Greed and the human cost of a trendy T-shirt

By Ian Blecher

It's not hard to have an opinion about sweatshops--it's the kind of issue Bill Clinton, LAW '73, might finally wrestle with now that he's a second-term president. After all, I'm an American: I like apple pie, football, beer, and that my country's workers are exploited less than those in the rest of the world. I'd even be willing to wager a crisp dollar bill that most of you (at least the subset of you who enjoy beer and/or pie) would agree with me. So why do I need to write about sweatshops?

After all, if you've ever spent any time in the garment industry, you probably know all about sweatshops, since there's a good chance you worked in one. That's because in New York, 2,000 out of 6,000 textile manufacturers are sweatshops. In Miami, it's 400 out of 500, and in Los Angeles, there are 4500 sweatshops (this figure doesn't even include trendy health spas). So frankly, I'm surprised you haven't worked 15 hours a day at 27 cents an hour in cramped and hot conditions to make shirts for brand-name companies. Now, I know what you're going to tell me: "I tried to get a job in a sweatshop in high school, but they wouldn't hire me, because I was only 14. No wonder they have such a bad reputation--they discriminate." Well, my imaginary friend, that probably wasn't a sweatshop. Sweatshops don't discriminate against anyone, including children. That's what's good about them, I guess.

Since you already know about sweatshops, what does this matter? I'll tell you a story, and you can sit back and relax.

Once upon a time (August 2, 1995), a nice young woman decided to move from her home in a faraway (Thai)land to El Monte, California. She decided to make something of herself, and so she got a job in a clothing factory. Although it seemed strange to her that it was surrounded by a high fence and barbed wire, she trusted the manager (after all, he was American like many of you), and was happy to recognize 69 other expatriots sewing there. At first, the job was fun; sewing clothes for the May Company was exciting and challenging. But after awhile, she wanted to go home. When she tried to leave, she found all the entrances blocked, and a guard threatened to rape and kill her if she left. At the end of a 22-hour day, she collected her $11 (before taxes) and slept for two hours before returning to work.

I hope you enjoyed that. You might as well get some entertainment out of sweatshops, since they're not going away, and they're not doing their workers any good.

"But," you say, "I get a lot of fun stuff out of sweatshops! Look at this Gap T-shirt! It's like a party on my chest, and everyone's invited. Without sweatshops, I wouldn't be able to get it for the low, low price of $20!"

I'm glad you're excited and proud of what American capitalism has produced. That's great. But let me tell you a little secret: without the Gap, that shirt would cost you $4.80. Six workers made a total of $1.60 on it. I'm sure they celebrated with a burger at the Doodle. Why's the shirt so costly? It's called exploitation, which leads to profit. So why do you buy it? It's called fetishism and it got Marv Albert fired. Don't end up like Marv. Don't let your country and your fans down. Don't buy from sweatshops.

Don't buy from the Gap, Guess, Champion, Lord and Taylor, May Co, Hecht's, Foley's, Robinson-May, or Filene's--not only are their clothes gauche, but they're made by individuals whose families are larger than their hourly wage.

Unfortunately, boycotting isn't enough. After all, sweatshops are a great deal for corporate caballers. So if you really care, write these companies (Mr. Guess is a very nice man, I hear) and tell them to stop the exploitation.

If you still don't know why I wrote this, let me explain. Despite general agreement that sweatshops are bad, and despite the fact that we live in a democracy, the number of sweatshops in this country has tripled since 1977. Sweatshops are horrible, yet complaining hasn't stopped them. So maybe you ought to direct some commodified fetishism towards the multimillionaire owners: give Mr. Guess a bite for me--and for America.

Back to Opinion...