Saturday, January 28, 2012

Lowell on the Yangtze


Apple employs 43,000 people in the U.S. and 20,000 overseas, all dwarfed by its virtual workforce of 700,000 employees of overseas contractors assembling the gadgets we have come to cherish.  Apple describes overseas manufacture as its only viable economic option, and I don't doubt that to be true.  

This information comes from a recent, excellent (oft-blogged) New York Times piece by Charles Duhigg and Keith Bradsher, “How the U.S. Lost Out on iPhone Work.” To make the point, Duhigg and Bradsher tell the story of how the foreman of a Chinese factory roused 8,000 workers inside the company dormitories around midnight, provided them with a biscuit and tea, and within a half hour had them launch into a 12-hour day to implement a last-minute redesign of the Apple iPhone screen.  Within 96 hours the plant was producing 10,000 iPhones a day.  



As one observer noted, that’s breathtaking.

Apple and others argue the overseas migration of jobs is permanent, a function of competitiveness and the need to generate profits to reinvest in innovation.   That’s the pleasant way of saying it.   A less pleasant way was offered by an Apple executive who claimed, “We don’t have an obligation to solve America’s problems.  Our only obligation is making the best product possible.”

Note that Apple has $97.7 billion in cash on its balance sheet.  Note also that Apple and other American companies have been dealing (or not) with complaints about working conditions in their supplier factories for years.  High suicide rates.  Underage labor.   Excessive overtime.  Crowded dorms.  Fires.  Explosions.  Hazardous waste.  Falsified records.  One Apple executive opined, “The system works for us.  Suppliers would change everything tomorrow if Apple told them they didn’t have another choice.”

Reinforcing where the real trouble lies, however, another noted, “Right now customers care more about a new iPhone than conditions in China.” Wall Street backed that rationale in August when Apple became the most valuable company in the world based on market cap.



Not so very far from my front door is the city of Lowell, considered the epitome of the early American industrial revolution with its large-scale, mechanized production and cheap labor.   By 1846 Lowell’s mills were producing almost one million yards of cloth a week; until the Civil War it was the largest concentration of industry in America.  For the 19th century, Lowell was breathtaking.

The workers were mostly young women recruited from nearby farms and housed in large, supervised boardinghouses.  They came to Lowell for independence, for cultural and religious opportunities, and for money.  Many only stayed a year but when they returned home could possess bank accounts of $25 or more.

In return, the women worked long hours every day except Sunday.  Summer days might last 14 hours, with the workers on their feet every minute.  The factory bells sent them to work at 4:50 a.m., rang them out at 7 p.m., and called curfew at 10 p.m.  One wrote that they worked “to the obedience of that ding-dong of the bell--just as though we were so many living machines.”


The mills also regulated conduct outside of the factory, expecting, among other requirements, regular church attendance.  Women who did not conform were blacklisted, never to work in a city mill again.



A decade after the first mill opened, protests began.  


In 1837, Sarah Bagley entered the Lowell mills and, gaining a full appreciation for the conditions, organized the Lowell Female Reform Association.  One of the Association’s primary struggles was to win a 10-hour day, eventually petitioning the Massachusetts state legislature.
We, the undersigned peaceable, industrious, hardworking men and women of Lowell. . .toiling from thirteen to fourteen hours per day, confined in unhealthy apartments, exposed to the poisonous contagion of air, vegetable, animal and mineral properties, debarred from proper Physical exercise, time for Mental discipline, and Mastication cruelly limited; and thereby hastening us on through pain, disease, and privation, down to a premature grave. . .seek a redress of those evils.  
In countering the argument that the girls of Lowell had voluntarily accepted a 12-hour day, Bagley wrote, “Is any one such a fool as to suppose that out of six thousand factory girls of Lowell, sixty would be there if they could help it?”

I wrote part of this post on an iPad, so I’m far, far from casting the first stone.  I understand that a CEO's and company's overwhelming priority is to build value for shareholders. I also have experience--and a particular fascination--with large, interconnected systems where, when everyone optimizes his or her own segment, lots of other people get hurt.


Think about the rise of the iPad and iPhone: Apple wins, investors win, consumers win, America wins, China wins, Apple's suppliers win and--like the farm girls seeking a better life in the Lowell mills--the Chinese workers win, too. Right?


Every segment wins and a whole bunch of good people suffer.


If the workers were slaves we'd be outraged. Yet, when a laborer is simply trapped, used and abused--and not owned--it's easier to overlook the inconvenient truth.


This I believe: When conditions involve loss of human dignity, eventually something gives.  We can hope it’s the emergence of enlightened management, sound government and maybe even a rising middle class.  We can hope it happens sooner rather than later, and we can sometimes even help make it happen.



But it’s hard to think that treating workers like production units--which might yield momentarily breathtaking results--constitutes anything like a long-term national competitive advantage.  It didn’t in Lowell.  I doubt it will in China, either.

(With thanks to friend Rupert for a good lunch--and helping push this idea along.)

Thursday, January 19, 2012

The Brilliance of Poor Penmanship

Please answer the following two questions:

It takes five machines five minutes to make five widgets.  How long does it take 100 machines to make 100 widgets?  100 minutes or 5 minutes?

If a field of lily pads doubles in size every day, covering an entire pond on day 48, how many days does it take to cover half the pond?  24 or 47?

Got your answers?

I'm slowly making my way through Daniel Kahneman's brilliant new book, Thinking, Fast and Slow, discovering all the ways we unintentionally sabotage ourselves.  The concept of fast vs. slow thinking--what happens when the wrong one emerges at the wrong time, or the kind of thinking you really need is just plumb tuckered-out--is endlessly fascinating.  This is not "left brain-right brain" pop psychology, either, but Nobel laureate material.

