2014年4月19日 星期六

NPR podcast on customs duties and tariffs for imported apparel

http://www.npr.org/blogs/money/2011/01/26/133120017/the-friday-podcast-a-meat-grinder-for-fabric

Marian Federoff uses an autopsy saw to cut apart shoes at the port of Long Beach.
Marian Federoff uses an autopsy saw to cut apart shoes at the port of Long Beach.Alex Blumberg/NPR

Almost half of all the duties collected in the U.S. are on apparel or footwear, and the laws that govern the importing of these goods are extremely complicated. Where the goods come from, what they are made of and how they are assembled, all play a role in how much duty an importer will have to pay.

We've talked about tariffs before on the podcast, but now that we've got our own Planet Money t-shirt in the works, we're paying much closer attention. Since it's likely at least some part of our t-shirt will be made abroad, we wanted to know exactly what to expect.



Cotton (left) and polyester (right) under the microscope at the port of Long Beach.U.S. Customs & Border Protection

On today's podcast, we consult with trade lawyer Michael Cone, and visit the lab where customs officials check to make sure importers are following the rules.

2014年4月18日 星期五

Car industry_ Podcast of history of the attempt by General Motors to absorb and replicate Toyota-like processes and culture.

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/403/nummi

403: NUMMI
MAR 26, 2010
A car plant in Fremont California that might have saved the U.S. car industry. In 1984, General Motors and Toyota opened NUMMI as a joint venture. Toyota showed GM the secrets of its production system: How it made cars of much higher quality and much lower cost than GM achieved. Frank Langfitt explains why GM didn't learn the lessons—until it was too late.

Host Ira Glass introduces the story of the New United Motor Manufacturing Inc., aka NUMMI. In 1984, General Motors and Toyota opened NUMMI as a joint venture. Toyota showed GM the secrets of its production system: How it made cars of much higher quality and much lower cost than GM achieved. But today, GM cars still don't have the quality of Japanese imports, GM is bankrupt and on March 31, NUMMI will be closed, sending thousands of car workers looking for jobs. In this hour-long story, NPR Automotive Correspondent Frank Langfitt tells the story of NUMMI and why GM—and the rest of the American car business—wasn't able to learn from it more quickly


The rise of NUMMI, or how one of the worst auto plants in America started producing some of its best cars, thanks to lessons learned from the Toyota production system.


Why did it take so many years for GM to begin implementing the lessons of NUMMI across the company? NPR Automotive Correspondent Frank Langfitt continues his story.


2014年4月12日 星期六

China’s Exports Perch on Uncertain Truck System

By DAVID BARBOZA
Published: April 28, 2011

SHANGHAI — For years, China’s export juggernaut (重型卡車) has been fed by highly efficient factories, low-cost labor and a fleet of container ships capable of transporting huge volumes of toys, textiles, electronics and other goods to every corner of the world.

But there is a surprisingly weak link in the Made in China chain.

Moving those goods from the factory floor to one of China’s enormous seaports — often a drive of less than two hours — typically means relying on an independent trucking company. And as vital as trucking is to China’s mighty export machine, the government seems to be ignoring the drawbacks of what analysts say is an increasingly disorganized, inefficient and even costly way to transport factory goods to seaports.

Trucking’s tenuous (稀薄) status has been underscored by recent protests and demonstrations by drivers. Last week, in an unusually bold display of public anger, 2,000 truckers went on strike in Shanghai to complain about the rising cost of fuel and unfair government transportation fees. Some protestors hurled (猛力投擲) rocks, tried to overturn police cars and smashed the windshields of truck drivers who refused to join the strike.

The Shanghai municipal government eventually ended the three-day strike by arresting protestors and threatening strike organizers, while also promising to lower some fees that trucking companies must pay to use the roads and seaport.

But the challenges that trucking pose to China’s $1.5 trillion a year in exports are still in place — and could become even greater, now that huge factories have begun relocating to poorer, inland regions to save on labor costs.

“Our concern is that as these factories move away from the coast, the service standards won’t keep pace,” said Ken Glenn, an executive at APL, a transportation services company. “Rail and barge are even less developed.”

Within China, thousands of small trucking companies, many of them family-owned, compete by promising low-cost delivery. Then they overload their 18-wheelers in dangerous ways, pay bribes to ward off highway inspectors and hope to eke out (增加,補充) tiny profits.

Now, though, with global oil prices sending the cost of fuel soaring, many truckers say they are heading toward bankruptcy.

“We’re paying a lot more money for fuel than we did three years ago, but what we get paid for freight has stayed the same,” said Qi Zhenwei, a truck owner stationed at a dusty trucking depot near one of Shanghai’s busiest ports. “How am I supposed to survive?”

Mark Millar, a China logistics expert at M Power Associates in Hong Kong, sees Chinese trucking as “a seriously fragmented and brutally competitive industry.”

“Most of the drivers are owner-operators, and in order to make money, they carry more cargo than the truck is supposed to hold,” Mr. Millar said. “This is obviously not a healthy model.”

Not all trucking in China is such a seat-of-the-pants affair. Some global companies transport goods by truck in sealed shipping containers from factory to dock, sometimes accompanied by security escorts.

But more often, goods destined for export are delivered to seaports by small trucking companies — usually hired by logistics firms that bargain to get the lowest possible shipping price. To scrape by, many of the small trucking firms violate the law, pay bribes to avoid heavy fines and transportation restrictions, and even force drivers to sleep in the trucks overnight, sometimes in insecure parking lots.

These rigors might seem to contradict the heavy investment in infrastructure and expressways that China has made to make its transportation network more efficient.

But many of this country’s modern roadways are expensive toll roads. And the government has placed tough regulations on many aspects of the transportation industry, which analysts say have burdened companies with heavy taxes, insurance and government fees. As a result, transporting goods by truck in China is relatively more expensive than doing so in the United States.

According to the American Trucking Associations, moving goods by truck in the United States costs about $1.75 per mile. That includes driver salaries, truck leases, insurance, tolls and many other related costs.

By comparison, trucking costs in China’s two biggest export regions — the Yangtze River Delta region near Shanghai and the Pearl River Delta around Hong Kong — are $2.50 to $3 a mile. That is despite low pay to Chinese drivers, who might earn only 25 cents an hour, versus about $17 an hour in the United States.

Corruption is also a major problem. Chinese truck drivers say highway and port inspectors routinely demand payoffs or bribes. Drivers who refuse to pay may find themselves hit by large fines for even the smallest infraction. (That many of the trucks are overweight makes them ripe for sanctions.) Some regions even operate illegal toll booths.

Rachel Katz, a Fulbright research fellow from the United States who is spending a year in China traveling with long-haul truck drivers, says the drivers are constantly harassed by highway officials.

“There’s every kind of fine you can imagine,” she said in a telephone interview from Chengdu, in southwest China. “There are many different people regulating the roads and finding a way to tax the truckers. I can’t believe the system operates this way.”

Ms. Katz recalls one driver telling her: “In the U.S., you issue tickets in order to control traffic. In China, we control traffic in order to issue tickets.”

Truck drivers do not get much sympathy from their clients — factory bosses who are also struggling to cope with inflation. With labor and raw material and energy prices soaring here, factories are reluctant to pay higher fees to move goods to the major ports.

=> Due to increasing material, energy and labor costs, factories are not willing to pay higher to transportation.   
Besides, many of the factory bosses seem to recognize that there is an oversupply of small trucking companies desperate for cargo.

“They face a situation of absolutely cutthroat competition, and many of them are not well educated,” said Tyrrell Duncan, a transportation director at the Asian Development Bank. “There aren’t programs to train them.”

Qi Zhenwei, who is 35, and his 31-year-old brother, Qi Erwei, are typical trucking bosses working in Shanghai’s bustling (活躍的) Baoshan port district.

Despite fears of government reprisals (報復), they agreed to talk this week in the rusted metal container that now serves as a lounge at their dusty truck depot, amid engine parts and a bucket filled with cigarette butts. Between phone calls and dashes in and out of the makeshift lounge to talk to colleagues, they told their story.

Until about seven years ago, they were peasant farmers struggling to make a living in Henan Province, one of the country’s poorest regions. Neither of them had finished high school.

They traveled more than 500 miles east to Shanghai and found work as truck drivers. (“I once went 24 consecutive days without sleeping in a bed,” Qi Zhenwei said.) Eventually, they earned enough to combine their savings with $100,000 they borrowed from some friends and relatives to buy their own fleet of five new and used Chinese-made trucks.

But shortly after they invested in some of their most expensive vehicles, the global financial crisis struck. Exports plummeted, devastating their container hauling business. A year later, in 2009, when China’s exports began to rebound, so did inflation and fuel prices. And now, the brothers are faced with greater competition from a growing number of small trucking companies.

“So far, I didn’t make any money,” Qi Zhenwei complained.

The brothers refused to talk about the recent strike here, saying the government had been visiting all truckers in the area. But they freely discussed their costs: tire fees, insurance, driver salaries, road use fees, oil changes, repairs and even fees that trucks pay to enter the city.

“If I had a chance to sell the truck, I’d get out of the business,” the older brother said, dejectedly smoking a cigarette. “I’d go back to my hometown. Now, people there are planting crops for Chinese medicine. And they’re making good money.”

In Roaring China, Sweaters Are West of Socks City

By DAVID BARBOZA

Published: December 24, 2004


ATANG, China - You probably have never heard of this factory town in coastal China, and there is no reason why you should have. But it fills your sock drawer.

Datang produces an astounding nine billion pairs of socks each year - more than one set for every person on the planet. People here fondly call it Socks City, and its annual socks festival attracts 100,000 buyers from around the world.

Southeast from here is Shenzhou, which is the world's necktie capital. To the west is Sweater City and Kid's Clothing City. To the south, in the low-rent district, is Underwear City.

This remarkable specialization, one city for each drawer in your bureau, reflects the economies of scale and intense concentration that have helped turn China into a garment behemoth(巨獸). On Jan. 1, a new trade regime will end the decades-old system of country-by-country quotas that divide the world's exports among roughly 150 countries. Now, China is banking on its immense size and efficient operators to grab an even larger share of the world's clothing orders.

Neither Adam Smith nor Karl Marx could possibly have imagined that this kind of capitalism would evolve from a communist system in quite this way, with an obscure town in the middle of nowhere becoming the world's socks capital. But these days, buyers from New York to Tokyo want to be able to buy 500,000 pairs of socks all at once, or 300,000 neckties, 100,000 children's jackets, or 50,000 size 36B bras. And increasingly, the places that best accommodate those kinds of orders are China's giant new specialty cities.

The abolition of quotas is expected to accelerate this trend over the next decade or so, particularly under the guidance of China's visible hand. The niche cities reflect China's ability to form "lump" economies, where clusters or networks of businesses feed off each other, building technologies and enjoying the benefits of concentrated support centers - like the button capital nearby, which furnishes most of the buttons on the world's shirts, pants and jackets.

The new era, thus, offers a glimpse into how China's fast-paced economy is developing into more than just a beehive of individual private enterprises. Beyond the entrepreneurial vigor so palpable here, the textile business is a prime example of how the Chinese government's attempt to guide development more indirectly through local planning instead of outright state ownership is starting to pay off in a big way.

China is not just becoming the leader of the pack. In many ways, it hopes to run away with as much of the market as possible.

New import limits by the United States, along with other external and internal forces, are expected to hamper China's progress in apparel and textiles for several years, if not longer. That should allow several other countries to maintain vigorous garment industries as well. But there is little question that China will ultimately be the dominant force in the business, and the growth of its industrial enclaves here highlights just how powerful a force China's industries are becoming in almost every sector they have entered.

