Rethinking Work, Reconnecting with the Material World

I’m entering my 23rd year of schooling. For almost 23 consecutive years, I have been enrolled in some type of formal education. At some point soon, there won’t be a higher credential I can achieve. I’m proud of these scholastic accomplishments, which are derived from a constellation of luck, privilege, hard work, and a cerebral disposition. However, my long school career has also recently caused a small crisis within me.

In many ways, I’m a poster child of the new economy. I embody “lifelong learning,” literally, and have become skilled in the management of information. If our economy has become structured around the production of knowledge, my career path has positioned me squarely in America’s emerging “industrial” heartland: research universities. I can speak fluently about data and I am one of those innumerable people in the beltway who can consider consulting legitimate work.

But it’s that last word, work, that troubles me. Most of my work deals with the intangible. I spend hours in front of a computer or talking about abstract things. As a result, I have developed a rather detached relationship with the material world. And, despite the fact that I’m not doing manual labor, I’m inexplicably drained at the end of each work day. I haven’t quite decided if my exhaustion is physical or spiritual. Yet the feeling is unmistakable, and I think the implications can be severe.

Most importantly, I have a feeling that I’m not alone here. Perhaps as I write out some the implications, what I have to say will resonate with you.

1. Matthew Crawford is one of the writers who helped me understand my crisis and crystalized my desire to make a few changes. In Shop Class as Soulcraft, he makes the case for re-discovering what was once weaved into the fabric of American society: making and fixing things. Although I’m very well educated, I have virtually no knowledge of how the things I use daily are made, or how to fix them if they break. This means that I face a common conundrum all the time. Either I pay someone to fix my things, with little knowledge of what the work entails or how much it should cost. Or I buy a new thing. Many companies have come to rely upon the latter choice, purposely designing products to be quickly replaced by people who, like me, are detached from the material world (this one goes out to you, Apple lovers).

2. We tend to think that “knowledge work” is somehow more intellectually demanding and rewarding than skilled work with our hands. At minimum, we valorize occupations that require higher learning and largely accept myriad media messages telling us that manual laborers are stupid or unambitious. Now, I’m not saying that college is a bad idea (read all my other posts), or that so-called “white collar” jobs are over-valued. I’m also not guiltily suggesting that labor is glamorous. Rather, we should realize that there has been a systematic effort to de-intellectualize the trades. One result of this, as Mike Rowe eloquently suggested in his Senate testimony, is that there is a vast skilled labor gap in America. This gap provides true evidence that the knowledge economy may be more rhetorical than real. There are swaths of jobs that require people who can build, weld, and repair. Information technology will never make them obsolete. They will be increasingly in demand.

3. Lastly, the environmental consequences of the previous two points are hard to miss. Consumption is easier if you don’t stop to think about how things are made and don’t bother to fix them. And consumption is the lifeline of our economy. I have written in a previous post about the origins of the recent revitalization of interest in all things “craft,” “local,” and “authentic.” I think it has something to do with a spiritual fullness that comes with reconnecting to real things. The satisfaction that comes from restoring a piece of discarded furniture, making your own beer, or growing your own vegetables isn’t just a social or cultural phenomenon. It is hardwired into our physical constitution. For this reason, a life spent immersed in the intangible will always feel incomplete.

So, what does a 28-year-old who can read, write, and analyze but can’t make or fix anything do to reconnect with the material world? This question has captured my attention for the past 5 months, with no easy answers. At my most extreme moments, I’ve considered telling my doctoral dissertation to “f*ck off” because no one will probably read it in any case. After I collect myself, I try to remember that my professional work is not what defines me—and, truth be told, I’ve mostly enjoyed writing my dissertation, even though its ridiculously abstract. Beyond this reminder, I’ve toyed around with a few ideas that I’m hoping to further explore...

