A Maleroom Anomaly

It was October 1973. The country was amid an oil embargo and an economic downturn. The Vietnam War would soon come to a halt and my unemployment had run out. There were few jobs for a woman with little or no clerical or secretarial skills and only one year of college. The only job training I had was as an Aeographer's Mate in the United States Navy, and few employers even knew what that was, except the Department of Defense, the National Weather Service and possibly an airport. A hiring freeze had closed jobs at these organizations, or at least pared them down to a very minimum. I had applied for a job at a Naval Air Station with a potential opening, but that wouldn't be available for several months. I needed a job now.
At the employment office I was directed to jobs that gave veterans preferance. Since I had just been discharged that past May, I fit the requirement. The job I targeted required little or no education or training or prior experience. It was a mailhandling job at the U.S. Postal service in San Diego and they were taking applications, so that is where I headed one afternoon.
I filled out the application, took a somple written test and was interviewed on the spot. The interviewer was a kindly elder gentleman who kept scrutinizing me as he described physical requirements of the job. One requirement was to be able to lift up to 70lbs. although, he qualified, most objects weighed less than that. He looked at me doubtfully, a 130lb. 5'3" woman. I'd have to pass the physical strength test which involved lifting several, partially filled canvas bags one by one and carry them each from one side of the room to the other in a specified time.
I had to admit, I had my own doubts about passing the test but I was determined to try. He coached me by instructing me to lift with my legs, not my back. His description of the job as dirty, backbreaking work didn't discourage me either. Finally he relented in giving me the test; though he remained doubtful of my success.
The first bags were easy, but the walking with the weights really worked my legs, and by the time I got to the heaviest bag, my knees were wobbly and my pace slowed down considerably. I barely beat the timer, (if indeed I did beat it). My fate was in his hands. He had a compassionate gleam in his eyes, and after all I was a fellow veteran, just like he and everyone else who may have applied for the job. He congratulated med and gave me a start date. I was relieved and elated.
I reported early one morning to begin training and a ninety day probation period. Right from the first day I was met with shocked and suspicious looks. The trainers who showed me around tried to keep their reactions subtle. It was a warehous environment with several huge bay doors side by side which opened up to the exact dimensions of containers carried by those transport semis. The trucks backed up to the doors, the doors slid open to reveal the contents of the containers which were piles of canvas mailbags filled with boxes, magazines or third class bundles of bulk mail. A conveyor belt was brought to the opening and pushed in as far as it would go and one or two mailhandlers positioned themselves on either side of it inside the truck and began unloading as the belt started to run. A third mailhandler stood at the end of the belt and lifted each bag as it came out into a large canvas tub with wheels.
Days were relatively quiet for the mailhandlers. Most truck arrivals were scheduled for the evenings. Most mailhandlers worked the swing and graveyard shifts. I would be assigned to the swing shift as soon as I was indoctrinated on policy and procedures. The swing shift, apparently, was the busiest time for trucks and the mailhandlers. Swing shift employees who showed up fifteen to thirty minutes before I was off duty were introduced to me. These individuals would be my future coworkers and they, too looked at me with disbelief. I couldn't help but feel anxious about these first impressions. They did nothing for my confidence, nor did they make me feel at east. I wondered about this disconcerting feeling I was experiencing.
Then I was told that I was the first woman mailhandler in the history of the San Diego post office and their looks now made a little more sense but it didn't make me feel any more comfortable.
My first evening at work, I got mixed reactions. Most of the six or seven mailhandlers were middle aged and bulky. One or two gentlemen were polite and respectful and tried to ease my initial anxiety, but several greeted me with a cynical smirk and a thorough going over that really embarrassed me. Others remained aloof and watched from a distance. I was grateful for the gentlemen who welcomed me, but felt intimidated around the others. Clearly they believed this "scrawny" woman couldn't possibly do a man size job. I had difficulty visualizing myself doing the same job as these burly, tall muscular macho men. I depended on the gentlemen to ease me into this new environment and found myself resenting the others... so much so that I was determined more than ever to prove them wrong. It took a lot of gritting my teeth in the most difficult, physical endurance test that I would ever recall.
My first assigment was lifting the bags into the tub as they came off the conveyor belt, then wheeling it into another work area. When the truck was emptied we took our lunch(or supper) break. Then there was the job of taking those bags in the tub and emptying each of their contents into another tub. This tub went to the clerks for sorting.
I followed this routine for about a week or so before anyone was willing to "partner up" with me in the truck. They were all afraid I would slow them down or not be able to pull my weight. This really made me mad. The gentlemen reiterated that I wouldn't be expected to stay in the truck the whole time. I could call for relief at any time. Those trucks could sometimes be full to top with those bags.
I was put across Mr. Macho, a six foot, dark haired, musclebound man's man who watched me mockingly like a hawk. The conveyor belt started and I matched him bag for bag through three quarters of the truckload as he kept his peering eyes on me, waiting for me to falter. When I started to feel my knees wobbling and my arms like dead weights, I'd look for bags that weren't too full or appeared lighter than the others. By the time our first break, I was more than ready for a respite and when asked if I'd have enought, I replied I would be ready to start again after the break. The gentlemen intervened and insisted on me dumping for awhile...for "variety" and I agreed. I could almost hear Mr. Macho snickering behind my back.
I paid dearly for my stubborn refusal to say "uncle" after that first truckload. I got home, weakneed and so exhausted I could barely undress myself for bed. I fell onto the bed and couldn't move. Next morning, extreme soreness debilitated my every muscle. I had to do something to relieve the pain and stiffness before showing up for work. I took as hot a bath as I could stand and a couple of painkillers and proceded to get my muscles functioning again. By the time my shift rolled around again, I worked myself to a point where I wasn't grimacing every time I challenged myself to perform some simple task like lifting a fork to my mouth or putting on my shoes.
After that first intense conditioning, it got less painful and easier to tolerate standing for hours at a time. Within a few more truckloads, Mr. Macho couldn't resist complimenting me on my strength "for such a small thing". I'd been through the worst of challenges to my endurance and persistance. If Mr. Macho was beginning to show some respect for me, it must have been the cue for the others to finally welcome me to the fold. I was one of the boys....better still, Mr. Macho began referring to me as "his pardner". That I wasn't going to wimp out of my probation period was clear. I beganlooking forward to going to work and socializing with the men. We laughed together and I saw myself in a whole new perspective.
I made it through ninety days of probation, and just as I was being welcomed as a permanent employee, the job that had been on hold with the Naval Air Station opened up. It was, after all, the job I'd been trained for in the Navy. My hard earned respect and acceptance at the post office became a memory. Although it was sad to say goodbye, they were all happy to see me move out and up.