When I worked at the post office, I worked in a huge plant with enormous machines, fluorescent lighting, and it was very noisy. There was a small breakroom and snack bar on the southeast corner of the building where one might have their lunch. I worked on what was called tour one, it was the graveyard shift, from 11:00 pm until 7:30 in the morning. I only chose that shift because it allowed me to take classes anytime during the morning, afternoon, or evening, and allowed more flexibility—plus, I was younger and could still keep my eyes open past ten at night. At the time, there were folks there who had been working at the post office for as long as I’d been in the world. And I wasn’t that young because I went back to school when I was 43 years-old. But I digress.
At the entrance of the breakroom was a wall with two announcement boards. On the first announcement board were notices of upcoming retirement parties and pictures of those about to be retired after 25, 30, 40 years of postal work. Sometimes there would be pictures of the retirees at their parties—posed with a wide-tooth, grin, the center of attention, dressed to the nines in their gold lame, sequined-frocks, new derbies, and Stacy Adams. And often, not three weeks later, you might see that same photo of the retiree, except it would have been moved to the second announcement board—the obituary board. There you would find death announcements of some of these same people—who had worked so hard for so long, that they only got to enjoy a few weeks of their life before they literally retired—from life.
That was when I decided to resign and go back to school and pursue something I’d always wanted—writing. Two degrees later, of course, that turned into a better civil service position, but still not the life I had intended when I left the post office. Still, I never imagined I’d work anywhere long enough to get a pension. But here I sit at the cusp of yet another opportunity—yes, an opportunity. And I do not intend to squander it. I have no intention of retiring. This, is a promotion—a graduation—a richly deserved one, indeed. For Black women coming of age at 57, 60, 62, etc. there should be a cap and gown. For we will not retire, withdraw, retreat, or depart.
We shall thrive.
SPITTING OUT BONES 