By Jill Lepore
Maria Fernandes died at the age of thirty-two while sleeping in her car in a Wawa parking lot in New Jersey. It was the summer of 2014, and she worked low-wage jobs at three different Dunkin’ Donuts, and slept in her Kia in between shifts, with the engine running and a container of gasoline in the back, in case she ran out. In the locked car, still wearing her white-and-brown Dunkin’ Donuts uniform, she died from gasoline and exhaust fumes. A Rutgers professor called her “the real face of the recession.” Fernandes had been trying to sleep between shifts, but all kinds of workers were spending hours in their cars, waiting for shifts. Within a year of Fernandes’s death, Elizabeth Warren and other Senate and House Democrats reintroduced a bill called the Schedules That Work Act; it would have required food service, retail, and warehouse companies to let employees know about changes to their schedules at least two weeks in advance and barred them from firing employees for asking for regular hours. “A single mom should know if her hours have been cancelled before she arranges for day care and drives halfway across town,” Warren said, of the bill. “Someone who wants to go to school to try to get an education should be able to request more predictable hours without getting fired, just for asking. And a worker who is told to wait around on call for hours, with no guarantee of actual work, should get something for his time.” The bill never had any chance of passing. It was reintroduced again in 2017 and in 2019. It has never even come up for a vote.
Americans work more hours than their counterparts in peer nations, including France and Germany, and many work more than fifty hours a week. Real wages declined for the rank and file in the nineteen-seventies, as did the percentage of Americans who belong to unions, which may be a related development. One can argue that these post-industrial developments mark a return to a pre-industrial order. The gig economy is a form of vassalage. And even workers who don’t work for gig companies like Uber or TaskRabbit now work like gig workers. Most jobs created between 2005 and 2015 were temporary jobs. Four in five hourly retail workers in the United States have no reliable schedule from one week to another. Instead, their schedules are often set by algorithms that aim to maximize profits for investors by reducing breaks and pauses in service—the labor equivalent of the just-in-time manufacturing system that was developed in the nineteen-seventies in Japan, a country that coined a word for “death by overwork” but whose average employee today works fewer hours than his American counterpart. As the sociologist Jamie K. McCallum reports in “Worked Over: How Round-the-Clock Work Is Killing the American Dream” (Basic), Americans have fewer paid holidays than workers in other countries, and the United States is all but alone in having no guaranteed maternity leave and no legal right to sick leave or vacation time. Meanwhile, we’re told to love work, and to find meaning in it, as if work were a family, or a religion, or a body of knowledge.
“Meaningful work” is an expression that had barely appeared in the English language before the early nineteen-seventies, as McCallum observes. “Once upon a time, it was assumed, to put it bluntly, that work sucked,” Sarah Jaffe writes in “Work Won’t Love You Back: How Devotion to Our Jobs Keeps Us Exploited, Exhausted, and Alone” (Bold Type). That started to change in the nineteen-seventies, both McCallum and Jaffe argue, when, in their telling, managers began informing workers that they should expect to discover life’s purpose in work. “With dollar-compensation no longer the overwhelmingly most important factor in job motivation,” the chairman of the New York Stock Exchange wrote, “management must develop a better understanding of the more elusive, less tangible factors that add up to ‘job satisfaction.’ ” After a while, everyone was supposed to love work. “Do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life” popped up all over the place in the nineteen-eighties and nineties, along with the unpaid internship, the busting of unions, and campaigns to cut taxes on capital gains. It soon became, in Silicon Valley and on Wall Street, a catechism. “The only way to do great work is to love what you do,” Steve Jobs told a graduating class at Stanford in 2005. “If you love what you’re doing, it’s not ‘work,’ ” David M. Rubenstein, a C.E.O. of the Carlyle Group, said on CNBC in 2014. “Everywhere you look you hear people talking about meaning,” a disillusioned Google engineer told McCallum. “They aren’t philosophers. They aren’t psychologists. They sell banner ads.” It’s not pointless. But it’s not poetry. Still, does it have to be?
In the eighteen-twenties and thirties, the French mathematician Gaspard-Gustave de Coriolis, studying the effect produced when, for instance, one billiard ball hits another, used the word “travail.” Experimenters soon began applying the English equivalent, “work,” to describe, say, what a steam engine does when it converts steam pressure into the motion that runs a machine. By the end of the industrializing nineteenth century, work had generally come to mean the time and effort people spend on the labor required to feed their needs. More and more, it meant the effort men spend, doing work in exchange for money, to provide for the needs of their families. That emerging definition is part of the story of how the unpaid and often invisible work that women do, at home, came to be called something other than work. Another kind of analytical cleavage took root, too, between work and what came to be called craft.