First, I think there are a number of people out there who want to make and fix things. A two-hour conversation with friends convinced me of this. Not exactly a representative sample, but my position stands. There’s actually an entire Maker Movement, although many of its adherents are interested in electronics. The problem is that there are few places to learn how to fix things. Some people would probably argue that you just have to jump in and, with the right amount curiosity, you will learn over time. I can’t dispute this. But I think for many people my age, with a background like mine, it would be far easier if there was a welcoming place dedicated to informal, fun instruction in how to make and fix things. This is especially true of people living in cities, which are rich in bars and jobs, but—let’s face it—more oriented to consuming things than preserving them. I have in my mind a workshop space for re-educating the over-schooled.

Second, on a more personal level, I’ve decided to take a few concrete steps in the hopes that the alleviate some of my crisis. The first is to talk with and learn from makers. They are out there. My dad, for reasons that years ago escaped me, is an expert canner, makes his own sausage and bacon, and has always built from scratch his computers. My father-in-law knows how to lay carpet, tile floors, put a new roof on his house, and do other mundane things that now seem remarkable to me.

The second is to try and fix my things when they break. Seems simple, right? Think about the last time you sat down and actually tried to fix something you own. Chances are, it’s been awhile. Most things are probably beyond my ability to fix—but, at least initially, it’s the effort that counts. I’m trying to salvage and learn, rather than discard and kick the can down the road for future generations.

The third is to not seek out a job that carries undue prestige in this economy—if it’s is not truly, directly helping someone or producing something real, its value, in my mind should be interrogated.

The final thing is to talk about these issues with others. I’ve been trying to raise this topic with other people to gauge if it’s a manifestation of some momentary madness. Regardless, I think the issue merits reflection. Correct me if I’m wrong.

Looking to the Past to Solve Higher Education's Problems

I’m wrapping up Jeffrey J. Selingo’s College (Un)bound: The Future of Higher Education and What It Means for Students. Selingo is rather blunt in his appraisal of American higher education, calling it “broken.” He writes:

Like another American icon—the auto industry in Detroit—the higher education industry is beset by hubris, opposition to change, and resistance to accountability. (p. x)

Drawing parallels between Detroit and the higher education “industry” is an interesting idea worth exploring another time, especially given the long-standing description of universities as mini-cities or “cities of intellect.” For now, my focus is on the idea that higher education is broken and the solutions that have been offered to fix it.

Selingo isn’t unique in criticizing higher education. It’s become a bit of a fad in popular media. Within the last five years alone, writers have questioned the value of a college degree; decried inefficiencies in university spending; linked college to the maintenance of class inequalities; and extolled the virtues of new technologies, namely Massive Online Open Courses, in disrupting (and, therefore, saving) a system on the verge of self-destruction. Many of these writers reach a similar conclusion: there is urgent need to “reinvent,” “re-imagine,” “rethink,” or outright “revolutionize” higher education.

In response to this call to action, a plethora of people have suggested that higher education needs to develop “new business models” in the face of mounting financial challenges. For example, writing for Educause Review, Christine Flanagan argued that college and university leaders “should not invest dollars trying to advance the existing model,” but rather learn “the tools, skills, and experience to envision, test, and implement new business models” (p. 14). Unsurprisingly, many of the new models are derived from the experiences of corporations, including using new technologies to lower labor costs and boost productivity, diversifying revenue streams for long-term sustainability, and catering to consumer demand in order to best competitors.

What I find interesting is that there is a general acceptance that colleges and universities have been operating with some common, dysfunctional business plan in the first place. No one seems to register that viewing colleges and universities as businesses became widespread relatively recently in the history of higher education. And no one seems willing to believe that the issues higher education faces are linked to the diffusion and popularization of this view.

Corporatization and marketization have been happening in higher education since the late 1970s and early 1980s. We’ve experienced at least 30 years of creeping private industry money and management norms, and the result is not greater efficiency or effectiveness. The problems higher education confronts today are worse than in the 1970s. Ignoring this fact, a cadre of zealous reformers is trying to sell the idea that we need colleges and universities to be more business-like in their operations. In an era when evidence-driven reform is all the rage, why are more people not asking for evidence that corporate culture and business-derived solutions are working?

