NONFICTION   -  
​         WITH A THEME OF WORK

Writing my retirement speech was about all I did that last week of work.  
                            ​Photo by Weebly.com                                    

---

Retirement Party
by  Gail Persily

​It's okay to cry. Just don't throw up. . . Clinging to these splendid words of wisdom from my older brother, I positioned myself at the front of the stately, wood-paneled library reading room to make my speech. I looked out at the 40 or so friends and colleagues who had gathered that afternoon at the UCSF Library for my retirement party. I focused on my wife and two best friends who stood smiling at the back of the room next to the table laden with catered hors d'oeuvres, champagne, flowers and the requisite cake. The four of us had inhaled a few hits of pot from a vape pen in my office before coming upstairs for the party. This rebellious act was meant to relax me for my goodbye speech, which it was doing quite well, and it also signaled my new status as an unfettered retiree.
 
The party was a low-key affair. I did not want a bunch of speeches lauding my 30-year career or God forbid, a slide show. No embarrassing walk down memory lane illuminating my accomplishments in a flattering, diffuse glow. She started as an IT support person when the Library entered the digital age and over the next 25 years played a key leadership role in the campus adoption of technology for education . . . I was determined to keep my emotions focused on happiness about the future and not rehash the jumble of success, ambivalence, hopes, and doubts that had been replaying in my head for the past few months. I would say a few words of my own. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to meet the moment.
 
Writing my retirement speech was about all I did that last week of work. There wasn't much else to do, since I had become an irrelevant lame duck almost immediately after I announced my retirement months earlier. Perhaps I should have waited to announce my decision, but I wanted to make my impending exit known before the leadership went any further with their reorganization plans.
 
I saw the first draft org chart when I was changing planes in Denver traveling back to SF from DC. I foolishly opened the email attachment on my iPhone and, after zooming in and out of the chandelier of little boxes, I soon found myself sweating and breathing heavily. My dedicated educational technology department had been split in two and tucked under new departments. Seeing this proposal on 'paper,’ albeit draft number one of many iterations to come, I realized I was not prepared for the changes that were inevitable. This silly sketch was giving me some major anxiety and I was angry at myself for letting it do that to me. Deep inhalation, deep exhalation. Luckily the United terminal at the Denver airport is a mecca of bars and restaurants and I made a beeline for a great big cocktail bar. Soon I was shakily clutching a large glass of white wine, gazing out at the taxiing planes, and silently (I hoped) talking myself down. 

---

1

---

---

​The brainstorming and org chart drafts continued to circulate for several weeks—photos of white boards, multiple proposals from members of the leadership team via email, via Slack. They were everywhere I turned. And little by little I was able to see that I was not going to stick around for whatever came next. We had a new director and he was doing the required shake up. To me, it felt like an arbitrary shaking of a box full of people to see who could withstand it and who would fall out. I fell out, and it didn't hurt a bit.
 
I recall when I first started working at the Library in 1990. A new director came on board about a year after that and started making changes. People were FREAKING out. How dare he ask people to take on new roles? But I was as cool as a cucumber. I hadn't been there long enough to care. And I had come from the private sector where, it so happened, I was summarily handed a pink slip after two years at my dream job at a TV news station. I didn't see what all the fuss was about. I stayed on and became part of the 'new guard.’
 
Flash forward 29 years. I was just like those cataloging librarians in 1990, who the new director considered obsolete and expendable. It felt so cliché, but here I was feeling very invested in maintaining my trusty ed tech department just the way it was and definitely not in the mood for a new challenge.
 
Granted, I had been thinking about retiring for a while, but had not actually planned to do it that year. I considered it more of a backup plan. I suppose I had been preparing without admitting it. About a year prior, I spent a lovely week purging the paper files in my office—ten lateral file drawers of committee agendas, professional association meeting notes, unfinished projects, unstarted projects, job descriptions, performance evaluations. I practically danced my way to the recycle bins and shredder with those piles.
 
I was grateful for the kick in the pants that led me to the decision to retire when I did. A long-time colleague told me I was stupid to retire at that juncture. To him, the most important thing was to retire on your own terms and not let anyone force you to go a moment sooner than you had planned. But once I made my decision, I felt a wave of relief that submerged all my fears about money or leaving behind my professional identity. The fears were still bobbing around in the waves. Annoying inflatable toys, that I could dunk back underwater pretty easily.
 
For me, retirement was a wonderful exercise in letting go. I let the little boxes fall where they may and took pride in a long career grounded in service to education.
 
I smiled at my wife and friends. While I unfolded my sweaty page of notes, I told everyone what my brother said about crying versus throwing up. Everyone laughed and looked at me expectantly. Deep inhalation, deep exhalation. I kept it short and light. I thanked my colleagues for the opportunity to serve them, to help them achieve their goals. I shared how excited I was about moving on to the next phase in my life. I knew it that moment that I was leaving at the right time and on my own terms. I might have cried a little. And that was that.

---

2

Vertical Divider

Gail Persily is originally from Chicago and has lived in San Francisco since 1982. Since retiring from UCSF in 2019, she has been exploring a variety of pursuits, including writing, working on voter turnout efforts, cooking when she is in the mood, and walking instead of driving. She and her wife Denise love road trips and working on their home and garden.

Vertical Divider

We Welcome Comments