In “Work: A Deep History, from the Stone Age to the Age of Robots” (Penguin Press), the South African anthropologist James Suzman, a specialist on the Khoisan peoples, disputes the economic definition of “work.” One culture’s work is another’s leisure; one people’s needs are, to another people, mere wants. Suzman proposes, instead, to define “work” as “purposefully expending energy or effort on a task to achieve a goal or end,” a definition so committed to its universality as to risk becoming meaningless. He insists that the key word here is “purposeful”: to act purposefully is to understand cause and effect. Among the traits that distinguish Homo sapiens from other primates, Suzman argues, is this capacity, which—because of humans’ harnessing of, for instance, fire—makes possible a different relationship to provisioning. This argument is both old and fashionable: gorillas often spend more than fifty hours a week gathering and eating food; human hunter-gatherers, acting purposefully, typically spend only between fifteen and seventeen hours a week on feeding themselves, leaving them plenty of time for all sorts of other things. “Hazda men seem much more concerned with games of chance than with chances of game,” the anthropologist Marshall Sahlins quipped about African hunter-gatherers, whom he called “the original affluent society.”
If human beings are able to spend less time working than other primates, why do so many people now work as hard as gorillas? Suzman’s answer is at once anthropological and historical, and it has to do with agriculture. “For 95 per cent of our species’ history,” Suzman writes, “work did not occupy anything like the hallowed place in people’s lives that it does now.” According to Suzman, “up until the Industrial Revolution, any gains in productivity farming peoples generated as a result of working harder, adopting new technologies, techniques, or crops, or acquiring new land were always soon gobbled up by populations that quickly grew to numbers that could not be sustained.” The harder farmers worked, the harder they had to work.
“It draws an awful lot of attention to my midsection, is all.”Cartoon by Zoe Si
For much of human history, a great many people who tilled the land were serfs and slaves. The harder they worked, notwithstanding catastrophic events like plagues and droughts, the more they produced, and the better the landowner and his family ate. The idea that it’s virtuous to spend more of your time working was embodied by the figure of the yeoman farmer, a smallholder who owned his own land and understood hard work, in Benjamin Franklin’s formulation, as “the way to wealth.” Then came the rise of the factory. The Industrial Revolution alienated people from the products of their labor, as Karl Marx observed. It also, Glenn Adamson argues in “Craft: An American History” (Bloomsbury), alienated people from their past. “The United States has become disconnected from the history of its own making,” Adamson writes. In America, Noah Webster wrote in 1785, “every man is in some measure an artist.” And every woman, too. At the time of the nation’s founding, American households had all kinds of ties to markets, even to far-distant markets, but Americans also made their own clothes and houses and furniture; they made their own bedding, their own bread and beer; they made their own music. If hardly anyone made everything—because people also traded and swapped and bought and sold—nearly everyone made some things.
“A man is no worse metaphysician for knowing how to drive a nail home without splitting the board,” Ralph Waldo Emerson said in 1837, a few years before his friend Henry David Thoreau set about building a cabin on Walden Pond. Nineteenth-century American writers celebrated the making of things, none more than Whitman:
House-building, measuring, sawing the boards,
Blacksmithing, glass-blowing, nail-making, coopering, tin-roofing, shingle-dressing,
Ship-joining, dock-building, fish-curing, flagging of sidewalks by flaggers,
The pump, the pile-driver, the great derrick, the coal-kiln and brick-kiln,
Coal-mines and all that is down there, the lamps in the darkness, echoes, songs, what meditations, what vast native thoughts looking through smutch’d faces, . . .
Flour-works, grinding of wheat, rye, maize, rice, the barrels and the half and quarter barrels, the loaded barges, the high piles on wharves and levees,
The men and the work of the men on ferries, railroads, coasters, fish-boats, canals;
The hourly routine of your own or any man’s life, the shop, yard, store, or factory,
These shows all near you by day and night—workman! whoever you are, your daily life!
During the decades when Emerson and Thoreau and Whitman were writing, factories were bringing all kinds of work out of the household and the artisan’s shop and into the factory through the division of labor, breaking down the work of making something into dozens of tiny steps, each to be done by a different man or machine. The shop work of the cordwainer became the machine labor of the factory employee.
