My Life as a Secretary

When my husband died thirty years ago, I was a mother of three. I needed a job. I needed a job with a future.

I was working part time in a private school cafeteria, blithely handing out hot dogs, pizzas, and candy bars. This was not a job with a future.

“You could get a job as a secretary,” my practical friend Mary said, “And other than brushing up on your typing and shorthand, you’d be employable.”

Thus became my entry into a series of jobs helping someone else look good.

My first job was as a church secretary in Jackson, Mississippi. My Presbyterian friends recommended me. The minister had a sense of humor, if some in the congregation did not.  My frequent newsletter bloopers were funny to some, but when I referred to a new grandchild who was a he as a she, his grandfather was not amused. Eagle eyes read that newsletter, and I had to be careful.

Soon I moved onto a bigger pond—the Secretary of State’s office—though as the receptionist I remained a little fish.  I managed to keep my job through two elected officials. I even got Geraldo Rivera’s autograph. He was in Mississippi covering a scandal. I was so nervous, I said, “I’d like to shake your hands.” Hands! Plural! I felt so dumb.

Gossip ran rampant in Mississippi state government, and I confess it was one of the things I enjoyed most. I didn’t care for the slave wages, though.

I moved to Wayne, Pennsylvania, and got a job in a law office. This was before word processors and spell check. My shorthand was sketchy, but somehow I managed to not get fired. After a year I moved on to a stodgier firm. I passed the typing test and convinced the attorneys I could do the job. In my innocence, I believed that I knew something about wills, codicils and estates. Soon I realized I was in over my head. The other secretaries had worked there for twenty years.

Any small mistake was reported to the office manager. She would call me into her office, and I would convince her that I would do better. I was relieved just to survive another day.  

Occasionally we got a case or client out of the ordinary, or a lunatic dropped by to break up the drudgery. And gradually I gained acceptance.

After nine years, I moved to Atlanta.

I was not concerned about my ability to land a job. After ten years as a legal secretary, I was sure that I could pick and choose among offers—wrong!

My experience in WordPerfect was not in demand. It was the dinosaur of word processing. Want ads wanted someone with experience, a business-like appearance, and in one ad, a “charismatic” personality. The ads didn’t say it, but I believed what they were looking for was youth.

I forced myself to go to an employment agency.