In the late 1970's, Datang was little more than a rice farming village with 1,000 people, who gathered in small groups and stitched socks together at home, and then sold them in baskets along the highway.

Back then, government officials branded Datang's sock makers as capitalists and ordered them to stop selling socks. Now, they produce over a third of the world's output, and the government has nothing but praise for such entrepreneurs and their domination of the sock business.

"If the restrictions are dropped, there'll be even more production here," says one government official, Weiming Feng, the town's deputy party secretary and an official at the city's sock market.

Signs of Datang's rise as a socks capital are everywhere. The center of town is filled with a huge government-financed marketplace for socks. The rice paddies have given way to rows of paved streets lined with cookie-cutter factories. Banners promoting socks are draped across buildings. And each year, Datang is decorated with balloons and flags for the annual sock fair.

And rags-to-riches tales abound in Datang. Just ask Dong Ying Hong, who in the 1970's gave up a $9-a-month job as an elementary-school teacher to make socks at home. Now, she is the owner of Zhejiang Socks - and a sock millionaire.

Hai Yun Shi, the 41-year-old founder of Hongyun Socks, has a similar tale.

"I started out making socks by hand when I was 18," he said at the company's headquarters. "In '96 we founded this company. Now, we have a contract withWal-Mart."

These kinds of gains have sharply eroded America's old sock-making might. American textile companies filed a petition earlier this year asking Washington to place limits on Chinese sock imports. Hoping to ease trade tensions, the Chinese government said in early December that it would voluntarily add tariffs on some of its own textile and apparel exports to reduce their competitive thrust.

That is one reason, among others, why many specialists believe that China's wallop(v.
痛打,n.重擊 ) will not come all at once.

"It won't happen overnight," said Bruce Rockowitz, president of Li & Fung, a Hong Kong company that is one of the world's largest apparel distributors. "It's not a big movement to China right now for retailers. There's too much uncertainty."

Smaller countries, like Bangladesh and Cambodia - which feared they could not keep up with China - are breathing easier. At least for now.

Still, China already accounts for about 16 percent of all apparel imports into the United States. And several studies project that in the next few years, once all the limits are lifted, that figure could soar to 50 percent to 70 percent.

"There's no question, at the end of the day, China ends up a much bigger player in the global apparel business," said David Weil, an associate professor of economics at Boston University.

Textile and apparel makers in China have long been preparing for the coming boom. In recent years, they have invested billions of dollars in new factories along the country's eastern seaboard, particularly here in the Yangtze River Delta.

Many of the old government-owned operations are gone. Private enterprises are importing high-end machinery and luring millions of peasants from the countryside.

Since the early 1980's, when China began moving to a market economy, much of its competitive advantage was built on low-cost labor. Companies spend about 92 cents an hour for each worker in China, versus $1.20 in Thailand, $1.70 in Mexico and about $21.80 in the United States, according to a study by Goldman Sachs. Among big exporters, only India, at about 70 cents an hour, is cheaper.
Investors from Hong Kong, Taiwan, Japan and South Korea were among the first to come. But in recent years, Chinese entrepreneurs set up their own shops, starting out with small stitching operations and quickly expanding into gigantic factories.

For instance, Shengzhou, now popularly known in Chinese as International Necktie City, developed after a Hong Kong investor moved his necktie operations there in 1985 and brought modern tie-making techniques to the city. That was only a few years after China opened itself to capitalism when Deng Xiaoping in 1978 declared, "To get rich is glorious."

Later, some of the company's managers broke away to start their own tie companies. And within a decade, Shengzhou was awash in tie makers and suppliers.

Similar stories can be heard throughout the province of Zhejiang, which is considered one of this country's most enterprising regions.

But textile specialists say China's boom is not simply the product of the newfound entrepreneurialism that is sweeping this country; it is also the nation's ability to form what are called lump economies, focused on one product.

Savvy entrepreneurs started out by luring suppliers, like fabric, dye or tool makers, to their cities, and as these clusters grew, they attracted more local investors who competed by trying to further specialize in socks or jeans production.

"The clusters are getting more and more specialized," says Qingliang Gu, a professor of textile economics at Donghua University in Shanghai. "It's a little like Italy, where you have the city of Como making silk fabric, Vicenza with fine wool and Veneto for knitting."


=> Specialized cities like Italy

The Chinese government has also played a crucial role, opening huge swaths(
收割的寬度) of land for development, forming giant industrial parks, doling out tax benefits and developing the infrastructure and transportation networks needed to move products quickly to market.

=> Role of government 

"The textile cities started initially from the spontaneous development of private companies," said Chunyi Xie, an economist at the Shanghai Garment Trade Association. "But when it reached certain dimensions it drew attention from the government."

Private companies, with the support of the government, now build huge textile factory complexes, complete with dormitories, hospitals and even curfews to replace the state role in providing food, shelter and health care, along with close supervision. Many textile companies in the province of Jiangsu house and feed thousands of migrant workers who are bused in from the countryside, often for three- or four-year factory stints (
定量,限額).

The campus of the Huafang Group, one of China's largest textile companies, has over 100 factory buildings, 30,000 employees and round-the-clock operations.

On any day, it teems with more than 20,000 workers, who live free of charge in Huafang's dormitories. Conditions are hardly heavenly, but they are often a step up for these workers, who are mostly young women from poorer inland provinces like Anhui or Henan. Many of them come here after high school, intending to stay for a few years before returning home to be married.

Then, after those women return home, another 10,000 or so are bused in from the countryside, beginning yet another cycle in the pool of migrant labor that perpetually feeds China's bustling mills.

"When we need new workers," said Wei Xin Shi, a Huafang Group executive, "we just announce it and people here call home and tell their friends to come to work at our factories."

Yun Liu, 23, is one of those workers. She left a small town in northern Jiangsu four years ago. Now, she makes $130 a month in Huafang's cotton spinning mill, where she spins raw cotton into fine threads eight hours a day.

"I really like being here," she said one afternoon outside the factory. "It's a stable job, and I like the environment."

Few places on earth can match the sheer scale and variety of textile and apparel companies clustering in this region.

"In terms of vertical supply chain, China has no competition," says Ruizhe Sun, president of the China Textile Information Center, a government-sponsored agency in Beijing. "We have button makers, fabric makers, thread makers, zipper makers, you name it."

=> Vertical supply chain including button makers, fabric makers, thread makers, zipper makers.  

That situation is luring investors and competitors from other parts of the world.

"A few years ago, when I came here there were no Italians," said Ellen Zhou, a Chinese citizen now working for a textile company based in Thiene, Italy. "Now they're everywhere, in the hotels, at the cafes."

Chinese textile executives, however, are well aware of the risks of over-expansion. And there are other problems looming as well. The market for labor has tightened in the past year, pushing up wages.


=> Risk: wage go up, over-expansion,  market change, etc. 
Companies and even government officials have long ferried migrant workers into Zhangjiagang from the nearby province of Anhui, many of whom were willing to work for $4 a day. But recently some factories have been struggling to find workers, and many executives say they expect wages to rise.

"We feel labor costs are going up," Jianhong Gu, vice general manager of Pukun Textile, a Zhangjiagang suit maker whose factories operate 24 hours a day. "There's tremendous competition."

Moreover, foreign designers and retailers are keen to keep a network of business ties with other countries with relatively modern factories, like India, Pakistan and Bangladesh.

Fred Abernathy, a researcher at the Center for Textile and Apparel Research at Harvard, says retailers in the United States will continue to buy quantities of textiles and apparel close to home, particularly in Latin America and the Caribbean, because of the need for "just in time" delivery for some items.

He also expects specialty clothing and textiles operations to continue to survive in New York, North Carolina, France and Italy. But, he concedes, "China will gain over the long run."

Jinfei Wang, the chairman of the Jiangsu Diao Garment factory in Tongzhou, just outside Nantong, says there's no doubt about that.

"I've been to factories all over the world," he said in a recent interview while walking his own bustling factory floor, observing women's suits destined for J. C. Penneystores. "And we can compete with any of them. Without restrictions, certainly China is going to be No. 1

2014年4月10日 星期四

Dead White People’s Clothes

How the used clothes you send to Africa are killing the local textile industries.

BY: MERI NANA-AMA DANQUAH
Posted: March 5 2009 6:40 AM

It's impossible to have a conversation about fashion in Africa—traditional or contemporary—without talking about the used-clothing industry and how damaging some people say it’s been.

A whole industry has cropped up around apparel that's been donated to charities located oceans away, imported throughout the African continent and then sold cheaply in African marketplaces. These low prices undercut local retailers and undermine the entire textile and garment business in Africa.

The importing is sometimes done by enterprising individuals, but, more often than not, this huge, multimillion-dollar industry is orchestrated by charitable multinational organizations. These aid agencies' primary mission is, ostensibly (表面上)
, to provide various forms of relief to residents—not only in the harrowing face of disaster, but also through the challenging facts of day-to-day life. That’s one major aspect of the controversy surrounding the industry.

But it's not the only one. The psychological—and, as a result, financial—blows of the used-clothing industry have been crippling. What seems to be carried over, along with the previously worn clothing, is that old-colonial mentality of "ours is better than yours," the often unspoken belief heralding all that is Western as superior, and all that is African as inferior.

Especially telling are the various names, phrases and labels attached to the industry. In Togo, the garments are referred to as "dead yovo" clothing. Translation: “dead white person clothing.” Across the border, in Ghana, my native country, the used clothing is called "broni wa wo." Literally translated, this expression means: “a white man has died.” After all, only death could separate a white person from such wonderful clothing: jeans—skinny, bootleg, stonewashed, stretch; faux Burberry dresses, trousers, scarves; T-shirts advertising products, Web sites, conferences and other events; bras—lace, Wonder, padded, with underwire, without underwire.

In some countries, the preference for used clothes has all but killed the local textile industry. The used-clothing industry is Kenya’s seventh largest import, raking in well over 60 million euros per year. Hundreds of thousands of African workers have lost their jobs as a result of these imports. In Malawi, the largest textile company had to close its doors. Other such companies in Mozambique and Uganda are headed toward bankruptcy. Zambian textile workers have staged several strikes in an effort to promote national and international awareness of their plight.

In Ghana, the government has tried to rejuvenate their local textile industry by announcing a program called National Friday Wear, which encourages all citizens to dress in traditional clothes in hopes that the trend will spill over into other days.

African designers have mounted a spirited defense. Many are biting back at the Western world and revitalizing the fashion industries in their own countries, industries which had nearly been brought to a grinding halt by the demands of a changing market.

Part of the problem is that younger generations no longer want to wear "outdated" traditional attire; instead, they crave the sort of sophistication and modernity promised in the pages of American and European magazines. They covet the styles they see on the latest television shows—Hollywood sitcoms and celebrity gossip shows imported by a fast-paced cable market. And the controversial used-clothing trade is quick in its attempt to fill each and every one of those fashion desires.

There are no easy answers. But what many don’t understand is that African textiles are much more than an assemblage of brightly colored cloth. Many of the designs have names, usually in the form of an aphorism. And they contain stories, folklore which is sometimes literally written into the cloth. Africans use fabric in much the same way that the Western world uses newspapers and magazines to commemorate, document and celebrate events, accomplishments and individuals.

When Barack Obama was elected as America’s first black president, Africans all throughout the continent sewed their pride into their cloth. When Miriam Makeba died, she was honored the same way. In traditional engagement ceremonies, fabric is a requisite part of the dowry that a male suitor presents to the woman’s family. Fabric is handed down from one generation to another. I inherited a number of my grandmother’s outfits. I will pass them on, along with the history and culture they carry, to my daughter. Because of what I’ve seen first-hand, I believe that donating used clothing to charities which then export them to Africa will ultimately result in the death of such traditions and legacies—which is why I won’t do it.