Both artisans and factory workers therefore fought for fewer hours and higher wages. The gains they extracted from governments were hard-won, and stinting. In 1819, the British Parliament passed a Factory Act that barred the employment of children under the age of nine in cotton mills. An 1833 law capped the number of mill hours worked by children between thirteen and eighteen at twelve per day.
Finally, by the second half of the nineteenth century, some of the economic rewards of this system reached the workers themselves; goods were vastly cheaper. Still, industrial people were people cleaved by class, suffering from alienation, and worried that their work had become meaningless. “Craft,” meanwhile, became suffused with meaning, romantic and nostalgic, gendered and racialized. “The only real handicraft this country knows,” according to an article in Gustav Stickley’s The Craftsman, at the height of the Arts and Crafts movement in America, is “that of the Indian.” Suzman argues that the aimlessness Émile Durkheim believed to be an often fleeting consequence of the process of industrialization is, instead, a characteristic of modern life: “As energy-capture rates have surged, new technologies have come online and our cities have continued to swell, constant and unpredictable change has become the new normal everywhere, and anomie looks increasingly like the permanent condition of the modern age.”
Anomie is one thing, poverty another. In the United States and the United Kingdom, the labor movement grew in strength and achieved an astonishing set of gains. In 1877, railroad workers across America went on strike. In 1882, in New York, Americans held the first Labor Day parade. The labor movement’s call for shorter hours, in an era whose watchwords were “scientific management” and “efficiency,” was largely won in the nineteen-teens and twenties under what became known as “the Fordist bargain,” when Henry Ford began implementing an eight-hour workday and a five-day workweek in exchange for higher productivity and less turnover. In both the U.K. and the U.S., according to some estimates, the average number of hours worked per week fell from about sixty, in 1880, to below fifty, by 1930. John Maynard Keynes predicted that, a hundred years in the future, the problem for workers would be too much leisure, since they would work no more than fifteen hours a week. Everyone would suffer from boredom. “There is no country and no people, I think, who can look forward to the age of leisure and of abundance without a dread,” Keynes wrote. “It is a fearful problem for the ordinary person, with no special talents, to occupy himself.”
In stepped heritage tourism and the hobby industry. Crafts, in an age of mass-produced consumer goods, became collectibles. Curators began collecting Americana, hand-forged tools, and hand-stitched gowns. During the Colonial Revival, industrialists built museums to hold the remains of the age of the artisan. In the nineteen-thirties, the Museum of Modern Art mounted an exhibit called “American Folk Art: The Art of the Common Man in America: 1750-1900”; John D. Rockefeller funded the restoration of Colonial Williamsburg, in Williamsburg, Virginia; Henry Ford opened Greenfield Village, in Dearborn, Michigan. “It was a strange sensation to pass old wagons while walking with one who had rendered them obsolete,” a New York Times reporter who toured Greenfield with Ford wrote. Another Times writer noted, “The unparalleled Dearborn collection of spinning wheels, Dutch ovens, covered bridges and other relics of an early American past is the work of a man whose life mission has been to take us away from that past as quickly as might be.”
The do-it-yourself movement, a craft craze, took off in the nineteen-fifties. In the new, postwar suburbs, white middle-class suburban men built workshops, places where, after a long day at the office or the factory, they could make things by hand. “Millions have taken to heart Thoreau’s example,” one commentator wrote, “withdrawing to their basement and garage workshops to find there a temporary Walden.” C. Wright Mills, the famed author of the 1951 classic “White Collar,” a study of the alienation and boredom of the office worker, bought a Shopsmith, a woodworking machine, for his workshop. Theodor Adorno, meanwhile, boasted that he had no hobbies, and bemoaned the “hobby ideology” as just another way that capitalism destroyed any possibility of free time.
The leisure that Keynes predicted never came. Average weekly hours for wage workers fell from 1930 to 1970, but, in recent decades, a lot of workers have been scrambling for more. Why? Put another way: Who killed Maria Fernandes?