While I'm perhaps dangerously sympathetic to the idea that genius inventors are going to revolutionize learning and credentials, my inclination is toss out the window the idea that higher education needs a new business model. I believe we need to revive the view of colleges and universities as institutions. This is certainly not the first time higher education in America has experienced a major legitimacy crisis. It is still among the best systems in the world because it has proved capable of responding to challenging circumstances. At risk of sounding overly nostalgic, I think we need to look to the past for solutions to higher education’s current problems.

There was a time when residence halls were not resorts—they were cinder block dormitories. Students were not consumers—they were pupils and expected to take ownership over their learning, its successes and failures. There was a time when higher education was not seen as an individual investment in “human capital”—it was a vital public good that propelled America’s prosperity. There was a time when higher education was affordable. Not coincidentally, this time was when the state, with taxpayer money, subsidized our public colleges and universities.

Now, obviously, there are some issues with the portrait of higher education’s past I painted above. Not everything about the past was so rosy—completion rates were low, discrimination was rampant. The demographic realities of today are very different from those of yesteryear. Some people will also be uncomfortable with using institution as a guiding concept. After all, institutions are seen as overly rationalized (or, in the eyes of some, thoroughly unrationalized) bureaucracies or sites of Foucauldian discipline. I like the idea of institution, rather than business, because it conveys simplicity and public support.

The point is that there is something to be said for seriously challenging the “new business model” rhetoric. We hesitate to call public high schools businesses because there is still a fleeting belief in the collective, public responsibility of providing education to young people. Why should higher education be so different?

The “innovators” will call me idealistic and risk-averse. They will shake their heads and announce, “The system must change!”

I agree. I’m just not convinced that business models can fix a system that is so “broken” precisely because we applied business models to non-profit and publicly-supported institutions.

Returning to the Farm

I rewarded myself two weeks ago with an end-of-semester victory hike up Old Rag Mountain in Shenandoah National Park. After the hike, I was meandering down one of several state routes back to the highway when I came across this barn. I pulled over and did something I almost never do—snapped a photo of it.

The barn looked beautiful. I suppose, in the moment, this was all the reason I needed to stop and capture it. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the barn on the drive home. There was something about it that struck me. Perhaps it was its dilapidated exterior; its sheer isolation against a chilling backdrop of grey clouds and leafless trees; its unfamiliarity after years living in urban areas; or the contemplation only possible when you’re alone in the car for several hours.

Growing up in Ohio, I was surrounded by operational farms. When my parents relocated to “The Heart of it All!” state in the 1980s, my mom fell in love with our neighborhood specifically because it reminded her of her small hometown in Iowa—right down to the smell of freshly spread manure. I used to sneak through the nearby woods, rush by the “Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted Sign,” and play games in the fields of a Christmas tree farm—one of several family farms dotting the landscape as I went to school each day. 

Of late, I have virtually no contact with operational farms. I know, of course, that they exist. They lie just outside my orbit. Most of my friends and I chose after college to settle in urban areas, where “there is stuff to do,” by which we generally mean areas where we can find easily accessible concentrations of restaurants, bars, and at least one Target. This doesn’t always mean we live in the heart of a city. More often, we find less expensive housing in city outskirts: the urban sprawl districts close enough to public transportation that we can claim to live in Washington, D. C., Philadelphia, or New York City.

The sprawl has widened enough in these areas to subsume a few farms, meaning it is still possible to encounter a barn or two. However, these barns have been repurposed as homes or antique stores. As cultural symbols, the barn no longer carries just the connotations of backbreaking toil on behalf of feeding the nation or providing sustenance and livelihoods to generations of hardworking American families. Barns have also come to symbolize a bygone era. They are sought after for their age, rust, and “country kitsch” effects. In other words, it sometimes seems that barns are appreciated not for their functionality, but rather because of their aesthetic value. Two industries, in particular, seem to have capitalized upon this aesthetic valorization: the wedding and dining industries.