Alabama Town Questions an Economy of Socks

Fort Payne, Ala., calls itself the World's Sock Capital — and it doesn't like competition. The local congressman convinced President Bush to re-enact a tariff on all socks imported from Honduras. Some in town say Fort Payne needs to diversify if it wants to compete in the global economy.

Copyright © 2007 NPR. For personal, noncommercial use only. See Terms of Use. For other uses, prior permission required.

ADAM DAVIDSON: Jimmy Baker is one of the survivors. He's watched most of his neighbors go out of business. And he's doing whatever he can just to hold on. Things used to be so much better. He started Baker Hosiery with nothing but a beat-up old knitting machine and some yarn.

Mr. JIMMY BAKER (Owner, Baker Hosiery): The company was founded in 1978.

DAVIDSON: How old are you? You're not old enough to have founded it.

Mr. BAKER: I was 22, 23 when the company was found.

DAVIDSON: Like most sock men, Baker doesn't have a lot of education, but he's smart. He's real polite and kind of tough; he looks like he could lift a Matec Mono 4 knitting machine right over his head, which, as it happens, he now has 250 of - humming loudly.

Mr. BAKER: This is our knitting facility. As you can see, it's far from a sweatshop.

DAVIDSON: Sweatshop? There are hardly any workers here. Sock machines are pretty much automatic. Each is about the size of a large washing machine. There's a metal tube in the middle with dozens of needles that act like robotic claws, grabbing pieces of thread and knitting them.

Mr. BAKER: This is a lady's half (unintelligible) cushion no-show.

DAVIDSON: No-show meaning it's like an anklet.

Mr. BAKER: Yes, it's like an anklet. This comes out from the top of the foot.

DAVIDSON: Every few minutes, the automatic machines spurt out what's called a sock core - basically, a gray, uncolored sock tube with the toes still open. Baker tells me he can make a sock core just as cheaply as anyone in China or Honduras - the machine costs the same, so does the yarn, there's hardly any labor. The big cost, the reason more than 100 Fort Payne mills have shut down recently comes in the next step.

Mr. BAKER: Generally, the biggest difference is the closing of the toes or the seaming of the sock.

DAVIDSON: Take your shoe off; look at your socks. That little line near your toes, that seam, it's killing the U.S. sock industry. It's simple, it just costs more to seam a sock in the U.S. than it does in China or Honduras. It doesn't cost a lot more, just a little, but that difference is enough to wreak havoc.

Baker shows me the sewing floor - there are four women sitting in front of specialized sewing machine.

Mr. BAKER: This operator, she has to turn the sock wrong side out, put it on the sewing machine, comes through, turns it back. It goes in the inventory then it goes down under wet(ph) process.

DAVIDSON: It takes about five or six seconds to sew each toe. The faster the sewer can work, the more she makes. Sock workers are paid per sock rather than an hourly wage.

Mr. BAKER: Traditionally, here in the United States, that piece rate will average anywhere from 22 to 30 cents a dozen.

DAVIDSON: In Honduras or China, it's cheaper, a penny per sock cheaper to sew a toe close. But those pennies add up; Baker sells more than 100 million socks a year; nationwide, retailers are buying billions of socks a year. There's no way they're spending a penny more per sock, so Baker and others decided the only way to save the U.S. sock industry is to convince the Bush administration to reverse a decade-old policy.

Back in 1984, the U.S. wanted to help the poor Central American nation of Honduras, where democracy had only just replaced a military dictatorship(
獨裁者的職位), by allowing duty-free exports of socks whose toes were seamed there.

Today, Baker wants the U.S. to rescind(
廢止) that deal, to re-impose the old sock tariff.

Mr. BAKER: Let's say they implement the maximum amount, 13 and a half or 14 percent, whatever it is. Well, it then makes it a closer gap.

DAVIDSON: Baker says that for him, getting this tariff back is life or death. With it, his business will thrive; without it, he's doomed(
天數已盡的). He'll close up shop, so will most American sock makers.

But the president is a committed free trader. He believes that tariffs hurt the U.S. economy. Why in the world would President Bush go along with this? One reason - a deal he struck late one night in July 2005. That night, the president met with Fort Payne's congressman, Republican Robert Aderholt, to talk about tariffs and the sock business.

Representative ROBERT ADERHOLT (Republican, Alabama): I had talked with the president and told him my concerns about it.

DAVIDSON: That meeting was, most likely, the moment Aderholt had more power than at any other time in his life. The House was voting on CAFTA, the Central America Free Trade Agreement. The vote was an exact tie, Aderholt was the holdout(
抵抗;堅持), and President Bush very much wanted CAFTA to pass. So, Aderholt told the president that it's simple. He could get his big free trade deal only if he rolled back free trade on one industry, the sock industry.

Rep. ADERHOLT: Absolutely. And I told him this was what I needed; this was the one thing that I had, you know, great concerns about.

DAVIDSON: That night, the president agreed to Aderholt's deal. CAFTA passed, and the White House gave itself a self-imposed deadline of December 19th of this year to put back tariffs on sock exports from Honduras.

(Soundbite of clock ticking)

Mr. JIMMY DURHAM (County Economic Development Officer, Fort Payne): Up here at the lab, we'll take a left.

DAVIDSON: I take a tour through town with Jimmy Durham, the county economic development officer. He shows me just how grim things have been for the sock business here.

Mr. DURHAM: This was a hosiery mill that was closed down.

DAVIDSON: And then this, is it a closed mill?

Mr. DURHAM: That was another one.

DAVIDSON: Five just in…

Mr. DURHAM: Yeah. Yeah.

DAVIDSON: Basically, in just a tenth of a mile stretch.

Mr. DURHAM: Right.

DAVIDSON: But here's the thing, you might think Durham is in despair about the future of Fort Payne - not at all. Those closed sock factories - they're reopening as new businesses.

Mr. DURHAM: Now this is Steadfast Breeds.

DAVISON: I've never seen a pile of (unintelligible).

(Soundbite of laughter)

Mr. DURHAM: Well, they make them and then ship them out.

DAVIDSON: Steadfast employees make decent money; making bridges brings a lot more profit than socks. Down the road is the massive Ferguson distribution/warehouse.

Oh, wow. That is huge.

Mr. DURHAM: Now, see there, they are the largest retail plumbing company in the United States - Jacuzzis, (unintelligible) tubs.

DAVIDSON: In Fort Payne, you meet a lot of people, like Jimmy Durham, who say they don't mind that socks are no longer the single, massive industry that dominates the town economy. There are newer, better-paying industries coming. There's a huge new distribution center for the National Retailer Children's Place, two new metal tube manufacturers, a high-tech label maker. For a town of only 13,000 people, this is a lot of new, good-paying employment. In fact, most of the 4,000 recently laid off sock workers quickly found new jobs. It's an irony that this tariff fought for so hard by some in Fort Payne will likely have its biggest impact thousands of miles away in Honduras.


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Mitumba: The Second-Hand Road

Most people just get dressed in the morning without much thought to the clothes they put on other than whether they fit and look good.

If we stop liking them then we throw them out, give them to charity shops or simply put them into recycling bins where, we hope, our discarded clothes will be of use to someone less fortunate than ourselves.
Raffaele Brunetti traced one humble T-shirt's epic journey, to find out what does happen.
Mitumba, how the trade of second-hand clothes is known in Africa, is a revealing modern day story of how globalisation connects us all in millions of unseen ways, and how one person's disposable goods are someone else's new possessions.
Filmmaker Raffaele Brunetti joined Witness host Rageh Omaar to discuss the making of the film.
Rageh: Before I had seen your film I presumed when someone was giving away clothes a charity would pick up the clothes and give them out to people in Africa and Asia. But that does not happen at all from what I saw in your film?
Raffaele: We also thought the same thing, but in the film we interviewed a lot of people who were donating clothes and asked them where they thought they were going. They said they were being given for free to people in need.

But then we discovered the clothes are being sold and that in many cases it is not even the charitable organisation that collects the clothes but some commercial groups that are operating under the charities' names to collect the clothes and then a commercial chain begins.

This also generates work for a lot of local people. So the fact the clothes are not donated is a good thing as it generates an economy for people to buy and sell.
Did you talk to international aid organisations and charities about how the second-hand clothes system works?


Second-hand clothes are in big demand in Africa

Of course we contacted many organisations, the big ones such as Caritas, the Red Cross and Oxfam. At first we did not get a big response to our questions and did not understand exactly why.

We do not think there is anything wrong with selling the clothes because of course the activity of these charitable organisations does not only consist of giving clothes to Africa.
They deal with many different things and it could be they are finding ways to fund their operations - such as second-hand clothes.

We suspected that the agencies did not want to make it clear they were selling the clothes and they may think that people are more willing to donate clothes if they think they are being given away for free. So this is probably one of the reasons we did not get a good response.

The irony is that your film shows there is a benefit from selling the clothes as it encourages economic self-help.
We believe agencies should make it clear what the aim of collecting the clothes is and where they are going.
A strange thing is that when we interviewed people in Africa, nobody believes that people in Europe or the US donate clothes but that they are selling them or that they belong to "dead white men". However, in the West, everyone thinks the clothes are donated.

Do you think there are people opposed to Mitumba in Africa?

Most people who give their clothes to charities do not know what is happening to them

There is opposition to Mitumba and when I was there I read some articles and interviewed some journalists and people from the government who said it was sort of shame that a country was forced to say that its people rely on second-hand clothes.
Another reason is there are now also economic agreements with countries such as China for the import of new clothes which are becoming cheaper and cheaper even if the quality is very low.
So now Mitumba, or second-hand clothes, are forced to compete with new clothes from China. How much of this trade do you think is operating on the edges of the formal economy and the law - especially in Europe?This is a very controversial subject and I was asked this question many times while making the film.
At the end of the film I say that I will continue to put my clothes in the boxes and we think this is good and the alternatives would be destroying or throwing away the clothes which would have an environmental impact and encourage the chain of fast consumerism.
Also, having been in Africa and see how many people deal in the clothes and how many people wear them, we decided that even if it is a controversial thing that needs better information on it, it is still worth doing - even if it will probably not last long.

Mitumba - The second-hand road can be seen from Sunday, June 27, at the following times GMT: Sunday: 1400; Monday: 0600, 1900; Tuesday: 0300.

2014年4月8日 星期二

How the U.S. Lost Out on iPhone Work



People flooded Foxconn Technology with résumés at a 2010 job fair in Henan Province, China.
By CHARLES DUHIGG and KEITH BRADSHER


Published: January 21, 2012


When Barack Obama joined Silicon Valley’s top luminaries for dinner in California last February, each guest was asked to come with a question for the president.

But as Steven P. Jobs of Apple spoke,President Obama interrupted with an inquiry of his own: what would it take to make iPhones in the United States?

Not long ago, Apple boasted that its products were made in America. Today, few are. Almost all of the 70 million iPhones, 30 million iPads and 59 million other products Apple sold last year were manufactured overseas.

Why can’t that work come home? Mr. Obama asked.

Mr. Jobs’s reply was unambiguous. “Those jobs aren’t coming back,” he said, according to another dinner guest.

The president’s question touched upon a central conviction at Apple. It isn’t just that workers are cheaper abroad. Rather, Apple’s executives believe the vast scale of overseas factories as well as the flexibility, diligence and industrial skills of foreign workers have so outpaced their American counterparts that “Made in the U.S.A.” is no longer a viable option for most Apple products.

Apple has become one of the best-known, most admired and most imitated companies on earth, in part through an unrelenting mastery of global operations. Last year, it earned over $400,000 in profit per employee, more than Goldman Sachs, Exxon Mobil or Google.

