First of all, the United States Postal Service has been going bankrupt for years. With unemployment at the rate it is and has been for years now, if companies actually mailed a letter, albeit a form letter with my entire name in the greeting and usually spelled wrong, I think we could solve their money issue. An email just doesn’t cut it: the chance of it being grammatically incorrect or having spelling errors is higher in emails. People just don’t take the time to write a good email like they do when they write a fine letter.
Second, it’s rude. We unemployed have jumped through more hoops, walked across hot coals, driven hours out of our way for interviews and written more cover letters than politicians tell lies and all we get is a form email? A computer generated email that spits out letters based on whether or not the coding found a “key word” in the application/resume/cover letter, etc. One company I’ve found doesn’t even do that much, they have a page on their career site that you, the job seeker, must go to and check the status of your application. It’s really nice to see “No longer being considered” in your “application status” box right after an interview. No call, no letter, no email, not even a text. Sounds like my last boyfriend – wham, bam, no thank you, ma’am.
Third, besides doing the usual home type jobs like cleaning, washing clothes, feeding the animals (or children), running errands, I only go outside to check the mail and maybe visit the neighbors. These companies are not only depriving me of fresh air, they are contributing to my weight gain and keeping me unemployed! I’ll write the rejection letters! I’ll fold them! I’ll lick the envelopes that I’ve addressed! Give me something! Lack of saliva is not a funny syndrome, my mother suffers from it and has terrible trouble with her teeth, but better that than a zero balance in my checking, savings and 401(k) accounts.
Most of the time I don’t get any recognition that I even spent an hour or more applying for a job, but when I do, I want it to be mailed to me. I want to run out to the mailbox and get that envelope. I want to feel the sun on my face or the rain running down my cheeks. I need to swat at mosquitoes and flies and jump over ant piles until I reach that bent, black metal box with my address on it, fight the lid to get it open and reach inside, avoiding the new spider that’s trying to make a home. I need to rip open that envelope and pull out a single piece of paper, read my “Dear ‘Ms. Kristina Olson’ (close, but not my name)…unfortunately at this time…” and put the letter with the hundreds of others. That stack is my reward for my hard work.
Sure, I could print it out the emails, but who has money for paper and ink?
The writer lives in Conway.