Abstract
In Hustle and Gig: Struggling and Surviving in the Sharing Economy, Alexandrea Ravenelle sheds much-needed light on the lived experience of laboring in the gig economy. Through interviews with nearly 80 people who earn money through four very different types of “gigs”—Airbnb, Uber, TaskRabbit, and Kitchensurfing—Ravenelle explores a range of worker experiences in this emergent sector of the economy.
Such experiences, she argues, fall along a spectrum of three categories. The first she calls “Success Stories”: these are the Airbnb hosts and skilled personal chefs (working for the now-defunct Kitchensurfing) who are able to leverage their capital or skills to achieve financial security and autonomy through these platforms. Yet even these relatively high-status gigs, Ravenelle notes, require a fair amount of “hustle,” including the substantial emotional and physical labor needed to maintain (in some cases illegal) Airbnb hotels in the face of city and landlord restrictions, while also managing the omnipresent fear of “one bad review” (p. 13).
At the other end of Ravenelle’s spectrum are the “Strugglers.” These are the workers who, unable to find a “good” job in the formal labor market, try to make ends meet by cobbling together jobs on platforms such as Uber and TaskRabbit. Rather than the insecurity-tinged success and autonomy of the first group, these workers find only low wages, extreme insecurity and instability, and a never-ending hustle to keep their heads above water. In between these two groups are the “Strivers,” the workers who have “regular” jobs and use gig work to supplement their incomes, however modestly.
For all three groups, Ravenelle details their experiences of injury, sexual harassment, and customer pressure to cross the bounds of legality at work. For instance, she describes David’s injury at a cooking gig while working for Kitchensurfing. Upon entering the clients’ home, David took off his snowy boots at their request. At the end of the meal, he packed his stuff into a heavy backpack and then hopped into his boots, slipping and twisting his knee so badly that he fell to the floor. Despite having what turned out to be a herniated disk that would require surgery, David had two more cooking jobs that night. He hobbled to the subway. “‘I fell down the subway stairs a couple of times,’” he told Ravenelle. “‘My knee just gave out. I couldn’t feel it. It was numb’” (p. 96). He called Kitchensurfing the next day. They were “‘nice’” about it, he said, telling him to “‘Take as much time as you need’” (p. 96). But of course, Ravenelle notes, as an independent contractor David did not qualify for paid time off or workers’ compensation. He simply lost work time and income; and he remains injured, unable to take time off for the invasive surgery.
Ravenelle also describes one of Hector’s experiences working for Uber, driving a group of men around the outer boroughs of New York City as they seemed to engage in drug deals. As Hector told Ravenelle, I was driving them around for an hour, multiple stops. One guy would get out, he would run to wherever it was and then come right back. And then I’d go to another, and then one would get out; or they would swap and pick someone else up . . . I think they’re doing illegal activity of selling [drugs]. And I was encouraging them to go to college . . . [and] trying to make small talk. (p. 146)
Hector felt reasonably comfortable until his passengers dealt to someone who, Hector said, “‘looked like he was up to no good’” (p. 146). But Hector felt trapped. The men insisted that he keep driving them around the city, and he felt unable to argue otherwise. Finally, Hector convinced the men that he needed to get home to dinner. But they only let him go, he recalled, after they got his phone number and dialed it to make sure that it was not fake. Afterward, Hector considered reporting the incident to Uber, but he felt too vulnerable and exposed. They had his phone number, and he worried that he would face reprisal if the men were deactivated by the app (p. 147).
Ultimately, Ravenelle argues, despite the gig economy’s promise of “an idyllic, boss-free future, where workers control their incomes and hours,” this sector more closely “resembles the early industrial age, where workers worked long hours in a piecemeal system, workplace safety was nonexistent, and there were few options for redress” (pp. 5–6). In short, Ravenelle asserts, the gig economy is “truly a movement forward into the past” (p. 6).
