I'm creeping towards retirement and fortunate enough to be in a position to do so in relative comfort in a few more years. As a part of the process of gearing up, my wife and I had some work done on our house last fall. The process was pretty much painless for us, but one day as the work was going on I found myself on the verge of tears all afternoon. Why? Read on, beyond the fold
One part of the work was having new windows installed in our thirty five year old home. We went with a big national company. Everyone knows their name. In any case, the installer showed up early in the morning with a trailer load of new windows and his adult son to help with the installation.
About lunchtime, the installer came into the house to work on the interior trim. It turned out that he came from the same part of Ohio that I do. In fact, he is a few years younger than me. Both our hometowns were heavily into steel manufacturing, electrical equipment, and auto parts when we were growing up. Those industries provided good, high paying union jobs for people in our parent's generation. Of course, they are all just about gone now.
That's where the story gets sad. Our paths in life couldn't have been more divergent. I worked for a tire manufacturer in a factory for a number of years. While working in that good union job, I completed my college degree and most of a master's degree. (My parents insisted that I finish the MA when I was laid off in December 1981. Thanks for that Dad and Mom.) From there I jumped into academia, completing a Doctorate and teaching for almost thirty years now.
The installer's story was no where near this happy. He worked construction in Ohio. When the economy collapsed there, he relocated to Florida and ultimately to South Carolina. Needless to say, none of the jobs in FL or SC were union.
However, his trip down the economic ladder wasn't over. The installer now works for this major company as an independent contractor. This means that he is responsible for all of his expenses in doing a job. The diesel for his pickup, his problem. Repairs for the truck, ditto.
Needless to say, there is no health insurance provided. He said that there were some months when he didn't have money for food. He was also certain that he couldn't receive any public benefits like food stamps or Medicaid. He claimed that when his wife was pregnant in Florida with their son, he was told in a welfare office that such benefits weren't available for white people.
I didn't argue with him, but I sure wanted to cry. This is what it looks like to be a member of the white, working class today. Is it any wonder that people in this class have a huge chip on their shoulder?
At the same time, the installer was aware that the big boys are doing alright. I mentioned this to him, complaining about the local electric utility. (For those of you not resident in Georgia, Georgia Power, our local electric monopoly, is charging ratepayers for the costs of the boondoggle nuclear plant they are building here.)
That was slightly hopeful. There is a basis for a populist appeal to white, working class voters. I am afraid that I don't have the skills to construct it, but it's out there.