In the early 1980s, I was installing a document management system for an old mining company in Los Angeles when, anticipating the industry contraction to come, they merged with one of the oil and gas giants headquartered in another state. They informed their employees that they would have to relocate or lose their jobs. There had been no warning; the people I worked with had less than six months to make a decision, and the impending move hung like a pall over every conversation. My presence, and the data processing equipment we brought in was suddenly viewed with suspicion, as if I had known all along what was about to happen. I didn’t. I was just out of graduate school and this was my introduction to the real world consequences of “disruptive” business transformations.
A decade later, I developed an office-automation solution that eliminated a small typing pool, the work of maybe fifteen or twenty people. Automating routine typing tasks was not glamorous development work but, as a recently divorced mother of a four-year old, I was happy to have the contract. I saved my corporate client money, and the solution made it possible for many of their employees to spend holidays with family and friends for the first time in many years. The typists whose jobs I had eliminated were handed their pink slips three days before Thanksgiving. I was stunned.
By the time the new century rolled in, technology had slashed not only the typing pools and factory production lines, but also whole floors full of accountants and filing clerks. Microsoft Office had decimated the ranks of secretarial staffs and small business bookkeepers. Smart phones put the last nail in the coffin of services already hit hard by cheap answering machines; telephone operators and message services were a thing of the past. As the need for paper slowly disappeared, so did lumberjacks, mill workers, press operators, and the local boy’s newspaper route. Businesses of every size and kind had been affected.
In the more than a decade I spent as a corporate IT manager, the company I worked for probably shed half its U.S. office workforce. It happened with master-planned efficiency every three to four years between 2001 and 2014 following the successful implementation of SAP and other enterprise management automation tools. After the second or third one of these downsizings, those of us who remained began to show signs of shell-shock. Even the people in HR were affected; in each job-cutting cycle, I would discover one of them, teary-eyed, dabbing at her makeup before leaving the sanctuary of the lady’s room to go to her next “I’m sorry to have to tell you…” meeting.
Eventually, the company gave up on trying to give notices individually. Instead, they called everyone together for group notification meetings held on the same day and time but in different conference rooms – one for the survivors, the other for the lost – and no one knew which was which until they walked through the door.
In one of the last of these purges, the only two conference rooms available at ten in the morning on the designated day were on the same floor, right across from each other, and I had the slightly surreal experience of turning right when a co-worker I had been chatting with turned left, never to be seen again. And it was around that time that the typists I had displaced over a decade earlier swung back into my consciousness and took up residence.
I am not one of the tribe of migrant foreign tech workers seeking their fortunes as agents of the global enterprise or the next public offering. I am a third generation professional women born and raised in California. The office workers and typists I displaced with an efficient IT solution are a part of local history. Foreigners can’t be blamed, and technology is not the villain. Technology is not an actor. Robots and other smart devices didn’t drive the auto workers out of the manufacturing plants or coal miners out of the mines – humans did.
In the decade leading up to The Great Depression of the 1930s, the rapid mechanization of farm equipment seduced farmers into believing they could convert arid grassland to cultivated cropland. The result was the agricultural catastrophe known as The Dust Bowl. Ultimately, more than three million people would flee the Midwest, joining millions more displaced by the Stock Market crash of 1929 in trying to escape the ravages of the Great Depression that followed. Most never returned to farming and moved instead into construction sites and gas stations, manufacturing plants and urban offices, and jobs like typing that required an education and training.
Less than a generation later, those who found salvation in factory assembly lines were living in The Rust Belt, displaced by robotic arms and process automation and cheap foreign labor. Oil and gas and mining communities became ghost towns sustained only by the fading hope of a return to better days and the debilitating illusions of opioid addiction. Today, their grandchildren flee retail and the housekeeping and janitorial work that cannot sustain them, trying to sing, dance, act, blog or code their way into the living conditions once described as Middle Class.
My son’s generation – the millennials – will finish the post-industrial revolution that began while I was in graduate school, and my hope for them is that they can put the technological genie back in the bottle, find a way out of the social chaos of disrupted industries and a lawless cyberspace, and beat a path back, or forward, to something better. Not the abstract ‘good’ or ‘better world’ promoted in schools and churches and mission statements, rather something more tangibly human. If they cannot, I fear my grandchildren will experience a kind of disruption not seen in the Western world since the French Revolution.