As such passages suggest, Ravenelle situates these new forms of gig work alongside late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century work in America, characterized by industrialization, labor activism, and, ultimately, New Deal labor protections. Ravenelle writes, “Today, many workers benefit from policies fought for by early unions and their striking workers: the minimum wage, a forty-hour work week, and even the simple recognition of unions as representing workers. But for workers in the sharing economy, it’s as though none of these labor battles were ever fought, much less won” (p. 71).
This is a critically important argument, and Ravenelle makes it persuasively. Yet using the New Deal as the gig economy’s point of departure, however compelling, mistakenly portrays this sector as a sudden reversal of labor standards rather than what it is: the continuation of a long and broad assault on working conditions and workplace protections in the United States since at least the 1970s, as evidenced by the rise of union busting, global sourcing, sweatshops, temp work, day labor, involuntary part-time work, adjunct labor, just-in-time scheduling, and employee misclassification as independent contractors (long before Uber). Indeed, positioning the gig economy as an extension of these trends would only strengthen Ravenelle’s analysis, revealing this sector to be an important piece of a broader historical shift, rather than a new and possibly unique corner of the labor market.
Toward this end, for the remainder of the essay I situate Ravenelle’s analysis of the gig economy alongside those of other sectors of nonstandard work. First, I compare gig companies’ illusory promises of autonomy, choice, and flexibility to an early practitioner of the “gig” arts: temp agencies of the 1950s and 1960s. Then I analyze workers’ interpretations and uneven embrace of such promises, comparing those of the workers in Hustle and Gig to the day laborers in Gretchen Purser’s ethnographic research. Finally, I place Ravenelle’s study in the context of Benjamin Snyder’s analysis of work time—and its disruption—with the rise of flexible capitalism.
In Hustle and Gig, Ravenelle rightly interrogates gig companies’ rhetoric of autonomy, choice, and flexibility. “‘Be your own boss,’” Uber tells potential workers (p. 53). “‘You’re in control,’” Airbnb assures future hosts (p. 47). “‘As a Tasker,’” an ad for TaskRabbit declares, “‘you can use your skills and free time to become a microentrepreneur and build your business’” (p. 56). Meanwhile, when it was still in business, Kitchensurfing promised chefs that its platform would enable them to “‘grow [their] business’” as a “‘private chef’” (p. 59).
Such rhetoric echoes that of another sector in another era, when temp agencies of the postwar era promised white middle-class “housewives” flexibility, choice, and autonomy through temporary employment. I analyze such rhetoric in my book The Temp Economy: From Kelly Girls to Permatemps in Postwar America (2011). I describe, for example, Kelly Girl’s 1960 ad promising the (implicitly white middle-class) woman that temp work would fulfill her “‘yearning . . . to meet new people . . . to go to new places . . . to earn her own money . . . to do new things’” (2011:41). Likewise, temp agency Manpower assured white middle-class women that, with temporary employment, a woman could be “‘a temporary office worker when she chooses . . . She works when she wants to . . . and meets new people all the time . . . enjoys life more’” (2011:42). And early temp agency Western Girl told white middle-class women that temporary employment would fulfill their “‘dreams’” of flexibility and autonomy in the workplace: “‘Hitch your wagon to Western Girl where those ‘dream’ jobs are waiting now! Dream of working the hours you choose . . . dream of working as long or as little as you wish . . . dream of selecting firms, assignments and fields you prefer . . . at HIGH temporary rates! Who has more of the ‘Dream’ temporary jobs? WESTERN GIRLS” (2011:46).
As this small selection of advertisements suggests, themes of choice, autonomy, and flexibility were pervasive in early temp industry rhetoric. Yet even then such promises were illusory, as they are for most of the gig workers in Ravenelle’s study. But, as I argue in The Temp Economy, these promises were not just empty rhetoric. Temp agencies strategically used such rhetoric—and, importantly, the cultural assumption that white middle-class women were not “real” workers—to carve out a space for this unprotected casualized sector of the labor market at the height of the New Deal. Then, after having done so, they expanded their efforts: trying to convince employers across the labor market that all permanent employees could and should be replaced with temps. In this way, the temp industry powerfully contributed to the broad-based assault on working conditions and workplace protections in the United States, and today’s gig economy is both product and producer of that ongoing assault.
