Tag: personal narrative

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

I walk through the small front lobby, open the doors to the main room, and find a long line at the counter. There are far more people in line than there are parking spots outside. Somehow, I always forget that most folks are on foot, walking over from the nearby bus stop. 

I can wait.
No big deal.
I’m in no hurry.
I just need to get a label for priority mail, fill out my friend’s address, and stick it on the box. Oops, dang it, I left my pen in the car.  I’m sure I can get one at the counter, or maybe I’ll see one in the kiosk in the center of the room, as I make my way in the queue.

Two clerks. 
The first window seems to be for mailing, buying stamps, etc., and the one on the right appears to be processing passport applications. 

My attention immediately swerves to the sound of anger. There is a man at this second counter, yelling at the clerk, dropping the “f” bomb, while she is explaining,
“I cannot use your birth certificate on your phone, I need to see the actual birth certificate.”
He is SO angry, yelling  “they’d never do this to a white person!”
His words catch me off-guard. I wasn’t even thinking about race. I was thinking about mailing labels. Now I feel a little uncomfortable. I know I could leave, but I’m not going to do so…just because I can doesn’t mean I should. 

I take a deep cleansing breath. His comment was not directed at me. He’s upset, he’s mad at the bureaucracy, not me. Breathe in ‘calm,’ breathe out ‘his frustration.’ Think peace.

There is a tall man with beautiful braids at the first window. The clerk steps away for a few minutes and we are all on ‘pause,’ waiting. 

The man at the passport window continues to speak angrily, and the passport clerk responds quietly. I am reminded of teachers with escalating students, how we use our voices to soothe, hoping to grow calmness and pass it on.

Clerk One returns with a large box from the back, hands it to the man, and shouts, NEXT!!  

A woman steps up to the counter, and speaks English with an accent; in a moment or two, the clerk sends her away, back to the front lobby, telling her she needs to fill out a different form to mail her package. 

As the queue moves up, I see the priority mail sticker I need and slap it on my box; now all I need is a pen to fill out the address.

Two women step up to the counter, speaking in halting English; they have trouble explaining what they need. The clerk speaks sharply, impatiently, directing them to collect new paperwork and fill it out in the lobby. 

Why does a post office have to be so confusing? I’m sure there is an easier way to organize and display these forms and boxes, so that we can find what we need.

All the while, at the second window, the passport man is still very angry - yelling about how he’s come across town, he took a bus, he has the birth certificate on his phone, she must give him his passport! The clerk explains again that she can’t; that he needed to read the directions online, when he made his appointment; he will have to wait a month for another appointment. He continues to yell in response.
“Sir, I’m going to ask you to be quiet.” 
He demands to speak to her manager. 
“Yes, I will get my manager. In the meanwhile, I ask you to be calm and keep your language clean.”

An uneasy silence begins, as the clerk slips into the back room. The man paces, unsettled, in front of the window.

Each of us 
with our own separate issues
mixed up together.

Now, there is only the clerk on the left. She seems very impatient with the lot of us.  Having directed the two women to new paperwork, she notices two men working at the kiosk in the center of the room and she begins yelling - “You cannot work there! Fill out your papers in the lobby. Move out of the way!” They look up in confused distress. 

Simultaneously, a man just ahead turns to me and asks, confused,
“To Vietnam?” 
and he holds out two mailing forms and his box. 
I apologize, I don’t know which form he needs to use; I tell him he needs to ask the clerk, who is now yelling to get his attention -
“You! You’re next! Come here!” and he moves her way, where she instantly dismisses him - 
“Neither of these forms are right. You need the black-and-white form; fill it out in the lobby.” He looks about in thorough confusion. But she has moved on, yelling “Next!! Next!!”

Next is - unfortunately - me. 

Almost no one has been helped at this point, nor have I found a pen… I know this clerk is going to yell at me, too. 
“He needs a form to mail his box to Vietnam; could you show me the form, so I might help him?” and I set my box on her counter.
She ignores my plea and looks at my box, declaring - “This box has no address. Go back to the lobby. There are pens there. NEXT!”

Just like that, I’m in the lobby with everyone else whose request has been rejected, confused students sent to the hallway by a scolding teacher. This small lobby is meant to be a place you walk THROUGH to get to the main ‘working’ section of the post office. To my surprise, things seemed to be looking up:

- My ‘friend’ who asked about mailing a package to Vietnam is holding a black-and-white form. 
- The two women who were turned away earlier are completing paperwork.
- The two men who were working at the kiosk, they are out here completing their paperwork, too.

At the side of the lobby, I see ‘passport man’- yes, he’s out here now, too. He's no longer so angry. He’s talking with two others (managers?) and the original clerk; they are all conversing in calm, normal voices. 

We are all squeezed into this tight little lobby, filling out forms, getting things done.

I find a pen, and write my address on the box. 

Honestly, all this shuffling - without any apparent success or conclusion for anyone - we were a human pinball machine, sent in haphazard directions only to return to start. Yes, most of us still need to go back inside and rejoin the long line.

I meet eyes with another woman, and we smile at each other.  “This is crazy!” 
“Yes!,” she says with an unknown accent, “and so unnecessary, I think. No one’s actually being helped.” She posts her letters in the box and slips out the door. 

With my box addressed, I head back into the main room. There is a person standing in my way, looking a bit dazed. 

“Are you in line?” 

“I have no idea. I think I’m waiting on my held mail - please, no worries - go ahead, see if you can get helped.”

Only entropy comes easy.

– Anton Chekhov

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