However, what has vexed Mr. Obama as well as economists and policy makers is that Apple — and many of its high-technology peers — are not nearly as avid in creating American jobs as other famous companies were in their heydays.

Apple employs 43,000 people in the United States and 20,000 overseas, a small fraction of the over 400,000 American workers at General Motors in the 1950s, or the hundreds of thousands at General Electric in the 1980s. Many more people work for Apple’s contractors: an additional 700,000 people engineer, build and assemble iPads, iPhones and Apple’s other products. But almost none of them work in the United States. Instead, they work for foreign companies in Asia, Europe and elsewhere, at factories that almost all electronics designers rely upon to build their wares.

“Apple’s an example of why it’s so hard to create middle-class jobs in the U.S. now,” said Jared Bernstein, who until last year was an economic adviser to the White House.

“If it’s the pinnacle of capitalism, we should be worried.”

Apple executives say that going overseas, at this point, is their only option. One former executive described how the company relied upon a Chinese factory to revamp iPhonemanufacturing just weeks before the device was due on shelves. Apple had redesigned the iPhone’s screen at the last minute, forcing an assembly line overhaul. New screens began arriving at the plant near midnight.

A foreman immediately roused 8,000 workers inside the company’s dormitories, according to the executive. Each employee was given a biscuit and a cup of tea, guided to a workstation and within half an hour started a 12-hour shift fitting glass screens into beveled frames. Within 96 hours, the plant was producing over 10,000 iPhones a day.

“The speed and flexibility is breathtaking,” the executive said. “There’s no American plant that can match that.”

Similar stories could be told about almost any electronics company — and outsourcing has also become common in hundreds of industries, including accounting, legal services, banking, auto manufacturing and pharmaceuticals.

But while Apple is far from alone, it offers a window into why the success of some prominent companies has not translated into large numbers of domestic jobs. What’s more, the company’s decisions pose broader questions about what corporate America owes Americans as the global and national economies are increasingly intertwined.

“Companies once felt an obligation to support American workers, even when it wasn’t the best financial choice,” said Betsey Stevenson, the chief economist at the Labor Department until last September. “That’s disappeared. Profits and efficiency have trumped generosity.”

Companies and other economists say that notion is naïve. Though Americans are among the most educated workers in the world, the nation has stopped training enough people in the mid-level skills that factories need, executives say.



To thrive, companies argue they need to move work where it can generate enough profits to keep paying for innovation. Doing otherwise risks losing even more American jobs over time, as evidenced by the legions of once-proud domestic manufacturers — including G.M. and others — that have shrunk as nimble competitors have emerged.




Apple was provided with extensive summaries of The New York Times’s reporting for this article, but the company, which has a reputation for secrecy, declined to comment.

This article is based on interviews with more than three dozen current and former Apple employees and contractors — many of whom requested anonymity to protect their jobs — as well as economists, manufacturing experts, international trade specialists, technology analysts, academic researchers, employees at Apple’s suppliers, competitors and corporate partners, and government officials.

Privately, Apple executives say the world is now such a changed place that it is a mistake to measure a company’s contribution simply by tallying its employees — though they note that Apple employs more workers in the United States than ever before.

They say Apple’s success has benefited the economy by empowering entrepreneurs and creating jobs at companies like cellular providers and businesses shipping Apple products. And, ultimately, they say curing unemployment is not their job.

“We sell iPhones in over a hundred countries,” a current Apple executive said. “We don’t have an obligation to solve America’s problems. Our only obligation is making the best product possible.”

‘I Want a Glass Screen’

In 2007, a little over a month before the iPhone was scheduled to appear in stores, Mr. Jobs beckoned a handful of lieutenants into an office. For weeks, he had been carrying a prototype of the device in his pocket.

Mr. Jobs angrily held up his iPhone, angling it so everyone could see the dozens of tiny scratches marring its plastic screen, according to someone who attended the meeting. He then pulled his keys from his jeans.

People will carry this phone in their pocket, he said. People also carry their keys in their pocket. “I won’t sell a product that gets scratched,” he said tensely. The only solution was using unscratchable glass instead. “I want a glass screen, and I want it perfect in six weeks.”

After one executive left that meeting, he booked a flight to Shenzhen, China. If Mr. Jobs wanted perfect, there was nowhere else to go.

For over two years, the company had been working on a project — code-named Purple 2 — that presented the same questions at every turn: how do you completely reimagine the cellphone? And how do you design it at the highest quality — with an unscratchable screen, for instance — while also ensuring that millions can be manufactured quickly and inexpensively enough to earn a significant profit?

The answers, almost every time, were found outside the United States. Though components differ between versions, all iPhones contain hundreds of parts, an estimated 90 percent of which are manufactured abroad. Advanced semiconductors have come from Germany and Taiwan, memory from Korea and Japan, display panels and circuitry from Korea and Taiwan, chipsets from Europe and rare metals from Africa and Asia. And all of it is put together in China.

In its early days, Apple usually didn’t look beyond its own backyard for manufacturing solutions. A few years after Apple began building the Macintosh in 1983, for instance, Mr. Jobs bragged that it was “a machine that is made in America.” In 1990, while Mr. Jobs was running NeXT, which was eventually bought by Apple, the executive told a reporter that“I’m as proud of the factory as I am of the computer.” As late as 2002, top Apple executives occasionally drove two hours northeast of their headquarters to visit the company’s iMac plant in Elk Grove, Calif.

But by 2004, Apple had largely turned to foreign manufacturing. Guiding that decision was Apple’s operations expert, Timothy D. Cook, who replaced Mr. Jobs as chief executive last August, six weeks before Mr. Jobs’s death. Most other American electronics companies had already gone abroad, and Apple, which at the time was struggling, felt it had to grasp every advantage.

In part, Asia was attractive because the semiskilled workers there were cheaper. But that wasn’t driving Apple. For technology companies, the cost of labor is minimal compared with the expense of buying parts and managing supply chains that bring together components and services from hundreds of companies.




The impact of such advantages became obvious as soon as Mr. Jobs demanded glass screens in 2007.

For years, cellphone makers had avoided using glass because it required precision in cutting and grinding that was extremely difficult to achieve. Apple had already selected an American company, Corning Inc., to manufacture large panes of strengthened glass. But figuring out how to cut those panes into millions of iPhone screens required finding an empty cutting plant, hundreds of pieces of glass to use in experiments and an army of midlevel engineers. It would cost a fortune simply to prepare.

Then a bid for the work arrived from a Chinese factory.

When an Apple team visited, the Chinese plant’s owners were already constructing a new wing. “This is in case you give us the contract,” the manager said, according to a former Apple executive. The Chinese government had agreed to underwrite costs for numerous industries, and those subsidies had trickled down to the glass-cutting factory. It had a warehouse filled with glass samples available to Apple, free of charge. The owners made engineers available at almost no cost. They had built on-site dormitories so employees would be available 24 hours a day.

The Chinese plant got the job.

“The entire supply chain is in China now,” said another former high-ranking Apple executive. “You need a thousand rubber gaskets? That’s the factory next door. You need a million screws? That factory is a block away. You need that screw made a little bit different? It will take three hours.”

In Foxconn City

An eight-hour drive from that glass factory is a complex, known informally as Foxconn City, where the iPhone is assembled. To Apple executives, Foxconn City was further evidence that China could deliver workers — and diligence — that outpaced their American counterparts.

That’s because nothing like Foxconn City exists in the United States.

The facility has 230,000 employees, many working six days a week, often spending up to 12 hours a day at the plant. Over a quarter of Foxconn’s work force lives in company barracks and many workers earn less than $17 a day. When one Apple executive arrived during a shift change, his car was stuck in a river of employees streaming past. “The scale is unimaginable,” he said.

Foxconn employs nearly 300 guards to direct foot traffic so workers are not crushed in doorway bottlenecks. The facility’s central kitchen cooks an average of three tons of pork and 13 tons of rice a day. While factories are spotless, the air inside nearby teahouses is hazy with the smoke and stench of cigarettes.

Foxconn Technology has dozens of facilities in Asia and Eastern Europe, and in Mexico and Brazil, and it assembles an estimated 40 percent of the world’s consumer electronics for customers like Amazon, Dell, Hewlett-Packard, Motorola, Nintendo, Nokia, Samsung and Sony.

“They could hire 3,000 people overnight,” said Jennifer Rigoni, who was Apple’s worldwide supply demand manager until 2010, but declined to discuss specifics of her work. “What U.S. plant can find 3,000 people overnight and convince them to live in dorms?”

In mid-2007, after a month of experimentation, Apple’s engineers finally perfected a method for cutting strengthened glass so it could be used in the iPhone’s screen. The first truckloads of cut glass arrived at Foxconn City in the dead of night, according to the former Apple executive. That’s when managers woke thousands of workers, who crawled into their uniforms — white and black shirts for men, red for women — and quickly lined up to assemble, by hand, the phones. Within three months, Apple had sold one million iPhones. Since then, Foxconn has assembled over 200 million more.

Foxconn, in statements, declined to speak about specific clients.

“Any worker recruited by our firm is covered by a clear contract outlining terms and conditions and by Chinese government law that protects their rights,” the company wrote. Foxconn “takes our responsibility to our employees very seriously and we work hard to give our more than one million employees a safe and positive environment.”