Such rhetorical promises of autonomy, choice, and flexibility are not unique to temp and gig companies, of course. With the rise of nonstandard work across labor market sectors, many companies have adopted such rhetoric, while workers themselves have had to navigate this new cultural landscape in which they are cast as the “bosses” of their own economic fates. In Ravenelle’s study, for example, Uber driver Bryan was frustrated when rhetoric and reality collided after he was reprimanded by Uber for not accepting more (low-paying) jobs. As Ravenelle writes, “Bryan thought he was going to be free to make decisions about who he would pick up, like a true ‘driver-partner’ (what Uber calls its drivers)” (p. 79). But despite being an independent contractor rather than an employee, Bryan found that he was not “free” to make such decisions and continue driving for Uber. TaskRabbit workers found themselves similarly frustrated after the company set strict response times and acceptance rates, leaving them little control over their work schedules and activities. As Tasker Sarah explained to Ravenelle, “‘You have to accept 85 percent of what’s given to you . . . and you don’t know what you are going to get or when you are going to get it’” (p. 79). If workers do not meet such expectations, Ravenelle notes, they risk losing access to such work altogether.
Despite these disillusionments, at least some gig workers continue to seek—and find—a sense of control and autonomy in their work. For instance, Rebecca described her strategy for staying in control over TaskRabbit work: quickly responding to job requests, but not necessarily accepting them. As she explained to Ravenelle, I’m quick. My average [response rate] is three minutes. . . . But you don’t have to accept it. Here’s the thing: I will respond with a chat right away. Rarely do I just accept. I always want to ask first, “Exactly what time do you need me?” . . . I’m not just floating around waiting at your beck and call. I have things to do. This is marginal. This is not my life. You are not my life. (p. 84)
In this way, Rebecca felt that she could maintain at least a semblance of control over a job that expected her to be on call for more than 80 hours a week, while offering only low wages and unpredictable work.
Rebecca’s strategy echoes that of other workers in low-wage, marginalized, casualized jobs, including the day laborers in Purser’s ethnographic work. By all accounts, day labor is a very “bad” job, characterized by extremely low wages, high instability and unpredictability, unsafe working conditions, and often illegal labor practices. Nonetheless, as Purser describes in her article “The Dignity of Job-Seeking Men: Boundary Work Among Immigrant Day Laborers” (2009), these workers seek—and find—a sense of autonomy, control, and even dignity in their labor. For instance, in describing day labor to Purser, Margarito emphasized his ability to exert control over his work: The work is hard and you never know what you’re going to get, but I can come and go when I want and I can negotiate the pay. The truth is that I have autonomy. If a guy comes by here looking for someone to work for $6 an hour, I can say “never.” I’m a hard worker and know I can earn more than that. So, if you’re ambitious, a little creative, and you work hard, it’s really good on the corner because you can start building up clients who come back for you regularly. I have five clients now. (2009:126)
Other day laborers articulated their own sense of control and autonomy by emphasizing their skills and professionalism. For instance, day laborer Eduardo told Purser, Sometimes the employers pull up here and ask me if I know how to, for example, drywall. I say, “Look, patron, I’m a dry waller, a construction worker, a carpenter, a window installer, a landscaper, a mover, a roofer, a plumber, a painter. I can do everything.” On the corner, I’ve had jobs of all types. Each day is something different. I know people look at me standing out here and think I’m a miserable guy, but I know . . . and God knows . . . I have more skills than them. I can do everything. [In a resolute tone] I tell the boss “hire me” and if he is not happy with my work, he does not have to pay me. (2009:127)
Thus, just like Tasker Rebecca in Ravenelle’s study, Eduardo and Margarito in Purser’s study claim a sense of control over their unpredictable work lives. “‘Rarely do I just accept’” a job, Rebecca said. “‘I can say “never,”’” Margarito declared. “‘I’m a hard worker and know I can earn more than that.’” “‘I tell the boss “hire me” and if he is not happy with my work, he does not have to pay me,’” Eduardo proclaimed. Highlighting the connections between these diverse groups of workers not only underscores the links between the gig economy and other sectors of precarious work. It deepens our understanding of the ways in which workers navigate precarity in this late-twentieth-century transformation of work—a transformation that has been falsely advertised as an “opportunity” for workers to find autonomy and flexibility on the job.
