in her hand, eyes moving from face to face. The hallway was loud, busy, uncaring. No one stopped. A lola from Antique, new to Iloilo, unsure of what to do, hoping to help her daughter in pain at the ICU. She did not know where to ask for blood or who could guide her. But still she waited, hoping someone might see her and say, “Nanay, ano tani ang mabulig namon sa imo?”

A friend told me once about a scan she had. Nothing serious—until she was met with a cold voice, no eye contact, no kindness. It hurt more than any diagnosis. She may not have looked like someone powerful. But she is kind. And she is human. That should have been more than enough to any doctor with many letters after her name.

These are not rare stories. They unfold daily in hospital lobbies, town clinics, city halls, and government counters. They happen to those who look unsure, speak softly, or dress simply. To the ones without influence or title. And too often, they are met with impatience, if not outright dismissal.

Much has improved—I have seen it firsthand at the PRC, NBI, ICPO, GSIS, PhilHealth, Hall of Justice, Iloilo City Hall, even at our own university. Things are faster, clearer, more humane. But service loses meaning when we forget that each person is more than a transaction. It is not a favor to be kind. It is the bare minimum of a system that works.

The danger lies in forgetting that every person we serve is more than a form, more than a queue number. Some size you up by your clothes or how you speak. That mata-pobre mindset—judging someone’s worth from outside appearances—has no place in either public or private service. Real customer care is about seeing the person, not the packaging.

Warmth is not just a nicety—it is essential. In many cases, it is the only thing people remember. Zendesk’s 2023 report said 70% of customer experience leaders now prioritize human service over speed. Coursera’s 2024 guide puts empathy and listening as top service skills. These are not trends. They are truths—especially for those who arrive feeling unsure, scared, or lost.

We Filipinos pride ourselves on being hospitable. But why does that warmth vanish when we sit behind a desk? Behind glass, we forget that some people have traveled far, missed meals, or borrowed fare just to make that appointment. One thing I learned from my mentor, Fr. Manny Uy, SJ, and always pass on to students: kindness does not take much, but its impact lasts. The people we welcome never forget how we made them feel.

Government data backs this. The CSC’s 8888 hotline reported that most complaints were about slow, uncaring service—not bribery, not scams, just plain disrespect or neglect. That says a lot. People are not asking for special treatment. They just want to be treated like they matter.

The smallest gestures go the furthest. A guard guiding a first-timer. A nurse explaining things in Hiligaynon. A young staffer saying, “Okay lang, I’ll help you.” A janitor stopping to point someone in the right direction. A cashier calling out gently, “Ari di, Ma’am, diri lang po.” A student offering their seat to a senior waiting in line. A doctor taking a moment to smile and say, “Wala na ‘ni bayad, Nanay.” A midwife waiting a few extra minutes. A tricycle driver reminding a patient where to go. These may seem ordinary—but for someone lost or afraid, they are everything. They become stories passed on. They turn systems into lifelines.

Those we tend to ignore? They are the ones who carry kindness in their memory like a seed. They mention it on tricycle rides, at family lunches, while doing laundry beside the poso. “Ginbuligan nila ako. Indi ko gid malimtan,” they say. A janitor who gave directions. A teacher who listened. A barangay worker who smiled and said, “Dali, kay buligan taka para mahapos sa imo.” These things matter, and they are often paid forward. They become stories told with warmth. But hurt lingers, too. One careless shrug, one public scolding, one eye-roll—and suddenly, trust is broken, respect is lost. And the wound? It speaks quietly: “I was not worth your kindness.”

Most are not slow. They are just scared. They are not trying to irritate you. They just genuinely do not know. They hesitate not because they are weak—but because they fear being laughed at. What they need is not pity—but clarity, respect, and a bit of time.

I have seen this up close—as a teacher, a counselor, a father. One cold gesture can shake someone’s confidence. One warm moment can rebuild it. Especially if they are young. Or old. Or unsure. Or least, last, or lost. Treat them well, and they become your biggest supporters. They defend your office. They say, “Maayo guid da sila.” That is how trust is built.

So, if you sit behind a window or a screen, take a breath before the next person steps up. They may not look like anyone you know. They may not speak in straight English, or wear perfume, or carry an ID, or sport polished shoes. But they still deserve your best. Not because of what they have—but because they are human. And service, at its best, is not about doing the job. It is about doing it with dignity. So pause. Smile. Speak with care. Because real service does not just process people—it honors them.

And maybe, just maybe, that same lola is out there again—waiting in another hallway, holding a piece of paper like a prayer. What if you are the one who finally says, “’La, dali lang. Buligan ta ka.”

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a ”student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.