A Consumerist Manifesto

I remember watching my dad come home from the farm at dinner-time: dirt under his fingernails, sweat dripping from his face, arms half sun-tanned and half dirt-baked, his already-patched jeans in need of a lot more patching, his old boots covered in mud that—try as he might—just couldn’t be moved.  Period. 
And I remember thinking nothing of it. . . he was home now, so it must be time for dinner.

Now, years later, I find myself trying harder and harder to understand how I so innocently accepted his exhausted arrival as little more than a feeding signal.  I’ve found a question in my mind, and it’s a question that’s not going away: how can I make such a comfortable living—a much more comfortable living than my parents ever knew—when I don’t work nearly as hard, and when I spend at least twice as much?

I posed the question to as many friends and colleagues as were willing to listen and contemplate.  I got a lot of responses, too, and many of those responses surprised me.  What people told me it came down to, though, was the definition of hard work—and my own supposed inability to understand the worth and value of both physical and mental labor. I admit that perhaps, in my heart, I have more feeling for people who earn “an honest buck” through blood, sweat, and tears than I do for those who earn extravagant lifestyles through corner offices, computers, and conference calls.  But I sit at my computer writing all day on the job, then I sit at my other computer and write some more or—gasp!—read when I get home.  Hardly exhausting (though some days you’d be surprised!).

Other people told me that I’m probably more willing to spend money than my parents are—and that I’m probably more willing to accept longer hours and pursue higher education in order to enable my spending lifestyle. I hate to think of it that way: it forces me to admit that I work at a job I don’t like in order to spend money on items that my work hours prevent me from using and enjoying fully, anyway. So even if I could afford a new vehicle, where would I drive?  To work?

I’m not arguing for a return to the family farm, or the coal mine, or the railroad, or the insert-your-industry-choice here.  I’m just wondering how it is that so many people—particularly within my age group—have come to where they are in life without feeling much sense of personal sacrifice or financial strife.  Especially knowing that the generations before us did.

My answer is more complex than this space will allow, but I believe it comes down to two issues: our different definitions of work, and our culture of consumerism.

My idea that today’s “work” pales in comparison to that of previous generations is not a unique one. In his article “Division of Labor,” which appeared in The Contrarian’s View, Paul Milne suggests that most of what modern Americans describe as “work” is not work at all. According to Milne, “Only a very tiny percent of our population is involved in the actual work of living.” Stating that 70 percent of the current workforce is employed in “service” industries, Milne contends that “when times get really bad, we will have no use whatsoever for the ‘services.’ …When technology fails and people have to resort to actual work, they will find they are skill-less.”

While I disagree that those employed in service industries will find themselves skill-less or helpless when harder economic times emerge, I do believe that many—in fact, most—of Milne’s “skill-less” population will find themselves surprised at the amount of work that hard work requires.  I can’t imagine most people at my workplace trying to bale hay or build homes. And my own experience has taught me that I can sweat and ache in the corn- and bean-fields for sometimes less than $40 each day, or I can sit comfortably and write for sometimes more than $100 each hour.  The choice is not hard to make.

Given harder economic times, however, I believe that Milne’s “skill-less” population would find themselves more appreciative of the many luxuries they now take for granted.  I believe they would find themselves less extravagant, less self-indulgent.  I believe they would begin to truly understand the differences between their wants and their needs, which are perhaps not fully understood today.  In his Boston Review essay (“The Price is Right?”) Jack Gibbons suggests that “the expansion of consumption has…drive[n] down unit costs of goods and services to the point where yesterday's luxuries are today's affordable necessities.”

Gibbons is not alone in his ideas. Harvard senior lecturer Juliet Schor, who authored The Overspent American and The Overworked American, suggests in her article “The New Politics of Consumption” that Americans don’t appreciate the distinctions between wants and needs. Says Schor, “In the not very distant past…need was a social concept with real force. All that's left now is an economy of desire.” To illustrate her point, Schor cites polling data which indicates that over 40 percent of adults who earn $50,000-$100,000 annually believe that they cannot afford to buy everything they really need. I’d be interested to learn if Schor uncovered similar numbers for adults earning five times as much. And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she did.

Purchasing as a Priority

Surely people haven’t changed their desires and priorities so dramatically in such a short time, you say?  You’re probably right. Americans did not (and have not) simply become greedy. The priority of previous generations was probably the same as that of my own generation.  In fact, it is probably the same priority as always: success. Sound vague?  Then let me be clear: more money, faster cars, bigger houses, higher education, more awards, nicer furniture, new stuff.  The American Dream. 