The problem with the argument that it’s stupid to look for meaning in work—a form of false consciousness to find purpose in your job—and rare to love what you do is that it’s wrong. All sorts of people doing all kinds of work like the companionship they find in the workplace, the chance to get out of the house, the feeling of doing something, the sense of accomplishment. In 1974, Studs Terkel published “Working,” a compilation of more than a hundred and thirty interviews with Americans talking about what they do all day, and what they think about it. It was a study, he explained, of Americans’ search “for daily meaning as well as daily bread, for recognition as well as cash, for astonishment rather than torpor; in short, for a sort of life rather than a Monday through Friday sort of dying.”
Terkel loved his job as a radio broadcaster. He thought of himself as an artisan. “It is, for better or worse, in my hands,” he wrote. “I’d like to believe I’m the old-time cobbler, making the whole shoe.” He interviewed everyone from telephone operators to spot welders. He found plenty of people who hated their jobs. “It don’t stop,” an assembly-line welder at a Ford plant told him. “It just goes and goes and goes. I bet there’s men who have lived and died out there, never seen the end of that line. And they never will—because it’s endless. It’s like a serpent. It’s just all body, no tail.” But most of the people Terkel talked to also took a whole lot of pride in their work. “Masonry is older than carpentry, which goes clear back to Bible times,” a stonemason told him. “Stone is the oldest and best building material that ever was.” A hotel switchboard operator said, “You cannot have a business and have a bad switchboard operator. We are the hub of that hotel.” A twenty-six-year-old stewardess told Terkel, “The first two months I started flying I had already been to London, Paris, and Rome. And me from Broken Bow, Nebraska.”
Plenty of people still feel that way about their jobs. But Terkel’s interviews, conducted in the early seventies, captured the end of an era. Key labor-movement achievements—eight hours a day, often with health care and a pension—unravelled. The idea of the family wage began to collapse, as Kirsten Swinth points out in “Feminism’s Forgotten Fight: The Unfinished Struggle for Work and Family” (Harvard). Income inequality had just begun to rise. In places like the United States and the United Kingdom, manufacturing was dying, and so were unions. When Richard Donkin started writing for the Financial Times, in 1987, six reporters were assigned to a section of the paper that chronicled the goings on in the labor movement: strikes, stoppages, union negotiations, pay deals, labor legislation. By 2001, when Donkin published his history of work, “Blood, Sweat and Tears,” the labor pages had gone, “because labor, as we knew it,” he writes, “no longer exists.” Donkin, who was born in 1957, had witnessed the dwindling power of unions, and mourned the end of the separation of work from home. “Once we may have left our work behind,” he writes. “Today we take it with us. . . . Our working life is woven, warp across weft, into the texture of our domestic existence.”
Cartoon by Jacob Breckenridge
That’s not the full story. The industrial-era division between home and work was always an artifice, one the women’s movement tried to expose. In 1968, in “The Politics of Housework,” the radical feminist Pat Mainardi issued an eviscerating indictment of men whose home life was taken care of by women. “One hour a day is a low estimate of the amount of time one has to spend ‘keeping’ oneself,” she wrote. “By foisting this off on others, man gains seven hours a week—one working day more to play with his mind and not his human needs.” More women joined the paid labor force. Men balked at joining the unpaid labor force, at home. “It is as if the 60 to 80 hour work week she puts in . . . were imaginary,” a Boston feminist observed. To protest, women proposed a labor action. “Oppressed Women: Don’t Cook Dinner Tonight!” read one sign at the Women’s Strike for Equality in 1970. “Housewives Are Unpaid Slave Laborers! Tell Him What to Do with the Broom!” Ms. offered, by way of illustration, a sample letter of resignation:
This is to inform you that I am no longer running this household. The cupboards, the Lysol, the linoleum, the washer, the dryer, the marketing—they’re all yours. i hereby resign. . . .
You can fend for yourselves. Best of luck.
Mom
Feminists urged economists to count housework as work, calculating, in 1976, that housework constituted forty-four per cent of the G.N.P. Groups that included the New York Wages for Housework Committee, Black Women for Wages for Housework, and Wages Due Lesbians fought a “wages for housework” campaign, calling the exploitation of women’s domestic labor an international crime.
They allied with welfare-rights activists, who, after all, were seeking wages for mothers and who, starting in 1967, as the National Welfare Rights Organization, also campaigned for a kind of basic income. “The greatest thing that a woman can do is to raise her own children, and our society should recognize it as a job,” the chair of the Milwaukee County Welfare Rights Organization argued in 1972. “A person should be paid an adequate income to do that.” What they did not do was support the Nixon Administration’s Family Assistance Plan, whose benefits they believed to be inadequate and whose work requirement they rejected. It never became law. Still, by 1976 wages for housework, a proposal born among radical feminists, had earned the support of one in four Americans.
