Rethinking Teen Work in a Changing Economy

The adage that teachers tend to know their students better than their own parents do has a lot of truth to it. Even the most concerned and caring parent, in this tough economy, needs to hold down a full and/or time job and sometimes two (or three – many of my parents have weekend jobs). And what is Mom typically doing while Dad is out working hard? The same thing. Working, trying to provide their children with a decent standard of living so that they might, one day soon, get ahead in this relentless and unforgiving job market. And “getting ahead” means earning a college degree, at least at the Bachelors level (but preferably the Masters).

Over the past few decades the debate over the value of a college education has largely been settled. College isn’t for everyone, but the lifelong economic, social and health advantages of being formally educated, compared to not, are indisputable.

So all of this meandering about parents working and kids aiming for college gets to the central question of this blog: Should we send our teens out to work?

I’m from a working class family. My father left my mother penniless in the early 1970’s, and to her credit, my mother got training and became a paralegal. My earliest memories, probably from age four or five, was travelling to downtown Newark, via Springfield Avenue from our Irvington home, in the searing July heat to apply and receive food stamps and other benefits. I remember clearly, looking between the buildings, seeing junkies shoot up in the middle of the day while hearing Elton John belt out “Benny and the Jets” on 77WABC.

My mother worked hard, and with some help from her loving parents (rest their souls) raised our family up to a middle class lifestyle. We moved to a modest but comfortable apartment in Parsippany and lived well, even enjoying annual trips to Florida or Washington, D.C. I would not experience poverty again until my college years when, stricken with leukemia, my mother was unable to help me (She’s since recovered and is now retired).

During my teen years I remember well my mother lauding the values of hard work, of manual labor. My beloved late Grandfather Barney frequently chimed into such conversations. My grandfather was a retired postal worker and Good Humor ice cream truck driver, and had raised three children in Irvington. One of my earliest memories of him was walking through the then-new Livingston Mall, peering into the shops. “Do you see these people, behind the registers, helping people try on shoes Daniel?” he would ask. “These people know what they’re doing. They’re earning their way, saving, building. These are our people, and these are the folks that literally make the world go ‘round. One day you’ll have to stop focusing on your Pop Rocks, Tonka trucks and Simon games and join them, but believe me, it’ll be worth it.”

Once I turned 14 my mother announced that it was time to be a “man” and go out and find a job. Of course she didn’t mean dropping out of school and finding factory work – my mother and her entire family were huge believers in education. It was time to find some part-time work, to, as my mother said, “Pay for your own Friday nights at the movies, get those sneakers you’ve always wanted, and perhaps save up for a car. Besides, girls don’t like boys with no money.” So off to work I went. Looking back, I now realize that it was a huge mistake and a total waste of time, though I don’t hold this against my mother.

My work experiences between ages 14 and 18 were consistently crummy, filled with boredom, exploitation and occasionally real danger. I had two jobs that dominated these years. The first was at a fast food joint. It was the only job I ever got outright fired from. At age 14 my job was to (illegally) empty the scalding hot frying tanks. One night, after getting a new pump, my manager was hasty in giving me directions on how to operate it. It was late and I got confused. Closing up after a required, scheduled six-hour shift on a school night, I accidentally reversed the pump, spilling the equivalent of hot lava all over the restaurant. The oil was so hot I remember my sneakers literally melting under my feet as I foolishly tried to clean the spill up. A small splattering of the scorching grease got on my hand, causing a painful sore that would take weeks to heal. My 6’ 5” boss, then returning to lock up, was furious and fired me on the spot. “Kurz, get the #@#% out. Don’t ever come back here,” he yelled.

I remember walking home that night and seeing my mom. I looked a mess. “How’s my working man? How did the night go?” When I told her I got fired, she couldn’t believe it. I was embarrassed. I failed her and my grandparents. It was my first lesson in the reality of teen work. Employers will work you hard, for long hours, pay you minimum wage, and fire you on the spot if they deem it necessary.

My mother wasn’t unduly harsh on me. “Just chock it up as a lesson learned,” she replied. “There’s always another burger joint.” She was tired from her own 10 hour shift, and was right, but she was wrong too. She didn’t understand. It’s worth noting that I was not totally honest with her concerning the circumstances of my “termination.”

What I now know is this: my mother, instead of consoling me and heading to bed, should have called the police. That manager violated numerous workplace safety rules, hourly and durational requirements for minors, and numerous other offenses not to mention endangering my personal welfare through his negligence and arrogance. We should have sought real criminal and civil charges against him and the restaurant. But I was a kid, and kids think that they’ll live forever, and seek to brush things off and quickly move on. It’s probably the reason why adults have so much ‘baggage’ years later. 