Perhaps you argue (as others have) that these things have always been human—or at least American—priorities.  And I agree. The difference is in the sense of personal entitlement that now comes with them. The relative strength of the recent economy has taught those individuals who’ve never seen harder economic times to sit down—because the wealth of the world is about to be placed in their laps. And I’m not excluding myself from that group, much as I’d like to. When I bought my 4-bedroom, 3-bathroom house, I really felt that I needed that house.  And not for any soon-to-be children; none are in the works.  Just because the house was nice—I liked it and I wanted it.  So I got it.

Our priorities as consumers too often rest on the quantity and quality of “stuff” we’re able to accumulate.  This drive to accumulate might be a result of our wanting to “keep up with the Joneses.” It might be a way for us to reclaim material control of our lives after sacrificing so much emotional, intellectual, and physical control for our jobs.  It might be a result of us wanting more and better opportunities for our children. 

Regardless of its origin, however, the drive to accumulate is a vicious circle. If, to borrow Schor’s example, the ultimate goal is better educational opportunities for children, parents feel compelled to live in well-established (and probably quite expensive) housing developments that are situated in good school districts.  They strive to provide their children with opportunities for extracurricular activities and private lessons, and they want to ensure that their children have access to all the tools and technology they’ll need.  Since many parents cannot provide this kind of opportunity with only one income, both parents choose to remain in the workforce.  But having two parents in the workforce is expensive as well: now they need two vehicles, child-care, and appropriate workplace wardrobes (not to mention dry-cleaning!).  They will also have less time available, so they’ll probably spend money on time-saving and stress-relieving services.  Their end result, instead of better educational opportunities, might just be stress, conflict, and tension.

And therein lies the problem.  Even with our best intentions, we’d have a hard time breaking the consumer cycle.  Even when our motivations are altruistic or noble, our American culture prevents us—or at least strongly discourages us—from stopping our cycle of consumption.

In his essay “Consumerism and the New Capitalism,”R. Cronk defines consumerism as “the myth that [people] will be gratified and integrated by consuming. While consumerism offers the tangible goal of owning a product, it…offers only short-term ego-gratification for those who can afford the luxury—and frustration for those who cannot.”  If Cronk’s idea is accurate, then it is clear why Americans value spending: we see it as a way to be gratified and integrated.  We see it as a sort of tangible proof that we deserve and can afford luxury.

The Finer Things

The desire to buy, own, and enjoy life’s “finer things” has probably been around for as long as life’s finer things have been around.  But the need to buy, own, and enjoy them seems much more recent. So when did Americans start placing so much emphasis and value on spending? 

According to the Public Broadcasting Service (PBS), upscale department stores like John Wanamaker & Company and Marshall Field’s helped introduce “shopping as a leisure activity” when they opened during the 1870s.  Before that time, store attendants simply filled “shopping” baskets with customer requests.  The newly introduced luxury stores, on the other hand, featured relaxing rooms, musical concerts, fountains, and elaborate artwork. Besides being very luxurious and new, however, this concept of shopping also quickly became very successful.  And its success led to its expansion.  In 1896, John Wanamaker introduced aggressive advertising techniques and previously unheard of “money back guarantees” to secure business growth. Americans loved it.  And not long afterward, the Consumer Culture was born.

PBS tells us that the “Consumer Culture,” as it is now known, started around 1925, when General Motors began introducing new automobile models each year.  Inconsequential as it might sound, this change marked a critical turning point in American culture: “it meant that it no longer mattered whether a product worked anymore.  If it didn’t look right, it was out of style and a new one was needed.” In fact, families now often buy new vehicles every year—not because their vehicles don’t work anymore, but because their vehicles have gone out of style. Marketers and advertisers plan and anticipate these shifts.  Businesses force these shifts to increase profits, always looking for new ways to boost consumer spending.  And we go along with their ideas.

There is little debate that the United States has a strong consumer culture; the real debate comes from whether that culture is good or bad.  Consumerism has given us increased access to dishwashers, televisions, radios, microwaves, VCRs, and PCs. Consumerism has given us new homes, with three-car garages that often occupy 900 square feet—about the size of an average home in the 1950s. Consumerism has allowed us to use our extra garage space to store things we own and seldom use: boats, ATV’s, jet skis, camping gear, mountain bikes, exercise equipment, sporting goods, “extra” vehicles, and more.

The High Costs of Consumer Progress

What’s wrong with the kind of progress that has allowed Americans to enjoy comfortable living, you ask?  Well consider the results of our “consumer progress,” courtesy of PBS: Americans spend more time shopping each week than we spend at religious services.  We spend more time shopping than we do playing with our children. The gap between our rich and poor is the widest of any industrial nation’s. And although we comprise only five percent of the world's population, we use nearly a third of its resources and produce almost half of its hazardous waste. We consume five times as much as the average person in Mexico, 10 times as much as the average person in China, and 30 times as much as the average person in India.