Meanwhile, crafts became a commercial juggernaut—especially hobbies for women, the she-shed equivalent of the workbench in the garage. Michaels and Hobby Lobby, craft superstores, along with Martha Stewart’s books, peddling needlepoint, knitting, and pastry-making, boomed in the nineteen-eighties. Some women began to pay to do, as hobbies, what other women protested doing, as unpaid labor.
Another way to think about the key turning point of the nineteen-seventies is that activists sought collective-bargaining agreements for housework just when industrial union membership was plummeting. Outside of agriculture, more than one in three working Americans belonged to a union in the fifties. In 1983, one in five belonged to a union; by 2019, only one in ten did. Union membership declined; income inequality rose. To explain this, Suzman points to the “Great Decoupling” of the nineteen-eighties: wages and economic growth used to track each other. From about 1980, in the United States, the G.D.P. kept growing, even as real wages stagnated. To compensate, many Americans worked more hours, and took on extra jobs, especially in the service sector. (Currently, more than eighty per cent of U.S. employment is in the service sector.)
In the early nineteen-eighties, Dunkin’ Donuts launched one of the most iconic television ad campaigns in American history. A schlumpy guy named Fred the Baker drags himself out of bed in the middle of the night, puts on his Dunkin’ Donuts uniform muttering, “Time to make the doughnuts,” before shuffling, half-asleep, out the door, barely saying goodbye to his wife, who is still in curlers. In one ad, he’s so dog-tired that he falls asleep at a dinner party, his head dropping onto a plate of mashed potatoes. In another, he goes out his front door and then comes back through the same door, day after day, ragged and weary, muttering, “Made the doughnuts,” until, finally, he bumps into himself, at once coming home and going to work. This campaign proved so popular that Dunkin’ Donuts made more than a hundred different versions; these ads were on television, around the clock, from the year Maria Fernandes was born until the year she turned fifteen. In 1997, when the actor who played the baker finally retired from the role, “Saturday Night Live” ran a skit, featuring Jon Lovitz, looking back at just how long this ad campaign had lasted. “My character, Fred the Baker, well he’s sure seen America through some tough times,” he says. “The Gulf War, just another time to make the doughnuts. The Rodney King beating, time to make the doughnuts.”
With the G.D.P. rising and wages flat or falling for so many Americans, where did all that wealth go? Much of it went to chief executives: in 1965, C.E.O. compensation was twenty times that of the average worker; by 2015, it was more than two hundred times that of the average worker. That year, Nigel Travis, the C.E.O. of Dunkin’ Brands, took in $5.4 million in compensation (down from $10.2 million the previous year) and called a proposed fifteen-dollar-an-hour minimum wage “absolutely outrageous.”
Chief executives wouldn’t have been able to plunder so much money if the federal government hadn’t let them do it. The Biden-Harris campaign endorsed a raft of legislation designed to end what Democrats call the “war on unions.” Even if this stuff could pass, which is unlikely, there are other forces driving income inequality. “the death of maria fernandes demands a call to action,” ran the headline of an article by the head of the American Federation of State, County, and Municipal Employees, a few days after her death. She reportedly worked more than eighty hours a week and earned less than forty thousand dollars a year. (Asked for comment, a spokesperson for Dunkin’ claims that her employers “offered positions of greater responsibility” for a higher wage, but asserts that she “didn’t express interest.”) She may have really liked selling doughnuts. But that is not the point.
Maria Fernandes, the daughter of Portuguese immigrants, rented a basement room in Newark for five hundred and fifty dollars a month. She was born in Fall River, Massachusetts. According to reporting by the Associated Press, her family returned to Portugal when she was eleven, but around the time she turned eighteen she came back to the United States. She had wanted, once, to be an actress, a police officer, a flight attendant, or maybe a beautician. She spoke four languages—English, Portuguese, French, and Spanish. She was chatty; friends nicknamed her Radio. For a while, she had a boyfriend whose bills she paid. Normally, she worked from 2 to 9 p.m. at the Dunkin’ Donuts kiosk inside Newark’s Penn Station. Then she drove to Linden, where she worked from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. On weekends, she took morning shifts in Harrison. The boyfriend told her to quit one of those jobs. She said, “No, I’m used to it now.”
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