The company disputed some details of the former Apple executive’s account, and wrote that a midnight shift, such as the one described, was impossible “because we have strict regulations regarding the working hours of our employees based on their designated shifts, and every employee has computerized timecards that would bar them from working at any facility at a time outside of their approved shift.” The company said that all shifts began at either 7 a.m. or 7 p.m., and that employees receive at least 12 hours’ notice of any schedule changes.
Foxconn employees, in interviews, have challenged those assertions.
Another critical advantage for Apple was that China provided engineers at a scale the United States could not match. Apple’s executives had estimated that about 8,700 industrial engineers were needed to oversee and guide the 200,000 assembly-line workers eventually involved in manufacturing iPhones. The company’s analysts had forecast it would take as long as nine months to find that many qualified engineers in the United States.
In China, it took 15 days.
Companies like Apple “say the challenge in setting up U.S. plants is finding a technical work force,” said Martin Schmidt, associate provost at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. In particular, companies say they need engineers with more than high school, but not necessarily a bachelor’s degree. Americans at that skill level are hard to find, executives contend. “They’re good jobs, but the country doesn’t have enough to feed the demand,” Mr. Schmidt said.
Some aspects of the iPhone are uniquely American. The device’s software, for instance, and its innovative marketing campaigns were largely created in the United States. Apple recently built a $500 million data center in North Carolina. Crucial semiconductors inside the iPhone 4 and 4S are manufactured in an Austin, Tex., factory by Samsung, of South Korea.
But even those facilities are not enormous sources of jobs. Apple’s North Carolina center, for instance, has only 100 full-time employees. The Samsung plant has an estimated 2,400 workers.
“If you scale up from selling one million phones to 30 million phones, you don’t really need more programmers,” said Jean-Louis Gassée, who oversaw product development and marketing for Apple until he left in 1990. “All these new companies — Facebook, Google, Twitter — benefit from this. They grow, but they don’t really need to hire much.”
It is hard to estimate how much more it would cost to build iPhones in the United States. However, various academics and manufacturing analysts estimate that because labor is such a small part of technology manufacturing, paying American wages would add up to $65 to each iPhone’s expense. Since Apple’s profits are often hundreds of dollars per phone, building domestically, in theory, would still give the company a healthy reward.
But such calculations are, in many respects, meaningless because building the iPhone in the United States would demand much more than hiring Americans — it would require transforming the national and global economies. Apple executives believe there simply aren’t enough American workers with the skills the company needs or factories with sufficient speed and flexibility. Other companies that work with Apple, like Corning, also say they must go abroad.
Manufacturing glass for the iPhone revived a Corning factory in Kentucky, and today, much of the glass in iPhones is still made there. After the iPhone became a success, Corning received a flood of orders from other companies hoping to imitate Apple’s designs. Its strengthened glass sales have grown to more than $700 million a year, and it has hired or continued employing about 1,000 Americans to support the emerging market.
But as that market has expanded, the bulk of Corning’s strengthened glass manufacturing has occurred at plants in Japan and Taiwan.
“Our customers are in Taiwan, Korea, Japan and China,” said James B. Flaws, Corning’s vice chairman and chief financial officer. “We could make the glass here, and then ship it by boat, but that takes 35 days. Or, we could ship it by air, but that’s 10 times as expensive. So we build our glass factories next door to assembly factories, and those are overseas.”
Corning was founded in America 161 years ago and its headquarters are still in upstate New York. Theoretically, the company could manufacture all its glass domestically. But it would “require a total overhaul in how the industry is structured,” Mr. Flaws said. “The consumer electronics business has become an Asian business. As an American, I worry about that, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Asia has become what the U.S. was for the last 40 years.”
Middle-Class Jobs Fade
The first time Eric Saragoza stepped into Apple’s manufacturing plant in Elk Grove, Calif., he felt as if he were entering an engineering wonderland.
It was 1995, and the facility near Sacramento employed more than 1,500 workers. It was a kaleidoscope of robotic arms, conveyor belts ferrying circuit boards and, eventually, candy-colored iMacs in various stages of assembly. Mr. Saragoza, an engineer, quickly moved up the plant’s ranks and joined an elite diagnostic team. His salary climbed to $50,000. He and his wife had three children. They bought a home with a pool.
“It felt like, finally, school was paying off,” he said. “I knew the world needed people who can build things.”
At the same time, however, the electronics industry was changing, and Apple — with products that were declining in popularity — was struggling to remake itself. One focus was improving manufacturing. A few years after Mr. Saragoza started his job, his bosses explained how the California plant stacked up against overseas factories: the cost, excluding the materials, of building a $1,500 computer in Elk Grove was $22 a machine. In Singapore, it was $6. In Taiwan, $4.85. Wages weren’t the major reason for the disparities. Rather it was costs like inventory and how long it took workers to finish a task.
“We were told we would have to do 12-hour days, and come in on Saturdays,” Mr. Saragoza said. “I had a family. I wanted to see my kids play soccer.”
Modernization has always caused some kinds of jobs to change or disappear. As the American economy transitioned from agriculture to manufacturing and then to other industries, farmers became steelworkers, and then salesmen and middle managers. These shifts have carried many economic benefits, and in general, with each progression, even unskilled workers received better wages and greater chances at upward mobility.
But in the last two decades, something more fundamental has changed, economists say. Midwage jobs started disappearing. Particularly among Americans without college degrees, today’s new jobs are disproportionately in service occupations — at restaurants or call centers, or as hospital attendants or temporary workers — that offer fewer opportunities for reaching the middle class.
Even Mr. Saragoza, with his college degree, was vulnerable to these trends. First, some of Elk Grove’s routine tasks were sent overseas. Mr. Saragoza didn’t mind. Then the robotics that made Apple a futuristic playground allowed executives to replace workers with machines. Some diagnostic engineering went to Singapore. Middle managers who oversaw the plant’s inventory were laid off because, suddenly, a few people with Internet connections were all that were needed.
Mr. Saragoza was too expensive for an unskilled position. He was also insufficiently credentialed for upper management. He was called into a small office in 2002 after a night shift, laid off and then escorted from the plant. He taught high school for a while, and then tried a return to technology. But Apple, which had helped anoint the region as “Silicon Valley North,” had by then converted much of the Elk Grove plant into an AppleCare call center, where new employees often earn $12 an hour.
There were employment prospects in Silicon Valley, but none of them panned out. “What they really want are 30-year-olds without children,” said Mr. Saragoza, who today is 48, and whose family now includes five of his own.
After a few months of looking for work, he started feeling desperate. Even teaching jobs had dried up. So he took a position with an electronics temp agency that had been hired by Apple to check returned iPhones and iPads before they were sent back to customers. Every day, Mr. Saragoza would drive to the building where he had once worked as an engineer, and for $10 an hour with no benefits, wipe thousands of glass screens and test audio ports by plugging in headphones.
Paydays for Apple
As Apple’s overseas operations and sales have expanded, its top employees have thrived. Last fiscal year, Apple’s revenue topped $108 billion, a sum larger than the combined state budgets of Michigan, New Jersey and Massachusetts. Since 2005, when the company’s stock split, share prices have risen from about $45 to more than $427.
Some of that wealth has gone to shareholders. Apple is among the most widely held stocks, and the rising share price has benefited millions of individual investors, 401(k)’s and pension plans. The bounty has also enriched Apple workers. Last fiscal year, in addition to their salaries, Apple’s employees and directors received stock worth $2 billion and exercised or vested stock and options worth an added $1.4 billion.
The biggest rewards, however, have often gone to Apple’s top employees. Mr. Cook, Apple’s chief, last year received stock grants — which vest over a 10-year period — that, at today’s share price, would be worth $427 million, and his salary was raised to $1.4 million. In 2010, Mr. Cook’s compensation package was valued at $59 million, according to Apple’s security filings.
A person close to Apple argued that the compensation received by Apple’s employees was fair, in part because the company had brought so much value to the nation and world. As the company has grown, it has expanded its domestic work force, including manufacturing jobs. Last year, Apple’s American work force grew by 8,000 people.
While other companies have sent call centers abroad, Apple has kept its centers in the United States. One source estimated that sales of Apple’s products have caused other companies to hire tens of thousands of Americans. FedEx and United Parcel Service, for instance, both say they have created American jobs because of the volume of Apple’s shipments, though neither would provide specific figures without permission from Apple, which the company declined to provide.
“We shouldn’t be criticized for using Chinese workers,” a current Apple executive said. “The U.S. has stopped producing people with the skills we need.”
What’s more, Apple sources say the company has created plenty of good American jobs inside its retail stores and among entrepreneurs selling iPhone and iPad applications.
After two months of testing iPads, Mr. Saragoza quit. The pay was so low that he was better off, he figured, spending those hours applying for other jobs. On a recent October evening, while Mr. Saragoza sat at his MacBook and submitted another round of résumés online, halfway around the world a woman arrived at her office. The worker, Lina Lin, is a project manager in Shenzhen, China, at PCH International, which contracts with Apple and other electronics companies to coordinate production of accessories, like the cases that protect the iPad’s glass screens. She is not an Apple employee. But Mrs. Lin is integral to Apple’s ability to deliver its products.
Mrs. Lin earns a bit less than what Mr. Saragoza was paid by Apple. She speaks fluent English, learned from watching television and in a Chinese university. She and her husband put a quarter of their salaries in the bank every month. They live in a 1,080-square-foot apartment, which they share with their in-laws and son.
“There are lots of jobs,” Mrs. Lin said. “Especially in Shenzhen.”
Innovation’s Losers
Toward the end of Mr. Obama’s dinner last year with Mr. Jobs and other Silicon Valley executives, as everyone stood to leave, a crowd of photo seekers formed around the president. A slightly smaller scrum gathered around Mr. Jobs. Rumors had spread that his illness had worsened, and some hoped for a photograph with him, perhaps for the last time.
Eventually, the orbits of the men overlapped. “I’m not worried about the country’s long-term future,” Mr. Jobs told Mr. Obama, according to one observer. “This country is insanely great. What I’m worried about is that we don’t talk enough about solutions.”
At dinner, for instance, the executives had suggested that the government should reform visa programs to help companies hire foreign engineers. Some had urged the president to give companies a “tax holiday” so they could bring back overseas profits which, they argued, would be used to create work. Mr. Jobs even suggested it might be possible, someday, to locate some of Apple’s skilled manufacturing in the United States if the government helped train more American engineers.
Economists debate the usefulness of those and other efforts, and note that a struggling economy is sometimes transformed by unexpected developments. The last time analysts wrung their hands about prolonged American unemployment, for instance, in the early 1980s, the Internet hardly existed. Few at the time would have guessed that a degree in graphic design was rapidly becoming a smart bet, while studying telephone repair a dead end.
What remains unknown, however, is whether the United States will be able to leverage tomorrow’s innovations into millions of jobs.
In the last decade, technological leaps in solar and wind energy, semiconductor fabrication and display technologies have created thousands of jobs. But while many of those industries started in America, much of the employment has occurred abroad. Companies have closed major facilities in the United States to reopen in China. By way of explanation, executives say they are competing with Apple for shareholders. If they cannot rival Apple’s growth and profit margins, they won’t survive.
“New middle-class jobs will eventually emerge,” said Lawrence Katz, a Harvard economist. “But will someone in his 40s have the skills for them? Or will he be bypassed for a new graduate and never find his way back into the middle class?”
The pace of innovation, say executives from a variety of industries, has been quickened by businessmen like Mr. Jobs. G.M. went as long as half a decade between major automobile redesigns. Apple, by comparison, has released five iPhones in four years, doubling the devices’ speed and memory while dropping the price that some consumers pay.
Before Mr. Obama and Mr. Jobs said goodbye, the Apple executive pulled an iPhone from his pocket to show off a new application — a driving game — with incredibly detailed graphics. The device reflected the soft glow of the room’s lights. The other executives, whose combined worth exceeded $69 billion, jostled for position to glance over his shoulder. The game, everyone agreed, was wonderful.
There wasn’t even a tiny scratch on the screen.

Making It in America

In the past decade, the flow of goods emerging from U.S. factories has risen by about a third. Factory employment has fallen by roughly the same fraction. The story of Standard Motor Products, a 92-year-old, family-run manufacturer based in Queens, sheds light on both phenomena. It’s a story of hustle, ingenuity, competitive success, and promise for America’s economy. It also illuminates why the jobs crisis will be so difficult to solve.
ADAM DAVIDSON DEC 20 2011, 4:52 PM ET



I FIRST MET MADELYN “Maddie” Parlier in the “clean room” of Standard Motor Products’ fuel-injector assembly line in Greenville, South Carolina. Like everyone else, she was wearing a blue lab coat and a hairnet. She’s so small that she seemed swallowed up by all the protective gear.

Tony Scalzitti, the plant manager, was giving me the grand tour, explaining how bits of metal move through a series of machines to become precision fuel injectors. Maddie, hunched forward and moving quickly from one machine to another, almost bumped into us, then shifted left and darted away. Tony, in passing, said, “She’s new. She’s one of our most promising Level 1s.”

Later, I sat down with Maddie in a quiet factory office where nobody needs to wear protective gear. Without the hairnet and lab coat, she is a pretty, intense woman, 22 years old, with bright blue eyes that seemed to bore into me as she talked, as fast as she could, about her life. She told me how much she likes her job, because she hates to sit still and there’s always something going on in the factory. She enjoys learning, she said, and she’s learned how to run a lot of the different machines. At one point, she looked around the office and said she’d really like to work there one day, helping to design parts rather than stamping them out. She said she’s noticed that robotic arms and other machines seem to keep replacing people on the factory floor, and she’s worried that this could happen to her. She told me she wants to go back to school—as her parents and grandparents keep telling her to do—but she is a single mother, and she can’t leave her two kids alone at night while she takes classes.

I had come to Greenville to better understand what, exactly, is happening to manufacturing in the United States, and what the future holds for people like Maddie—people who still make physical things for a living and, more broadly, people (as many as 40 million adults in the U.S.) who lack higher education, but are striving for a middle-class life. We do still make things here, even though many people don’t believe me when I tell them that. Depending on which stats you believe, the United States is either the No. 1 or No. 2 manufacturer in the world (China may have surpassed us in the past year or two). Whatever the country’s current rank, its manufacturing output continues to grow strongly; in the past decade alone, output from American factories, adjusted for inflation, has risen by a third.