In “The New Politics of Consumption,” Schor suggests that “in contemporary American culture, consuming is as authentic as it gets…We shop on our lunch hours, patronize outlet malls on vacation, and satisfy our latest desires with a late-night click of the mouse. Yet for all its popularity, the shopping mania provokes considerable dis-ease: many Americans worry about our preoccupation with getting and spending. They fear we are losing touch with more worthwhile values and ways of living.” Schor continues, explaining that in the 1960s and ‘70’s, Americans debated whether or not they “had been manipulated into participating in a dumbed-down, artificial consumer culture, which yielded few true human satisfactions.”

I’m here to argue that we are, in fact, losing touch with more worthwhile values and ways of living.  I’m here to include myself in that group.  I’m here to insist that we are “yielding few true human satisfactions.”  Finally, I’m here to suggest that the time for change is long overdue. The extravagant, self-indulgent, and pampered lifestyles that many Americans now enjoy are a direct result of our consumer culture.  But that extravagant, self-indulgent, and pampered lifestyle comes at too high a price.

Decreasing Our Consumer Dependence

We can’t change the modern consumer, economic, and business environments overnight, but surely there are steps we can take that might lead us in the right direction.  And it’s critical for us to take those steps; decreasing our consumer dependence helps preserve our environment and our society. Decreasing our consumer dependence might allow us to realize that we can, in fact, reduce the stress and tension that our careers often produce. As a result, we might find that we have more time to spend with our families, to appreciate the outdoors, or to enjoy the hobbies and activities that we’ve worked so long to support.  In fact, according to Affluenza (a televised production of KCTS/Seattle and Oregon Public Broadcasting), “86 percent of Americans who voluntarily cut back their consumption feel happier as a result.”

Instead of preaching about what you should do to decrease your consumer dependence, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do—beginning right now.  And I invite you, with open arms, to join me. 

By the time you read this, I will be living more like my parents. I will patch my old blue jeans instead of throwing them away.  I will serve and eat leftovers until (no offense, Mom) there really are none left over. I will clip coupons and watch for sales and plan trips carefully and carpool.  I will put on a sweatshirt instead of turning up the heat. I will take the advice that I so distinctly remember my mother telling me when I was a child: “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.”

I will stop shopping as a leisure activity; I will no longer shop “just for the sake of shopping.”  I will not allow myself to browse aisles, aimlessly searching for the occasional item that I simply must have.  I will recognize how I’m being manipulated when I enter a store.  Retailers have done their homework: they know that I’ll probably turn toward the right when I walk into their stores, so they place their strongest “impulse” items to my right, just about at eye-level.  Those retailers understand that the number of dollars I spend in their stores is likely to be proportionate to the number of steps I take in their stores—after all, the more I see, the more I’ll want!—so they’ll put their “hottest,” fastest-moving items (the items that most people have come to purchase in the first place) toward the back.  This way, I’ll have to pass and be tempted by all their other merchandise. I will no longer allow myself to be tempted.

I will think before I buy.  Before I make another purchase, I will ask myself these questions, courtesy of Affluenza: Do I need it? Do I want to dust, dry-clean, or otherwise maintain it? Could I borrow it from a friend, neighbor, or family member? Do I already own a suitable substitute for it?  Are the resources that went into it renewable? How many hours will I have to work to pay for it?

I will try my hardest to resist my own culturally-instilled urge for productivity.  Instead of constantly worrying about “getting things done,” I will give myself a chance to relax, to think, to enjoy my surroundings. I will donate the clothing I no longer wear to those who will wear it. When I spend money, I will make every effort to spend it in a way that keeps people working—not in a way that keeps people consuming more resources. I will make good use of every item I own—and if I find that I am not, I will give it to someone who will.

I began this writing thinking about my father’s hard work—but truth be told, he loved it.  He enjoyed being outside, seeing his progress, reaping the benefits of his labor.  His hard work was rewarding for him.  And I think that everyone—myself included—deserves to feel that their work is rewarding, or what’s the point? Bob Rosner, in his ABC News essay “Get Out of the Rat Race,” suggests that Americans too rarely listen to their “quiet internal voice[s]” that question their daily routines. He encourages his readers to ask themselves if simplifying would make them happier.  “Sure,” he says, “you might have to lose some pay, status, or seniority.  But ask the tough questions and you might be surprised at what you discover is really important.”

Bottom line?  If you enjoy your work, then by all means continue.  But if you take a good, honest look at yourself and realize that you’re working solely to afford life’s “extras,” it might be wise to ask yourself how much longer you can truly afford to pay the price of consumerism.