Coincident with reading Kahneman, I've also been bemoaning once again my hideous handwriting. I find my penmanship even more frustrating now that there are very cool apps for the iPad, like NotesPlus, that carefully translates all of my scribblings into (what is apparently) Hungarian.

As for the two questions above, they were given to two groups of Princeton students.  Everything was equal except one set of questions was neatly typed and easy to read, and the other set was in washed-out grey font the students had to work to read.

Of those reading the neatly typed questions, 90% got at least one wrong.  Of those struggling to read the washed-out questions, only 30% got at least one wrong.

Kahneman's conclusion is that those who were challenged cognitively to understand the problem were forced to think harder, and because of that, came up with the correct answer more often.

(There's another conclusion a Brown grad might make about a Princeton grad, but I'll hold on that one.)

If Kahneman's theory is correct, all the notes I've taken in my perpetual notebooks for the last 30 years should, upon re-reading, turn me into a flippin' genius.

By the way, if you'd like the answers to these questions, please send me a self-addressed, stamped envelope and I'll write them down for you.  I can't promise it'll help, though.




Sunday, January 15, 2012

The Unexpected Turn (Roller Coasters, Past and Future)


Engineers who design roller coasters will tell you that speed is essential for a great ride, but it’s the unexpected turn that makes for a truly unforgettable experience.  That helps explain, for example, the success of Disney’s Space Mountain; it’s not the biggest or fastest roller coaster in the land, but being in the dark--where every turn is unexpected--can make for a memorable ride.

Such is true of the future.  We’re fixated on the speed of change, but it’s the unexpected turn that can be so memorable.  Everyone anticipated the PC becoming smaller, sleeker and smarter, but almost nobody expected the iPad.  Those of us who live in the pitch black of consumer technology’s space mountain really enjoyed that unexpected turn.

Anticipating the unforeseen is how futurists, technologists, stock-pickers, and sci fi writers make their mark.  All the vectors point right, but they anticipate left.

What works with roller coasters and the future, I’ve discovered recently, also works--somewhat unexpectedly--with the past.

One of my favorite movies of 2011 was Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris.  Gil Pender, played by Owen Wilson, falls in love with Paris while his wife pines for Malibu, a good indication that their troubles are more than just geographic.  In the course of the movie Pender experiences the true magic of the city when, one midnight, he stumbles into a kind of time warp, stepping out into the 1920s with the likes of Cole Porter, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, and Ernest Hemingway.



That’s the first unexpected turn.  As an audience we’re suddenly thrust into a whole new time period, and Allen does it convincingly enough--though Hemingway is an absolute hoot, and Salvador Dali sees nothing unusual about time travel--that it takes a few minutes to adjust.

As Pender spends a series of evenings in 1920s Paris, he meets and falls in love with Picasso’s mistress, Adriana.  It turns out that she is also pining for the past, but the past of 1890’s Paris.   When they (and we) are suddenly transported to a night club peopled by Tolouse-Latrec, Gaugin and Degas, it’s like a second unexpected turn of the coaster, a double turn of history that is as enjoyable as it is preposterous.

I had a similar experience at Gettysburg battlefield a few years ago, stepping out of our 21st century world to immerse myself in a 19th-century battlefield.  In fact, Gettysburg is about as convincing as time travel gets.   But, just as I was feeling comfortable in the milieu of 1863, I strolled into the battlefield’s museum and encountered videos of the 1938, 75th-anniversary reunion of veterans at Gettysburg.  (The video is here.)



It’s something akin to an abrupt turn in the dark to return from walking Pickett’s Charge to suddenly see aged Yanks and Rebs, decked out in dress suits of blue and grey, shaking hands across a stone wall in Depression-era America.

Last week I read about the opening of the New York Stock Exchange’s impressive new building at 18 Broad Street in April 1903.  For almost two years the Exchange had been in hired quarters.  The ceremony that April day included thousands of visitors, ticker tape floating down from neighboring skyscrapers, and the Seventh Regiment Band playing popular tunes near the bank of telephone booths on the east side of the new building.  Around 11 a.m., J. Pierpont Morgan strode to the speakers’ platform, and after introductory remarks and the formal transfer of the building from the construction committee, the president of the Exchange, Rudolph Kempler, spoke. 



He reminded the crowd that they lived at a time when “every portion of the civilized globe is so linked to the other by means of modern scientific methods and devices of transmission that every important happening in any part of the world is almost instantly recorded in every city, on all the continents. . . .”  The mayor of New York, Seth Low, told the crowd that without the Exchange “the great improvements now contemplated by the railroads entertaining this city would be impossible.” (Low also served on the committee building the Brooklyn Bridge.)

The New York Times painted a wonderful old scene from the turn of the century when, suddenly, Kempler introduced William Alexander Smith, the oldest member of the Exchange--too old, in fact, to deliver his own address.  Kempler read for Smith, “When I entered the Exchange in 1844. . .I remember the dignified body of middle-aged gentlemen I found there, numbering less than 100, seated around tables with the cumbersome books in which they scrupulously recorded each transaction as made, and which was duly recorded by the Secretary upon the rostrum, which record, after being read, became binding upon the members.”

Just as I was settling into the world of J. Pierpont Morgan, the expanding railroad and the emerging telephone, I took the unexpected turn back to the New York City of the brand new telegraph, Washington Irving and Cornelius Vanderbilt.



Way cool, as they say around here.  A completely unexpected turn.  Another mild case of historical whiplash. Better than a roller coaster.  Heck, even better than a Woody Allen movie.

Still not as good as an iPad, though.