I've arrived at the stretch of years in which many of my friends are getting married. My Facebook newsfeed basically resembles an online wedding album.  As I passively click through wedding pictures, it is impossible to escape images like this:

There are now entire websites, blogs, and catalogues dedicated to creating the perfect “country kitsch” wedding, providing instructions for producing mason jar center pieces and horseshoe favors. I commend the crafty people who are able to follow these instructions and, in some cases, reduce their wedding costs. Additionally, a good number of the wedding photos I have seen that use barns as props are gorgeous. The contrast of two impeccably dressed people of the present with an old, beat-up structure can be visually stunning. Yet I would bet that the barns in these photos were never destined to be wedding venues. And I know for a fact that my Facebook friends posing for the camera are not at all involved with crop cultivation. They want their photos to communicate a message about them as a couple.

Restaurants have also tapped into the cultural allure of the barn, but for somewhat different reasons. I’ll use as an example Woodberry Kitchen in Baltimore, Maryland. Woodberry is not actually housed in a barn, but rather the old Clipper Mill complex that has since been redeveloped into artists’ studios and upscale condominiums. Upon approaching the restaurant, diners are greeted by old farm equipment and corn stalks. Inside, wooden beams are embellished to give a barn-like appearance, and shelves are stocked with canned fruits and vegetables. Waiters scurry around in plaid shirts and blue jeans, while waitresses wear simple dresses and aprons.

Part of the reason that Woodberry has purposefully tried to give diners the feeling that they are eating in a barn or farmhouse is that the menu is designed to showcase fresh ingredients from Chesapeake area farms. The restaurant’s website explains: “At our table, you join us in supporting sustainable agriculture that respects the abundance and traditions of the region while helping to ensure its future.” Woodberry’s agrarian décor speaks to the “country kitsch” aesthetic demand as well as a business ethic based upon sustainability and reconnecting guests to the origins of the food they eat.

At the same time that barn-side wedding photos and “down on the farm” dining options have become popular, so, too, have sustainability and eating local. It is trendy to purchase produce from farmers’ markets and, in general, to give thought to where our food is coming from. This is especially true among a growing number of young people, even those in urban areas. Many cities have started to create urban farms to increase the amount of fresh, locally sourced produce available to residents. Many of these farms exist thanks to dedicated volunteers. Community Supported Agriculture (CSA), in which a farm delivers a share of its harvest to members or subscribers, is also growing in popularity among a select subset of urbanites.

A recent article even announced that Millennials are suiting up to be the next generation of farmers. Citing the fact that America’s farmers are, on average, almost 60 years old, the article describes a program in Maine to link young people who want to learn about agriculture with veteran farmers to eventually take over untended acres. The initiative was featured in the documentary film, GROW!

It would be inaccurate to say that eating local has become widespread practice. Similarly, the Maine Millennials who are taking over farms are few in number, with most young people still opting for a career path that carries more prestige. However, The New York Times reported a few months ago that the number of farms in the United States increased by 4%—the first increase after decades of decline. Optimistically, the resurgent interest in working on farms, eating locally sourced food, and even “country kitsch” is bringing renewed vitality to agriculture in America. Barns as symbols of livelihood and sustenance may eclipse any connotations of them as objects of a bygone era.

Perhaps if I return to Old Rag Mountain in the near future, the barn in my photo will speak to this shift. Instead of being a striking scene of abandonment, it may be the workplace of a new college graduate in search of a promising career, providing fresh produce to Americans through farmers’ markets and upscale restaurants.  

All Folked Up

In the car a few days ago, I heard two songs on the radio, back-to-back, that caused me to pause and reflect. The first song was “Little Talks” by the Icelandic band Of Monsters and Men and the second was Mumford and Son’s new single “I Will Wait”. Making the experience all the more striking was that these two songs were preceded and followed by pop artists like Nicki Minaj or Katy Perry. Although it’s difficult to place bands like Mumford and Sons in a genre, their sound certainly differs from the majority of pop musicians whose work populates the airwaves. Some would classify these bands as “folk”, or perhaps less definitively as “folksy”.

