Stories > Spiels

My alma mater recently informed me that I needed to update my ‘alumni information,’ because they are currently updating their directory, and apparently ‘time is running out.’

Feeling sociable, I gave them a call to verify my information, only to be subtly led down a sales-eque rabbit-hole not unlike a late-night informercial.

“When was the last time you visited the university?…What was your most fond memory of your time there? …We’re offering alumni a print-publication of the entire directory, plus several premium collectables…would you be interested in buying the publication plus an exclusive, members-only tote-bag, plus a t-shirt/sweatshirt combo and a hat for $339 plus S&H?”

(It honestly felt like I was talking to Mike Rowe back when he worked for QVC.)

I think that most millennials would agree that giving any more of our money to our alma mater’s (while we’re still in thousands of dollars in debt), is presumptuous at best, and selfish at worst.

But more than anything, I think it’s embarrassing the alumni association couldn’t flat out ask for a contribution (and instead choose to abruptly dupe me into closing a sale). The farcical hoopla of making casual rapport to swiftly making an offer, to then asking (after I declined the first) , ‘could you at least make a one-time purchase of the publication to support the university?’ might work for some people, but I suspect won't work for most. Particularly the kids who have learned through two decades of advertising to pick up on it.

The lesson here is not that my former university is greedy for asking for more money (although that’s true). The lesson is simply that they’re doing a poor job selling their pitch.

I wouldn’t mind contributing some money for a coherent reason or a worthy cause—but expecting to swindle me with a bad souvenir and an old-fashioned spiel is cause for disappointment.

If you’re going to sell me something, please, just tell me a story. No gimmicks. No tricks.