Yet the success of American manufacturers has come at a cost. Factories have replaced millions of workers with machines. Even if you know the rough outline of this story, looking at the Bureau of Labor Statistics data is still shocking. A historical chart of U.S. manufacturing employment shows steady growth from the end of the Depression until the early 1980s, when the number of jobs drops a little. Then things stay largely flat until about 1999. After that, the numbers simply collapse. In the 10 years ending in 2009, factories shed workers so fast that they erased almost all the gains of the previous 70 years; roughly one out of every three manufacturing jobs—about 6 million in total—disappeared. About as many people work in manufacturing now as did at the end of the Depression, even though the American population is more than twice as large today.

I came here to find answers to questions that arise from the data. How, exactly, have some American manufacturers continued to survive, and even thrive, as global competition has intensified? What, if anything, should be done to halt the collapse of manufacturing employment? And what does the disappearance of factory work mean for the rest of us?

Across America, many factory floors look radically different than they did 20 years ago: far fewer people, far more high-tech machines, and entirely different demands on the workers who remain. The still-unfolding story of manufacturing’s transformation is, in many respects, that of our economic age. It’s a story with much good news for the nation as a whole. But it’s also one that is decidedly less inclusive than the story of the 20th century, with a less certain role for people like Maddie Parlier, who struggle or are unlucky early in life.

The Life and Times of Maddie Parlier

The Greenville Standard Motor Products plant sits just off I-85, about 100 miles southwest of Charlotte, North Carolina. It’s a sprawling beige one-story building, surrounded by a huge tended lawn. Nearby are dozens of other similarly boxy factory buildings. Neighbors include a big Michelin tire plant, a nutrition-products factory, and, down the road, BMW’s only car plant on American soil. Greenville is at the center of the 20-year-old manufacturing boom that’s still taking place throughout the “New South.” Nearby, I visited a Japanese-owned fiber-optic-material manufacturer, and a company that makes specialized metal parts for intercontinental ballistic missiles.

Standard makes and distributes replacement auto parts, known in the industry as “aftermarket” parts. Companies like Standard directly compete with Chinese firms for shelf space in auto-parts retail stores. This competition has intensified the pressure on all parts makers—American, Chinese, European. And of course it means that Maddie is, effectively, competing directly with workers in China who are willing to do similar work for much less money.

When Maddie says something important, something she wants you to really hear, she repeats it. She’ll say it one time in a flat, matter-of-fact voice, and then again with a lot of upstate South Carolina twang.

“I’m a redneck,” she’ll say. “I’m a reeeeeedneck.”

“I’m smart,” she told me the first time we met. “There’s no other way to say it. I am smaaaart. I am.”

Maddie flips back and forth between being a stereotypical redneck and being awfully smart. She will say, openly, that she doesn’t know all that much about the world outside of Easley, South Carolina, where she’s spent her whole life. Since her childhood, she’s seen Easley transform from a quiet country town to a busy suburb of Greenville. (It’s now a largely charmless place, thick with chain restaurants and shopping centers.) Maddie was the third child born to her young mother, Heather. Her father left when Maddie was young, never visited again, and died after he drove drunk into a car carrying a family of four, killing all of them as well.

Until her senior year of high school, Maddie seemed to be headed for the American dream—a college degree and a job with a middle-class wage. She got good grades, and never drank or did drugs or hung out with the bad kids. For the most part, she didn’t hang out with anybody outside her family; she went to school, went home, went to church on Sundays. When she was 17, she met a boy who told her she should make friends with other kids at school. He had an easy way with people and he would take Maddie to Applebee’s and cookouts and other places where the cool kids hung out. He taught her how to fit in, and he told her she was pretty.

Maddie’s senior year started hopefully. She had finished most of her high-school requirements and was taking a few classes at nearby Tri-County Technical College. She planned to go to a four-year college after graduation, major in criminal justice, and become an animal-control officer. Around Christmas, she found out she was pregnant. She did finish school and, she’s proud to say, graduated with honors. “On my graduation, I was six months pregnant,” she says. “Six months.” The father and Maddie didn’t stay together after the birth, and Maddie couldn’t afford to pay for day care while she went to college, so she gave up on school and eventually got the best sort of job available to high-school graduates in the Greenville area: factory work.

If Maddie had been born in upstate South Carolina earlier in the 20th century, her working life would have been far more secure. Her 22 years overlap the final collapse of most of the area’s once-dominant cotton mills and the birth of an advanced manufacturing economy. Hundreds of mills here once spun raw cotton into thread and then wove and knit the thread into clothes and textiles. For about 100 years, right through the 1980s and into the 1990s, mills in the Greenville area had plenty of work for people willing to put in a full day, no matter how little education they had. But around the time Maddie was born, two simultaneous transformations hit these workers. After NAFTA and, later, the opening of China to global trade, mills in Mexico and China were able to produce and ship clothing and textiles at much lower cost, and mill after mill in South Carolina shut down. At the same time, the mills that continued to operate were able to replace their workers with a new generation of nearly autonomous, computer-run machines. (There’s a joke in cotton country that a modern textile mill employs only a man and a dog. The man is there to feed the dog, and the dog is there to keep the man away from the machines.)

Other parts of the textile South have never recovered from these two blows, but upstate South Carolina—thanks to its proximity to I-85, and to foresighted actions by community leaders—attracted manufacturers of products far more complicated than shirts and textiles. These new plants have been a godsend for the local economy, but they have not provided the sort of wide-open job opportunities that the textile mills once did. Some workers, especially those with advanced manufacturing skills, now earn higher wages and have more opportunity, but there are not enough jobs for many others who, like Maddie, don’t have training past high school.

Maddie got her job at Standard through both luck and hard work. She was temping for a local agency and was sent to Standard for a three-day job washing walls in early 2011. “People came up to me and said, ‘You have to hire that girl—she is working so hard,’” Tony Scalzitti, the plant manager, told me. Maddie was hired back and assigned to the fuel-injector clean room, where she continued to impress people by working hard, learning quickly, and displaying a good attitude. But, as we’ll see, this may be about as far as hustle and personality can take her. In fact, they may not be enough even to keep her where she is.
The Transformation of the Factory Floor

To better understand Maddie’s future, it’s helpful, first, to ask: Why is anything made in the United States? Why would any manufacturing company pay American wages when it could hire someone in China or Mexico much more cheaply?

I came to understand this much better when I learned how Standard makes fuel injectors, the part that Maddie works on. Like so many parts of the modern car engine, the fuel injector seems mundane until you sit down with an engineer who can explain how amazing it truly is.

A fuel injector is a bit like a small metal syringe, spraying a tiny, precise mist of gasoline into the engine in time for the spark plug to ignite the gas. The small explosion that results pushes the piston down, turning the crankshaft and propelling the car. Fuel injectors have replaced the carburetor, which, by comparison, sloppily sloshed gasoline around the engine. They became common in the 1980s, helping to solve a difficult engineering problem: how to make cars more efficient (and meet ever-tightening emission standards) without sacrificing power or performance.

To achieve maximum efficiency and power, a car’s computer receives thousands of signals every second from sensors all over the engine and body. Based on the car’s speed, ambient temperature, and a dozen other variables, the computer tells a fuel injector to squirt a precise amount of gasoline (anywhere from one to 100 10,000ths of an ounce) at the instant that the piston is in the right position (and anywhere from 10 to 200 times a second). For this to work, the injector must be perfectly constructed. When squirting gas, the syringe moves forward and back a total distance of 70 microns—about the width of a human hair—and a microscopic imperfection in the metal, or even a speck of dust, will block the movement and disable the injector. The tip of the plunger—a ball that meets a conical housing to create a seal—has to be machined to a tolerance of a quarter micron, or 10 millionths of an inch, about the size of a virus. That precision explains why fuel injectors are likely to be made in the United States for years to come. They require up-to-date technology, strong quality assurance, and highly skilled workers, all of which are easier to find in the United States than in most factories in low-wage countries.

The main factory floor of Standard’s Greenville plant is, at first, overwhelming. It has the feel of a very crowded high-school gym: a big space with high ceilings but not a lot of light, a gray cement floor that’s been around for a long time, and row after row of machines, going back farther than the eye can see, some the size of a washing machine, others as big as a small house. The first two machines, in the first row as you enter, are the newest: the Gildemeister seven-axis turning machines, two large off-white boxes each about the size of a small car turned on its side. Costing just under half a million dollars apiece, they gleam next to all the older machines. Inside each box is a larger, more precise version of the lathe you’d find in any high-school metal shop: a metal rod is spun rapidly while a cutting tool approaches it to cut at an exact angle. A special computer language tells the Gildemeisters how fast to spin and how close to bring the cutting tool to the metal rod.

A few decades ago, “turning machines” like these were operated by hand; a machinist would spin one dial to move the cutting tool large distances and another dial for smaller, more precise positioning. A good machinist didn’t need a lot of book smarts, just a steady, confident hand and lots of experience. Today, the computer moves the cutting tool and the operator needs to know how to talk to the computer.

Luke Hutchins is one of Standard’s newest skilled machinists. He is somewhat shy and talks quietly, but when you listen closely, you realize he’s constantly making wry, self-deprecating observations. He’s 27, skinny in his dark-blue jacket and jeans. When he was in his teens, his parents told him, for reasons he doesn’t remember, that he should become a dentist. He spent a semester and a half studying biology and chemistry in a four-year college and decided it wasn’t for him; he didn’t particularly care for teeth, and he wanted to do something that would earn him money right away. He transferred to Spartanburg Community College hoping to study radiography, like his mother, but that class was full. A friend of a friend told him that you could make more than $30 an hour if you knew how to run factory machines, so he enrolled in the Machine Tool Technology program.

At Spartanburg, he studied math—a lot of math. “I’m very good at math,” he says. “I’m not going to lie to you. I got formulas written down in my head.” He studied algebra, trigonometry, and calculus. “If you know calculus, you definitely can be a machine operator or programmer.” He was quite good at the programming language commonly used in manufacturing machines all over the country, and had a facility for three-dimensional visualization—seeing, in your mind, what’s happening inside the machine—a skill, probably innate, that is required for any great operator. It was a two-year program, but Luke was the only student with no factory experience or vocational school, so he spent two summers taking extra classes to catch up.

After six semesters studying machine tooling, including endless hours cutting metal in the school workshop, Luke, like almost everyone who graduates, got a job at a nearby factory, where he ran machines similar to the Gildemeisters. When Luke got hired at Standard, he had two years of technical schoolwork and five years of on-the-job experience, and it took one more month of training before he could be trusted alone with the Gildemeisters. All of which is to say that running an advanced, computer-controlled machine is extremely hard. Luke now works the weekend night shift, 6 p.m. to 6 a.m., Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

When things are going well, the Gildemeisters largely run themselves, but things don’t always go well. Every five minutes or so, Luke takes a finished part to the testing station—a small table with a dozen sets of calipers and other precision testing tools—to make sure the machine is cutting “on spec,” or matching the requirements of the run. Standard’s rules call for a random part check at least once an hour. “I don’t wait the whole hour before I check another part,” Luke says. “That’s stupid. You could be running scrap for the whole hour.”

Luke says that on a typical shift, he has to adjust the machine about 20 times to keep it on spec. A lot can happen to throw the tolerances off. The most common issue is that the cutting tool gradually wears down. As a result, Luke needs to tell the computer to move the tool a few microns closer, or make some other adjustment. If the operator programs the wrong number, the tool can cut right into the machine itself and destroy equipment worth tens of thousands of dollars.