It is easy to see and hear something in these bands that reflects the form, themes, styles, and aesthetics of folk music. Take, for example, the instruments they use in their songs. In place of synthesizers or electric guitars, we often hear what we consider “traditional” instruments, those accessible to the “common man”, like the banjo, fiddle, and harmonica. Additionally, these bands clearly attempt to take on a “backwoods” or “down country” persona, wearing clothing that conveys simplicity, age, and wear—the fashion equivalent of patina.

Song lyrics don’t reference cell phones or nightclubs, but rather rural landscapes, manual labor, and, occasionally, passages or figures from the Bible. The Head and the Heart, an indie/folk outfit out of Seattle (shocking, I know), intone in their song “Lost in My Mind”:

How’s that bricklayin’ coming

How’s your engine runnin’

Is that bridge gettin’ built

Are you hands gettin’ filled

Fellow Seattleites, Fleet Foxes, more explicitly demonstrate these themes in the title track off their 2011 album Helplessness Blues:

If I had an orchard, I'd work till I'm raw

If I had an orchard, I'd work till I'm sore

And you would wait tables and soon run the store

Is there reason to believe we are in the midst of a folk revival? Purists would argue no. They see folk music as part of a largely oral tradition in which songs have been passed down for generations. That continuity is the key. The bands described above are, for the most part, performing music they have written and embodying styles they have invented. They are creating novel cultural products with recourse to the past (see Kirshenblatt-Gimblett’s work on heritage for more on this). In this sense, today’s folk artists aren’t reviving anything. They are simply making a statement in the present with the vocabulary of the past.

Regardless of whether or not we can call the popularity of this “folk” music a revival, it is unquestionably popular. What is it that makes songs harkening back to simpler times and porch-front banjo picking so compelling to many people today? One possible answer came to me while listening to the newest Mumford and Sons album. A familiar song started playing, which I identified as Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Boxer”. Here we had a contemporary folk band resurrecting a song from the 1960s folk revival.

If we are witnessing a folk revival, it certainly isn’t the first (or best example of) one. There was another moment of folk consciousness in the 1930s and 1940s, epitomized in Woody Guthrie’s Dustbowl Ballads. The collection featured traditional folk songs Guthrie learned from migrant workers, as well as original compositions chronicling his travels from Oklahoma to California. Guthrie is often cited among a list of folk artists from the 1930s and 1940s that inspired a later generation of folk artists in the 1960s, including Bob Dylan.

Serious fans of folk music would likely cringe at even implicating that Mumford and Sons belongs to a lineage stretching back to Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan. For one thing, Woodie Guthrie and Bob Dylan both used their music to promote social justice (with the former supporting labor and the latter supporting the civil rights and anti-war movements). Yet, there is a common thread running through the work of these artists. All of them emerged in response to temporal demand for something traditional, a connection to the past.

Much like the 1930s, we are living in a period of economic crisis. And similar to the 1960s, our social world is increasingly marked by rapid, sometimes jarring, change. In the words of Dylan, “times, they are a changin’”. In the face of such crisis and change, we seek solace in the past. Nostalgia for what has been replaced and remorse for what has been lost take root. It is during times like these that folk music comes to enjoy enormous currency. We might even think of folk music as a type of coping mechanism. 

So the songs that struck a chord within me as I listened to the radio may not truly be folk music. We know that many of these bands are fabricated to meet the demand of the day. After all, Of Monsters and Men is from Iceland, prompting questions about exactly whose folk they are representing and celebrating. It is also clear that what I heard is less a revival of pure folk music than a new creation with a folksy veneer.

Despite these truths, I took comfort in the songs and sang along. For a brief moment, I could at least pretend to commune with the world being left behind as I drove forward. Who knows how long this folk moment will last, but if Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan are any indication, there’s staying power to music that forces us to look back in the rearview mirror—music that reminds us to remember.