My second work experience lasted for three years at a business that no longer exists called Bradlees. A department store, it was like a smaller version of Walmart, but with more expensive prices and no grocery section. When I first interviewed, I told them I wanted a moderate schedule, perhaps two days after school a week and one weekend day. Within two months I was scheduled for six days a week, including a Sunday. Summers were spent working full time. Any request for a lighter schedule or, God forbid, an “unpaid day off” would consistently bring on termination threats from my managers, who were exhausted themselves. Within a year I was making $4.00 an hour, and over $110 a week – a small fortune for a 16 year old in the mid-1980’s. I spent hours upon hours standing, performing register work, collecting shopping carts in the freezing cold, rain and snow while dodging distracted drivers and late night truck deliveries. I even worked a few “overnights.” During one I was so sleepy I almost crushed my arm in the trash compactor. But in all fairness to Bradlees, there was no equivalent to what had happened at my first job. I spent a lot of time there and made a lot of money. I used that money, as my mother advised, to go to movies and to buy exceptionally cool sneakers. The saving up part was apparently something I missed.

While I was working at the burger joint and later at Bradlees, my friends’ parents had a different approach. It wasn’t that they lacked interest in teaching their children the ‘value of money,’ but rather, the ‘value of skilled labor.’ While I toiled they attended afternoon tutoring and enrichment classes. In the summertime they interned at law firms, banks and medical offices, or, once in high school, enrolled in college classes. Three of my friends actually spent the summer of ’87 as volunteers at one of New York’s most prestigious museums. As I toiled for my $4.00 and hour at Bradlees, they were learning and growing and networking with professionals. While I pushed carts in 101 degree weather, with the parking lot dissolving at my feet, they were introduced to the first PC’s and Mac’s. They were working and preparing, yes, but preparing to join the middle class. Even in the 1980’s, many of us suspected that by the time we reached adulthood there would be no way anyone could maintain a decent standard of living through manual labor. We were right. Terrifyingly right.

Before I move on to talk about my own students, it ought to be stated that I did attend college, eventually earning a B.A. in history and an M.A. in political science from Rutgers. It was a much harder road than it ought to have been…but that’s a story for another blog.

Today I’m a social studies teacher at an urban school in Newark, New Jersey. An overwhelming majority of my kids are being raised in single parent homes. Parents are out working constantly. Students are being encouraged, sometimes compelled, to go out and work.

The decade is different but the stories are disturbingly similar. I have twenty students with fast food jobs, and their experience with long hours and dangerous, illegal conditions are common. Many more work for department stores or small businesses. Regardless of location or what is being sold, the situations are the same. Long hours. Disrespectful treatment. Terminations. Boredom. Danger.

My students are being told what I was told. Work is good practice for life. Life is hard, and it’s important to learn to appreciate and manage an income. But while the story is the same, so are the patterns. I have yet to find a single boss or business that would rather hire 5 teens when they can hire one to work for the same hours. Employers are not interested in moderation or education. I’m not saying that they’re heartless, mean people, but they’re running a business. They don’t have the money or time to bend and accommodate the needs of their most vulnerable workers, our teens. And yes, some of these employers are unduly cruel and exploitive, because they know that kids don’t have knowledge of the law and will try to remain as pliant as possible. Good kids don’t want to get fired. They don’t want to “fail.”

So while my Newark-based (mostly African-American and Latino) students are working, working, working, what are their predominantly white counterparts doing in nearby communities like West Orange, Milburn and Short Hills? Those children are being prepared to join a higher-valued labor force. Like so many of my friends as a teen, these teens are working on their education, making connections with the professional community, learning not how to work for a business but how to establish and run one.

I haven’t exactly taken a scientific study on this phenomenon, but I can assure you that it’s the standard situation in the Garden State. Yes, there are some urban students who are involved in collegiate programs and/or internships, but it’s a miniscule number compared to those in suburban and rural settings.

So what do I tell my students when they ask for my advice on a job search? I tell them this: working is good. Surviving and prospering in life requires a steady work ethic, but it is important in life that you not only work hard, but work smart. Do not waste your time, at least not for very long, employed at a job that is not going to reward you by increasing your skills and experience. Avoid businesses where your bosses just see you as another worker, albeit a younger one. Go somewhere where you can learn something, even if you’re working for free. Find a law firm, a university, a library, a large corporation and start to learn the ropes. Start working on a skillset that, in the long term, will be sure to bring you more opportunity, higher wages and better job security.

What about my students who reply that even though my advice might be good, they have to earn money in order to buy the basics for themselves: food, clothing, school supplies, antibiotics, dentist bills. I then end the conversation right there and then, and contact DYFS. There’s nothing wrong with parents sending their kids out to earn some extra money or learn, but it is not the job for children to financially support themselves. This isn’t the London of Dickens. That’s not a matter of my opinion, it’s the law.

We should not send our kids out to work, at least in the way it’s been previously understood. A minimum wage, no or low skills job merely prepares a teen, and this is in the best of circumstances, for a life of insecurity and poverty. Workplaces like fast food joints, pizzerias and department stores are no place for a young person to spend countless hours; they need their minds cultivated to create a fertile future. Our kids really don’t need cash; that’s our job as adults. They need a place to grow.