参考消息网3月8日报道
Hey，Hun！嘿，亲！
Bridget Read 布里吉特·雷德
ackie， a New Jersey public-school teacher， lost every stream of income she had in June. Zoom school was out for the summer. The yoga teaching positions and acting jobs she would usually take to cover her bills had dried up. She needed to pay rent. Then it appeared in her Facebook Messenger in-box: “Hey， hun …”
Or “Hey， girl，” or “Hey， babe，” or a similarly girlish greeting from a high-school friend invited Jackie to a virtual Facebook “party” to learn about Zyia， an activewear brand and multilevel-marketing company. Zyia reps at the party told attendees reps received discounts and commissions. It was a fun way to interact with other women and make friends. It seemed like a perfect way to get by.
Jackie purchased a starter kit with five pieces of activewear and a $100 Ziya gift card for $295. She would get a 20 percent commission on anything she sold; her “uplines” would each get a commission on what she bought. Jackie quickly did well as a Zyia rep， selling a lot of clothes to yoga students who followed her on social media.
Then Jackie started to wake up to intensely cheery text messages from her uplines. She had never been interested in building a team of her own “downlines，” but her uplines were relentless.When Jackie opened up about feeling overwhelmed in a group chat with her Zyia team， her uplines scolded her for “being negative.” “I don't want to feel pressured. I don't want to be made to feel like I'm a failure. They kept being like， ‘Zyia's a sisterhood，’” she says. “No， it's not.”
Where most observers saw devastation in the 5 million American women who lost their jobs during the pandemic， and the 2.1 million who left the workforce entirely， multilevel marketing companies saw potential recruits. MLMs have historically been female-dominated. The Direct Selling Association， a trade organization of MLMs， estimates that 74 percent of the 16 million Americans involved in direct selling are women， which is why detractors have taken to calling participants “huns，” a nod to the sororityspeak reps encourage their recruits to emulate.
Though COVID-19 initially restricted the face-to-face events and parties participants rely on to meet new customers， reps across the country soon realized they had the perfect pandemic-ready pitch to scores of women losing work. Anti-MLM message boards are inundated with posters concerned for their out-of-work mothers， sisters and friends who have spent money on a business in which they are unlikely to make any. They describe how armies of huns have flooded job boards and LinkedIn. According to one study by an independent researcher，the Consumer Awareness Institute， less than one percent of MLM participants actually make a profit.
There's another reason women are especially vulnerable to MLM recruitment during the pandemic. MLMs promise a web of new friends and supporters. Saleswomen call themselves mentors， their recruits sisters， and their team a family. People were buying not because they had the money to buy， but because they needed the connection with people.
在新泽西州公立学校当老师的杰姬去年6月失去了所有收入来源。暑假期间停了网课。为了支付账单通常会从事的瑜伽教学和表演工作接不到活儿了。她需要支付房租。这时，她的脸书收到一条信息：“嘿，亲……”
此外还有“嘿，姑娘”“嘿，宝贝”之类女生用问候语，信息来自一个中学时的朋友，邀请杰姬参加一场虚拟脸书“派对”，了解运动品牌、做传销的齐亚公司。在派对上，齐亚的销售代表对参会者说，销售代表能拿折扣和佣金。这是一种与其他女性互动和交朋友的有趣方式，似乎是个很好的谋生手段。
杰姬花295美元买了入门认购套餐，包括五件运动服和一张100美元的齐亚礼品卡。她可以从推销的任何商品中拿到20%的佣金；她的“上线”也都可以从她购买的商品中拿到佣金。当上销售代表的杰姬很快就做得很好，向在社交媒体上关注她的瑜伽学生推销出很多衣服。
接下来，上线发来的热情洋溢的留言让杰姬开始警醒。她从来对建立自己的“下线”团队不感兴趣，但她的“上线”穷追不舍。当杰姬在与她的团队群聊时表示自己心有余而力不足，她的上线就会责怪她“消极”。她说：“我不想被人逼着。我不想被人说得感觉好像我是个失败者。她们一直说‘齐亚好姐妹’之类的话。不，她们不是的。”
疫情期间，500万美国女性失业，210万则完全退出劳动力市场。这件被大多数观察人士视为灾祸的事情却让传销公司看到了拉人头的机会。传销历来以女性为主。传销组织的行业协会直销协会估计，在参与直销的1600万美国人中，74%是女性，这便是为什么批评者称参与者为“众亲”，它恰好能体现姐妹情谊套话，销售代表鼓励新成员效仿。
虽然新冠疫情一开始限制了参与者用来结识新客户的现场活动和派对，但遍布全国的销售代表很快意识到，她们有非常适用于疫情的话术来说服大批失业女性。反传销留言板上贴满了担心丢了工作的妈妈们、姐妹们和朋友们在一个不可能赚钱的行业里花钱的帖子。这些帖子描述了“众亲”大部队如何在求职网和领英刷屏。根据独立研究机构消费者意识研究所的一项研究，只有不到1%的传销参与者实际获利。
疫情期间女性尤其容易受到传销公司招募的影响还有另一个原因。传销公司承诺能建立一个新朋友和支持者的网络。女销售人员自称是导师，招募的人是姐妹，团队是一家人。人们买东西并不是因为她们有钱，而是因为她们需要人与人的联系。（涂颀译自2月3日美国《纽约》杂志网站）