Luke wants to better understand the properties of cutting tools, he told me, so he can be even more effective. “I’m not one of the geniuses on that. I know a little bit. A lot of people go to school just to learn the properties of tooling.” He also wants to learn more about metallurgy, and he’s especially eager to study industrial electronics. He says he will keep learning for his entire career.

In many ways, Luke personifies the dramatic shift in the U.S. industrial labor market. Before the rise of computer-run machines, factories needed people at every step of production, from the most routine to the most complex. The Gildemeister, for example, automatically performs a series of operations that previously would have required several machines—each with its own operator. It’s relatively easy to train a newcomer to run a simple, single-step machine. Newcomers with no training could start out working the simplest and then gradually learn others. Eventually, with that on-the-job training, some workers could become higher-paid supervisors, overseeing the entire operation. This kind of knowledge could be acquired only on the job; few people went to school to learn how to work in a factory.

Today, the Gildemeisters and their ilk eliminate the need for many of those machines and, therefore, the workers who ran them. Skilled workers now are required only to do what computers can’t do (at least not yet): use their human judgment. This change is evident in the layout of a factory. In the pre-computer age, machines were laid out in long rows, each machine tended constantly by one worker who was considered skilled if he knew the temperament of his one, ornery ward. There was a quality-assurance department, typically in a lab off the factory floor, whose workers occasionally checked to make sure the machinists were doing things right. At Standard, today, as at most U.S. factories, machines are laid out in cells. One skilled operator, like Luke, oversees several machines, performing on-the-spot quality checks and making appropriate adjustments as needed.

The combination of skilled labor and complex machines gives American factories a big advantage in manufacturing not only precision products, but also those that are made in small batches, as is the case with many fuel injectors. Luke can quickly alter the program in a Gildemeister’s computer to switch from making one kind of injector to another. Standard makes injectors and other parts for thousands of different makes and models of car, fabricating and shipping in small batches; Luke sometimes needs to switch the type of product he’s making several times in a shift. Factories in China, by contrast, tend to focus on long runs of single products, with far less frequent changeovers.

It’s no surprise, then, that Standard makes injectors in the U.S. and employs high-skilled workers, like Luke. It seems fairly likely that Luke will have a job for a long time, and will continue to make a decent wage. People with advanced skills like Luke are more important than ever to American manufacturing.

But why does Maddie have a job? In fact, more than half of the workers on the factory floor in Greenville are, like Maddie, classified as unskilled. On average, they make about 10 times as much as their Chinese counterparts. What accounts for that?


The Remnant Workforce

Tony Scalzitti, the factory manager, guides me through the logic of Maddie’s employment. He’s bookish and thoughtful—nothing like my mental image of a big, hulking factory manager. Trained as an engineer, he is constantly drawing charts and making lists as he talks, in order to explain modern American manufacturing. Sitting at a table in his office in the administrative area off the factory floor, Tony takes out a pen and writes down the definitions.

“Unskilled worker,” he narrates, “can train in a short amount of time. The machine controls the quality of the part.”

“High-skill worker,” on the other hand, “can set up machines and make a variety of small adjustments; they use their judgment to assure product quality.”

To show me the difference between the two, Tony takes me from Luke’s station through an air lock and into Standard’s bright-white clean room—about a quarter the size of the dirtier, louder factory floor—where dozens of people in booties, hairnets, and smocks, most of them women, stand at a series of workstations.

Tony points out that most of the factory’s parts go through roughly the same process. Metal is cut into a precise shape in the “unclean” part of the factory and is then washed in a huge industrial washing machine to remove any bits of dirt, flakes of skin, or other contaminants, and, pristine, enters the clean room. Here, machines build the outer housing of the fuel injector, the part that is open to the engine and doesn’t require anything like the precision of the inner workings.

The injectors progress through a series of stations, at each of which an unskilled worker and a simple machine perform one task. The machines here are much smaller, and are in one key respect the opposite of the Gildemeisters; these machines can work in only one way and require little judgment from the operator. This is not a throwback to the old system, in which workers manually ran single-purpose machines. This new technology is the other side of the computer revolution in manufacturing. Computers eliminate the need for human discretion; the person is there only to place the parts and push a button.

Take Maddie’s station. She runs the laser welding machine, which sounds difficult and dangerous, but is neither. The laser welder is tiny, more like a cigarette lighter than like something you might aim at a Klingon. Maddie receives a tray of sealed injector interiors, and her job is to weld on a cap. The machine looks a little like a microscope; she puts the injector body in a hole in the base, and the cap in a clamp where the microscope lens would be. The entire machine—like most machines in the clean room—sits inside a large metal-and-plexiglass box with sensors to make sure that Maddie removes her hands from the machine before it runs. Once Maddie inserts the two parts and removes her hands, a protective screen comes down, and a computer program tells the machine to bring the cap and body together, fire its tiny beam, and rotate the part to create a perfect seal. The process takes a few seconds. Maddie then retrieves the part and puts it into another simple machine, which runs a test to make sure the weld created a full seal. If Maddie sees a green light, the part is sent on to the next station; if she sees a red or yellow light, the part failed and Maddie calls one of the skilled techs, who will troubleshoot and, if necessary, fix the welding machine.

The last time I visited the factory, Maddie was training a new worker. Teaching her to operate the machine took just under two minutes. Maddie then spent about 25 minutes showing her the various instructions Standard engineers have prepared to make certain that the machine operator doesn’t need to use her own judgment. “Always check your sheets,” Maddie says.

By the end of the day, the trainee will be as proficient at the laser welder as Maddie. This is why all assembly workers have roughly the same pay grade—known as Level 1—and are seen by management as largely interchangeable and fairly easy to replace. A Level 1 worker makes about $13 an hour, which is a little more than the average wage in this part of the country. The next category, Level 2, is defined by Standard as a worker who knows the machines well enough to set up the equipment and adjust it when things go wrong. The skilled machinists like Luke are Level 2s, and make about 50 percent more than Maddie does.

For Maddie to achieve her dreams—to own her own home, to take her family on vacation to the coast, to have enough saved up so her children can go to college—she’d need to become one of the advanced Level 2s. A decade ago, a smart, hard-working Level 1 might have persuaded management to provide on-the-job training in Level-2 skills. But these days, the gap between a Level 1 and a 2 is so wide that it doesn’t make financial sense for Standard to spend years training someone who might not be able to pick up the skills or might take that training to a competing factory.

It feels cruel to point out all the Level-2 concepts Maddie doesn’t know, although Maddie is quite open about these shortcomings. She doesn’t know the computer-programming language that runs the machines she operates; in fact, she was surprised to learn they are run by a specialized computer language. She doesn’t know trigonometry or calculus, and she’s never studied the properties of cutting tools or metals. She doesn’t know how to maintain a tolerance of 0.25 microns, or what tolerance means in this context, or what a micron is.

Tony explains that Maddie has a job for two reasons. First, when it comes to making fuel injectors, the company saves money and minimizes product damage by having both the precision and non-precision work done in the same place. Even if Mexican or Chinese workers could do Maddie’s job more cheaply, shipping fragile, half-finished parts to another country for processing would make no sense. Second, Maddie is cheaper than a machine. It would be easy to buy a robotic arm that could take injector bodies and caps from a tray and place them precisely in a laser welder. Yet Standard would have to invest about $100,000 on the arm and a conveyance machine to bring parts to the welder and send them on to the next station. As is common in factories, Standard invests only in machinery that will earn back its cost within two years. For Tony, it’s simple: Maddie makes less in two years than the machine would cost, so her job is safe—for now. If the robotic machines become a little cheaper, or if demand for fuel injectors goes up and Standard starts running three shifts, then investing in those robots might make sense.

“What worries people in factories is electronics, robots,” she tells me. “If you don’t know jack about computers and electronics, then you don’t have anything in this life anymore. One day, they’re not going to need people; the machines will take over. People like me, we’re not going to be around forever.”
The Fragility of Industrial Profit

It’s tempting to look to the owners of Standard Motor Products and ask them to help Maddie out: to cut costs a little less relentlessly, take slightly lower profits, and maybe even help solve America’s jobs crisis in some small way.

I tracked down the people who run Standard to put this possibility to them. I was surprised to learn they were based in Long Island City, Queens, a quick subway ride from my house.

Standard’s headquarters is in the same massive but elegant Art Deco building, curving along Northern Boulevard, that has been its home since 1936. Until the late 1990s, Standard made many of its auto parts here as well; the company filled the six floors with machinery and workers. But running a factory in New York City is expensive and filled with logistical hassles, and over time, these problems became more severe. As early as the 1960s, the company had begun to move some production to lower-cost locations: Puerto Rico; Independence, Kansas; Grapevine, Texas; Mexico; Poland; and, of course, Greenville. The last part made in Queens—a distributor—came off the line in 2008. The building was sold soon after and is now home to a variety of small offices and an art gallery. Senior executives of Standard Motor Products and a host of engineers and salespeople occupy much of the second and sixth floors.

Larry Sills, age 72, is nothing like what I imagined the CEO of one of America’s largest aftermarket auto-parts companies would look like. His easy smile, scattered curiosity, and rumpled look seem more characteristic of a college professor. His hair—thick, brown, and tightly curled—looks almost like a joke wig sitting on his head. I met him in his large office—dominated by his wife’s paintings and mementos of their time in Africa—and asked him about his business. But before he got into that, he said he wanted to show off the crazy thing up on the roof, an organic farm: some young hipsters had brought 650 tons of dirt to start it. (“That was scary,” Larry says. “We didn’t know if the building could hold it.”) They grow fresh vegetables and have a farmers’ market every Wednesday. “Sometimes someone gets a bit excited with a pitchfork and cuts through our roof and we got water on a desk. But I love it. I love it.”

Larry was born into Standard Motor Products. The company was founded by his grandfather, Elias Fife, a Jewish immigrant from Lithuania who knew nothing about cars but saw an opportunity, in 1919, when he learned that many people were frustrated with Ford and the other car manufacturers because they never made enough replacement parts, since all the money was in building new cars. The tiny aftermarket auto-parts industry was a mess: countless mechanics and hobbyists made parts by hand in their garages, and many of these parts didn’t fit or would break. Fife decided to build a trustworthy, reliable brand whose products met or exceeded the quality of the original parts.

Elias worked until he died, at which point his son, Bernard, and son-in-law, Nathaniel Sills, took over the company. Larry, Nathaniel’s son, was never particularly interested in cars and dreamed of being a reporter for The New York Times. He spent a few years as a country manager for Pfizer in Ghana, where he had some adventures. But by 1967, he knew it was time to come home and start work at Standard. “Nobody ever told me I had to,” he says. “I just knew it was expected.” He’s never regretted that decision, he told me.

When Larry came to work, the aftermarket had matured since its wild early years, but was still a fairly sleepy business. Standard was one of hundreds of aftermarket manufacturers and distributors, many still owned by the founder, in many cases an immigrant, or his children. These companies sold to thousands of small garages or distribution warehouses, many also run by old families that the Sillses had known for years. It was rare for a customer to demand lower prices or to stop buying from Standard altogether. Even if one did, the bottom line didn’t suffer all that much.

“Our biggest customer was about 1 percent of our business,” Larry says. “That’s changed. Now, our biggest four customers are more than 50 percent of our business.”

As Autozone, Napa, and other huge auto-parts stores expanded their reach, they used the bargaining power that comes with size to pressure companies like Standard to lower their prices. Failure to do so could cost them the chain stores’ business, which could mean bankruptcy. Larry says this new price pressure came exactly when many of his old friends in the parts trade were retiring and couldn’t persuade their kids to join the business. Throughout the 1970s, ’80s, and ’90s, dozens of Larry’s old friends and competitors gave up and sold out. Larry’s son, Eric, decided to work at Standard after college and now runs many of the company’s manufacturing operations.

