By Kevin D. Williamson
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
Funny thing about American manufacturing: The good news
about what’s happening at American factories often sounds like bad news to
politicians.
American factories are one of the wonders of the world,
and, in spite of what President Donald Trump, Senator Bernie Sanders, and other
lightly informed populists claim, they are humming. U.S. manufacturing output
is about 68 percent higher today in real terms (meaning inflation-adjusted
terms) than it was before NAFTA was enacted; manufacturing output is about double
in real terms what it was in the 1980s and more than three times what it was in
the 1950s. As our factories grow more efficient, output per man-hour has grown,
too, which is what troubles the populists and demagogues: Our factories employ
a much smaller share of the U.S. work force than they once did.
But it is important to keep in mind: That growth in
manufacturing output did not come in spite of the decline in factory employment
but partly because of it. Automation not only makes current production more
efficient but also makes it easier to improve efficiency in the future: More
heavily automated factory processes are much easier to upgrade than are those
heavily dependent on human labor.
The complaint usually goes something like this: “What
good is that increased output if it comes at the expense of good manufacturing
jobs?” Often, this will be accompanied by fictitious claims about Henry Ford’s
paying his workers more so that they could afford to buy his cars, a complete
invention that is one of the favorite myths of economic populists of Left and Right.
Here, we need a little bit less Milton Friedman and a
little more Marcus Aurelius: “What is this thing in itself? What is its
purpose? What does it do?”
The purpose of an automobile factory is not to “create
jobs,” as the politicians like to say. Its function is not to add to the
employment rolls with good wages and UAW benefits, adding to the local tax base
and helping to sustain the community — as desirable as all those things are.
The purpose of an automobile factory is not to create jobs — it is to create
automobiles. Jobs are a means, not an end. Human labor is valuable to the
extent that it contributes to human prosperity and human flourishing, not in
and of itself as a matter of abstraction.
There are cases in which this is so obvious that practically
everybody understands it. When we talk about building new pipelines (and good
on the Trump administration for getting out of the way of getting that done),
our progressive friends sometimes sniff that many of the new jobs associated
with that work are “temporary.” (“Temporary jobs” is a phrase usually delivered
with a distinct sniff.) Here is a little something to consider: Unless you are
building the Second Avenue Subway in New York City, all construction jobs are temporary — buildings get built. Projects
come to completion, and work gets finished. It is in the nature of construction
jobs to come to an end. And it is not only construction: A technology-industry
friend attending the recent National Review Ideas Summit in Washington bluntly
shared the view from Silicon Valley: “All jobs are temporary.”
Consider this thought experiment: Say that a Star Trek fan manages to invent
something like the replicator from that science-fiction series, meaning that
all purely material desires can be more or less fulfilled instantly: “Tea,
Earl Grey, hot!” and that’s that. Such an invention would be devastating
for the employment prospects of billions of people, including pretty much
everyone on Earth not working in a purely service-oriented or intellectual
capacity along with a great many people working in service jobs, too: There are
no chaiwallahs on the Enterprise.
But we would be enormously better off in real terms.
There would be no expensive prescription drugs, no shortage of Pappy Van
Winkle, no scarcity of ordinary consumable goods at all. Presumably, you could
have Michelangelo’s Pietà — arguably
the most beautiful thing made by a man so far — in your backyard, provided you
could figure out a way to move it there. (Job opportunities, after all!) You
could have three of them, if you liked, or three dozen. You could pour a nice
1982 Bordeaux over your Fruity Pebbles, if you liked. Once you sobered up, you
could drive around in one of your 1968 Ferrari Dinos.
Consider another kind of machine, a more limited one: Bryan
Caplan’s magical idea for a machine that turns corn into cars: “Lo and
behold — corn goes in, and cars come out.” It will not ruin Professor Caplan’s
M. Night Shyamalan moment to reveal the twist ending to his story: There is
such a machine, and it is called trade.
“What difference does it make what’s inside the factory?” Professor Caplan
asks. “For all intents and purposes, trade is a kind of technology, a creative
way to reduce our cost of living and thereby raise our standard of living.”
Trade — and capitalism — is in fact a machine of a
different sort: a social machine.
Global capitalism anno
Domini 2017 is not quite a Star Trek
replicator, but it is something close. What would you do with a replicator?
Presumably, most of us would first ensure that we never wanted for the basics
of life — food, shelter, clothing, medical necessities — and then we probably
would spend a great deal of time enjoying things that once had been reserved to
very wealthy people. It would be interesting to see what happened socially
after the novelty of that wore off, when a ten-pound diamond became just
another rock and there were no more consumer goods that functioned as status
symbols.
But would that really be so different from where we are
now? Things that were until quite recently “a millionaire’s whim” are so common
and so widely available that we do not even think about them. And what really
functions as a status symbol right now — having a Mercedes, or being in really
good physical condition, or having a fulfilling and creative job, or having
rarefied experiences that money cannot buy? You can lease a Mercedes for less
than $100 a week.
If I were a Republican politician or someone paid to
advise such creatures, I might point out that the great sources of friction in
our public life right now have to do mainly with a few areas in which abundance
has not been allowed to emerge. We have one economic model for producing food
and mobile phones and automobiles, and a different one for producing health
care and education, and to some extent (more in some areas of the country than
others) housing. The typical American today can afford housing that is much
better (larger, better built, better furnished) than could the typical American
of his grandparents’ generation. He can afford a better car and better food
than a millionaire of that
generation. And he has access to better health care and educational options,
too, but these have not improved at the rate of everything else in his life,
and the options for financing them have become a source of insecurity and
stress.
The people who have an explicit legal obligation to work
not on our behalf but on behalf of their shareholders do a pretty good job of
giving us what we want; the people who vow to work on our behalf do not. That
is a paradox only if you do not think about it too much, and not thinking about it too much is the
business that politicians are in.
If capitalism — which is to say, human ingenuity set free
to follow its own natural course — is a kind of social machine, then
politicians are something like children who take apart complex machines without
understanding what they do or how to put them back together. (At their worst,
they are simply saboteurs.) When they rail against capitalism, automation,
trade, and the like, they resemble nothing so much as those hominids at the
beginning of 2001: A Space Odyssey,
shrieking hysterically at something that is simply beyond their comprehension.
A social machine is different from an ordinary mechanical
one, but you can still throw sand in the gears.
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