In Love with the Mail

And worried for its future

Photo by Emily Powers on Unsplash

I rediscovered the pleasures of the mail during the pandemic, a rare delight in a dark age. After impulsively joining a penpal movement, I went down a stationery rabbit hole, loading up on paper, cards, stickers, and washi. Now, in addition to penpal strangers (who seem less like strangers with each delivery), I write family and old friends regularly. It’s no understatement to say that the mail has, in part, saved some of us from the isolation, sadness, fear, and boredom of lockdown. Six days a week, the trip to the mailbox is a tiny joy. Even when it’s empty, the potential keeps us going. Something is usually on the way. Send something, receive something. Rinse, repeat.

During our sick affair with autocracy, the mail became more threatened and less reliable. When a late social security check became the norm, my red-hat neighbor raged at the beleaguered mailman, not understanding that it was his champion pulling the strings. Trump pushed the punch-drunk post office down, possibly for the count, and we were left wondering how to save it. I began tipping the mail carrier outside of Christmas, buying bulk stamps and sending postcards to voters, in an effort to help. But it’s like believing that your tote bag and vegan dinner will fix the climate crisis. I’m fanning the face of the victim with my stamp sheets, hoping to turn the tide. The…