As his friendly competitors retired, Larry bought many of their companies. He paid for these acquisitions by borrowing money or selling more company shares. For years, Standard had been, technically, a publicly traded company, but since the Sills and Fife families owned most of the stock, it had been run more like a family business. But eventually, to fund acquisitions, the families gave up majority ownership. They now hold less than 10 percent of the company stock.

Standard might have grown too quickly. The company was deeply in debt in 2009 when the financial markets seized up. Like countless companies during that chaotic time, Standard couldn’t raise enough money to pay off the bonds it had already sold. Larry began to fear bankruptcy. “It was awful,” he says. “The only time in my career I lay awake worrying.”

Acting quickly, he sold the building in Queens, laid off 10 percent of the administrative staff, and cut costs everywhere he could. Standard did survive, of course, and is actually doing quite well now. Larry paid off most of the debt, and by concentrating on what the company is best at, he has increased its profits. Economic slowdowns are, perhaps paradoxically, a good time for the aftermarket auto-parts business. Many people delay the purchase of a new car, instead replacing parts on their old one.

While the business is doing well today, “the main thing I think about is survival,” Larry says. Standard is now the last of the old breed of family-run companies. Its stock is worth about $400 million, which is far more than Larry’s grandfather would have dreamed of; but that’s only a small fraction of the market value of Bosch, Denso, or NGK—three of the big, global parts suppliers the company competes with.

To keep the business of the giant auto-parts retailers, Standard has to constantly lower costs while maintaining quality. High quality is impossible without good raw materials, which Standard has to buy at market rates. The massive global conglomerates, like Bosch, might be able to command discounts when buying, say, specially formulated metals; but Standard has to pay the prevailing price, and for years now, that price has been rising. That places an even higher imperative on reducing the cost of labor. If Standard paid unskilled workers like Maddie more or hired more of them, Larry says, the company would have to charge its customers more or accept lower profits. Either way, Standard would collapse fairly soon. (Industrial profit margins are notoriously thin to begin with—typically in the low single digits—and reduced profits or losses would drive down Standard’s stock price, making it a likely target for predatory acquisition.)


The Continual Offshoring Calculus

I came to think of Standard Motor Products as an enormous machine that regularly scans every tiny part of every engine in every car on the streets of the United States to answer two closely related questions: What makes sense to manufacture here in the U.S., and what should be made in a low-wage country, like Mexico or China?

Standard’s customers, the big auto-retail stores and wholesalers, see the company more as a distributor than as a manufacturer. They expect Standard to be able to deliver any part in its categories—known as engine management and temperature control—to any place in the U.S. in less than 48 hours. Standard doesn’t sell the big stuff—batteries, engine blocks—but it does sell many of the cables and sensors and electrical components that surround those large things. If you look at your car’s engine, Standard has, in stock, many of the small parts that you can’t identify—for your car and for every other make and model with more than 10,000 vehicles on American roads. Standard’s enormous warehouse in Disputanta, Virginia, has tens of thousands of different sorts of parts ready to ship at any moment.

Standard makes only about half of the parts it stocks; it buys the rest from other manufacturers, most of them in China. The company’s engineers are constantly reviewing the parts they buy, to see whether they could make the parts more cheaply in-house. Not infrequently, Standard finds that by doing so it can control costs, quality, and delivery speed far better, and thus can better serve the superstores.

I sat in on a meeting between two engineers—the tall and talkative John Gasiewski, and the shorter, less outgoing Marty Doelger—who were reviewing a new batch of crankshaft-position sensors, tiny parts that monitor precisely where in its rotation a crankshaft is at any microsecond.

Marty dumps a box of the sensors—each about the size of a thumb drive—on the table. The new sensor that General Motors uses is a no-brainer, he says: of course Standard should make it. More than 3.5 million cars on the road are equipped with this family of sensors, and many of those cars are brand-new, which means this business will be huge, peaking many years from now. “We’ll be selling a lot of these in 2018,” John says, smiling.

The sensor is made up of a magnet and coil inside a plastic housing attached to a mounting bracket. Its size can vary considerably without causing any problems in the engine, and for that and other reasons, John says, its manufacture requires nothing like the precision needed for making a fuel injector, so it doesn’t need to be made on the most expensive machinery by the most highly skilled workers. The part’s mounting bracket is even less precise. “Feel it,” Marty says. “It’s rough. They just shear it. There’s no precision at all.” So while Standard will make this part, it will do so at its plant in Reynosa, Mexico.

A few months ago, in a meeting like this one, Standard engineers evaluated a type of ignition coil—the tiny voltage transformer that sits on top of a spark plug and converts the battery’s 12 volts into the 30,000 volts needed to fire a spark. It’s a precision part, since the wires on the coil need to be wrapped just so, and Standard was at the time manufacturing the coil in Greenville. Recently, though, the plant Standard owns in Bialystok, Poland, had been impressing the company’s top engineers, and the production of some of these coils will be moving there. “Poland is also low-cost, and they’ve got some really qualified engineers,” Larry says. “They do good work.”

These meetings can lead the company to move dozens of jobs to another country or, in some cases, to create new jobs in the U.S. When Standard decided to increase its fuel-injector production, it chose to do that in the U.S., and staffed up accordingly (that’s how Maddie got her job). Standard will not drop a line in the U.S. and begin outsourcing it to China for a few pennies in savings. “I need to save a lot to go to China,” says Ed Harris, who is in charge of identifying new manufacturing sources in Asia. “There’s a lot of hassle: shipping costs, time, Chinese companies aren’t as reliable. We need to save at least 40 percent off the U.S. price. I’m not going to China to save 10 percent.” Yet often, the savings are more than enough to offset the hassles and expense of working with Chinese factories. Some parts—especially relatively simple ones that Standard needs in bulk—can cost 80 percent less to make in China.

Nearly every manufacturing company in the U.S. goes through this same process: regularly, carefully studying its products to see if they could be made more cheaply in a lower-wage country. The calculation constantly changes, because the world changes. Sometimes that’s bad news for American industrial workers, other times it’s good news. Workers in China and Poland and Mexico, for example, have become more highly skilled, and their factories are now able to produce more-precise goods than they could a decade ago. But at the same time, the wages of those workers have risen, as have shipping costs. Unrest in northern Mexico or an oil-price spike caused by trouble in the Middle East can encourage manufacturers to keep production lines in the United States. The development of increasingly complex machinery can do the same: because expensive machines are more likely to pay off when they can be counted on to run 24 hours a day, every day, the availability of steady electricity, for instance, is essential.

Yet however chaotic and contradictory these forces can be at any moment, over the years and decades they point in one direction: toward fewer jobs for low-skilled American workers. People who can be replaced by machines or lower-paid workers somewhere else, eventually will be. Unless people like Maddie learn how to do things that computers and overseas workers aren’t able to do, they are likely to lose their jobs one day.
Workers’ Paradise?

Since at least the 1970s, when the farsighted could see the consequences of Japan’s rising manufacturing power, some observers have declared a crisis in American manufacturing, and have called for the federal government to fix it. Some suggestions, such as higher tariffs or fewer free-trade agreements, have been politically attractive but economically unconvincing. (Retreating from global trade might help save some manufacturing jobs in the short term, but at the cost of making the entire country poorer.) Other proposals have been self-serving and unlikely to have much impact, like subsidies and tax cuts for manufacturers (the benefits of which go disproportionately to the owners of factories, not to the workers, who still must compete with legions of ever-cheaper robots). Probably the most popular rallying cry lately has been the demand that China stop interfering with currency markets. Just about every economist would argue that China should stop artificially cheapening its currency, but getting it to do so would not dramatically increase low-skill manufacturing employment in the U.S. Most analyses show that in response to a rising yuan, American manufacturing companies would more likely shift production to other low-wage countries—like Indonesia, Bangladesh, or Mexico—than to U.S. factories.

Is there a crisis in manufacturing in America? Looking just at the dollar value of manufacturing output, the answer seems to be an emphatic no. Domestic manufacturers make and sell more goods than ever before. Their success has been grounded in incredible increases in productivity, which is a positive way of saying that factories produce more with fewer workers.

Productivity, in and of itself, is a remarkably good thing. Only through productivity growth can the average quality of human life improve. Because of higher agricultural productivity, we don’t all have to work in the fields to make enough food to eat. Because of higher industrial productivity, few of us need to work in factories to make the products we use. In theory, productivity growth should help nearly everyone in a society. When one person can grow as much food or make as many car parts as 100 used to, prices should fall, which gives everyone in that society more purchasing power; we all become a little richer. In the economic models, the benefits of productivity growth should not go just to the rich owners of capital. As workers become more productive, they should be able to demand higher salaries.

Throughout much of the 20th century, simultaneous technological improvements in both agriculture and industry happened to create conditions that were favorable for people with less skill. The development of mass production allowed low-skilled farmers to move to the city, get a job in a factory, and produce remarkably high output. Typically, these workers made more money than they ever had on the farm, and eventually, some of their children were able to get enough education to find less-dreary work. In that period of dramatic change, it was the highly skilled craftsperson who was more likely to suffer a permanent loss of wealth. Economists speak of the middle part of the 20th century as the “Great Compression,” the time when the income of the unskilled came closest to the income of the skilled.

The double shock we’re experiencing now—globalization and computer-aided industrial productivity—happens to have the opposite impact: income inequality is growing, as the rewards for being skilled grow and the opportunities for unskilled Americans diminish.

I went to South Carolina, and spent so much time with Maddie, precisely because these issues are so large and so overwhelming. I wanted to see how this shift affected regular people’s lives. I didn’t come away with a handy list of policies that would solve all the problems of unskilled workers, but I did note some principles that seem important to improving their situation.

It’s hard to imagine what set of circumstances would reverse recent trends and bring large numbers of jobs for unskilled laborers back to the U.S. Our efforts might be more fruitfully focused on getting Maddie the education she needs for a better shot at a decent living in the years to come. Subsidized job-training programs tend to be fairly popular among Democrats and Republicans, and certainly benefit some people. But these programs suffer from all the ills in our education system; opportunities go, disproportionately, to those who already have initiative, intelligence, and—not least—family support.

I never heard Maddie blame others for her situation; she talked, often, about the bad choices she made as a teenager and how those have limited her future. I came to realize, though, that Maddie represents a large population: people who, for whatever reason, are not going to be able to leave the workforce long enough to get the skills they need. Luke doesn’t have children, and his parents could afford to support him while he was in school. Those with the right ability and circumstances will, most likely, make the right adjustments, get the right skills, and eventually thrive. But I fear that those who are challenged now will only fall further behind. To solve all the problems that keep people from acquiring skills would require tackling the toughest issues our country faces: a broken educational system, teen pregnancy, drug use, racial discrimination, a fractured political culture.

This may be the worst impact of the disappearance of manufacturing work. In older factories and, before them, on the farm, there were opportunities for almost everybody: the bright and the slow, the sociable and the awkward, the people with children and those without. All came to work unskilled, at first, and then slowly learned things, on the job, that made them more valuable. Especially in the mid-20th century, as manufacturing employment was rocketing toward its zenith, mistakes and disadvantages in childhood and adolescence did not foreclose adult opportunity.

For most of U.S. history, most people had a slow and steady wind at their back, a combination of economic forces that didn’t make life easy but gave many of us little pushes forward that allowed us to earn a bit more every year. Over a lifetime, it all added up to a better sort of life than the one we were born into. That wind seems to be dying for a lot of Americans. What the country will be like without it is not quite clear.
Adam Davidson is a co-founder and co-host of NPR’s Planet Money.