Four women past a certain age swapping stories: no way!—you worked at the post office too?  Every single one. Ask around and you will see—it was almost a rite of passage.

The many beauties of the Post Office included the fact that you didn’t need a degree or experience—just the ability to score well on a test with number sequences and literacy.  There was the undeniable lure of the pay—a princely three and a half dollars an hour, more than double minimum wage in the early 1970’s—thanks to a strong union.  One could live on that. And there were more benefits if you reached permanent status.

For me, it was the first decent job I had even though it was only over the Christmas rush.  The Oakland Sectional Center Facility, where I was assigned, was an enormous concrete block of a building where mail was distributed to smaller offices.  It processed vast amounts of second class “junk” mail—flyers, magazines, catalogues—and packages arriving from overseas by ship or plane, festooned with green customs slips.  And of course first class mail too, including lots of Christmas cards long before they became a twentieth century relic.

We new hires got our orientation and security badges.  Learned how the time clocks worked, the exact minutes of break or lunch hour.  I don’t recall that they mentioned the catwalks over the work floor where we could be observed or the spot checks to make sure we were tossing the mail into the right bags, but it became evident soon enough.  It might be possible for, say, a Playboy magazine to be misdirected just out of spite.

They called it “tossing” the mail, and that was exactly right—we would literally fling the second class items while standing in front of a bank of maybe eight sacks in a rack two deep, each with a different zip code.  The first class letters were “cased” into a grid of cubicles and sometimes it would bring a smile to see the holiday cards in brightly colored envelopes with fancy writing and special stamps.  The parcel post was physically challenging, as the boxes—some quite large and heavy—quickly poured off the conveyor belts and had to be moved off to the right sorting station.

It was kind of enjoyable to those of us with a taste for organization and I was getting better at it each day.  Then I heard from the regular employees that the workload was not as much as expected that year, and if we worked too fast, we would get sent home early.  Lower pay check.  So, steady but not too fast if you know what I mean.

One day, a friendly fellow with some supervisory responsibility asked if I would like to get some lunch nearby.  We didn’t have much time to do that—every minute was tracked and we had to negotiate getting in and out of the building and fit in lunch besides.  He knew a place across the street with soul food.  Would I like to try?  Of course I would.

West Oakland had been a center of a vibrant African-American community of the diaspora until urban renewal destroyed most of it, but there were a few remnants.  The restaurant we went to was humble but turned out savoury greens, cornbread and BBQ.  My companion made conversation—who were my heroes?  Abby Hoffman, Jerry Rubin?  Oh god, no.  They were too counter -culture, unserious and lacked class analysis.  But I couldn’t come up with anyone.  Who were his heroes?  Well, for men, it was definitely Malcom X—“Saint Malcolm”.  And for women—he hesitated and got a dreamy look as if conjuring up her presence—the incomparable Nina Simone!

We got back to work almost ten minutes late.  I was worried about consequences—I needed the job and, as a temp, could be summarily dismissed.  My partner in crime just smiled and reassured me I had no worries.  His job was monitoring the time clock. I wouldn’t have a problem.

I learned the age-old lesson that it isn’t what you know, but who you know.

For me, it was the first decent job I had even though it was only over the Christmas rush.