American Made: What Happens to People When Work Disappears

by Farah Stockman

Despite their differences, Shannon, Wally, and John had a lot in common that they didn’t have in common with me: They were grandparents in their forties. (I gave birth to my daughter at forty-two.) They smoked or chewed some form of tobacco. (No one in my social circle did.) John and Wally were both proud gun owners, like the men in Shannon’s life. (I didn’t know a single person in Cambridge who owned a gun that shot anything but glue.) They lived within miles of Indianapolis, the city where they were born, and saw their siblings, their adult children, and their parents regularly. (I lived far from where I grew up and saw my parents and my sister only a few times a year.) If their car or kitchen sink broke down, they tried fixing it themselves, using tips gleaned from YouTube. (I once hired an electrician to fix a broken light, only to be told that it just needed a new bulb.) Wally and John drove American trucks: Fords and Chevys. (In my life, I’ve owned a Honda, a Hyundai, and a Volkswagen.) They all had friends or family members who had served in the military. (No one I spoke to on a daily basis had ever put on the uniform.) Perhaps most crucial of all was that although they’d all taken community college classes after high school—John had an associate’s degree—none had graduated from a four-year college. (Nearly everyone in my immediate circle of family and friends had not only a bachelor’s degree but a master’s degree, PhD, JD, or MD.)