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My Grandpops, Richard Wright, and the Chicago Post Office
Not all history makes headlines, and that’s okay
It wasn’t until I was a grown woman that I fully realized the significance of my grandfather working alongside — and befriending — a guy named Richard Wright at the Chicago post office. My pops, a church elder, and Wright, a writer becoming, were both sorters at the old main post office — a cavernous multistory building overlooking the highway, downtown and not too far from the Sears Tower. Then, as it is now, working at the post office was a “good job.” A very good job. It was the kind of job that, along with being a Pullman porter or an elevator operator, helped to create the Black middle class in Chicago that was so instrumental in creating the Black political machine and finances that eventually paved the way for Barack Obama’s ascension to the White House.
My grandad died in 1988, and I’m sad I didn’t have enough foresight then to ask him all the questions I have now. If I could, I’d inquire: How did you meet Mr. Wright? What did you all talk about? Did you realize he was writing Native Son in his mind? How did you, a Black man, get this job at the Chicago post office in this era of history? Was it racist? Was it dangerous? Was it glorious?