Benjamin Snyder examines the costs of such “opportunities” in his book The Disrupted Workplace: Time and the Moral Order of Flexible Capitalism (2016). Through his analysis of truck drivers, financial professionals, and unemployed job-seekers, Snyder argues that “work time” has been fundamentally disrupted with the rise of flexible capitalism, and workers are suffering as a result. For instance, Snyder notes, even though privileged workers ostensibly have flexible workplaces and high levels of autonomy, they also face “constant deadlines, constantly changing work teams, and high performance expectations [that] can fill these environments with stressful time pressures” (p. 6). Meanwhile, more peripheral workers experience what Snyder calls a “strange combination of both underemployment and overwork” (p. 6). Increasingly on call while hustling to work enough hours to make ends meet, Snyder aptly describes such workers as “economically insecure because of a lack of good paying full time jobs, but also frazzled from trying to coordinate a chaotic assemblage of irregular schedules” (p. 7).
Not surprisingly, many of the workers in Hustle and Gig fall into this latter group: underemployed and overworked, both economically and temporally stressed. For example, as TaskRabbit worker Michael told Ravenelle, ‘“If you add the time that I’m sitting there looking for tasks, then who knows how long. . . . It might be three hours for every hour that I’m billing, but I don’t know that I can really count . . . I mean, I’m sitting there looking for tasks while I’m doing a crossword puzzle or having lunch or whatever’” (p. 84). So, on the one hand, Michael suggested that he was able to continue his normal activities while looking for tasks, so those hours might not “count” as work hours. On the other hand, Michael explained that, in order to get tasks, he constantly had to monitor and refresh the app. “‘Unless I’m missing some setting that will allow me to enjoy my life,’” he told Ravenelle, “‘you have to keep clicking [refresh]. . . . So I spend a lot of time going like this: “click” crossword, crossword, crossword, “click,” crossword, crossword, crossword, “click”‘“ (p. 84). Likewise, Tasker Donald told Ravenelle, “‘[It’s] nerve-wracking at times, because you can’t always constantly be thinking about TaskRabbit.’” “‘You know, thirty minutes [to respond], I think, is a decent amount of time, because usually, I almost always have my cell phone on. But say I’m cleaning the bathroom in my apartment. I may not realize that thirty minutes have gone by. You can make yourself unavailable, but [then] you’re not getting any business. So it’s sort of a double-edged sword’” (p. 83).
Donald and Michael’s experiences of disrupted time are strikingly similar to those of the workers in Snyder’s book. In fact, Snyder could be referring to Donald and Michael when he writes of workers who “described a frustratingly staccato experience of the flow of their lives that disrupted their sleep patterns, unsettled their nerves, disordered their careers, and generally made it difficult to anticipate the future” (p. 4). By situating Ravenelle’s study of gig workers within Snyder’s analysis of work time, we gain a broader understanding of how workplace flexibility negatively affects workers’ lives. Yet, in doing so, we also encounter new solutions to such problems, for Snyder argues that the answer to the problem of work time disruption is not anti-disruption but “sustainability” (p. 214). As Snyder writes, The core demand of a culture of sustainability is that work, whether it is well paid or not, whether it is short or long term, whether it is predictable or not, must still leave the worker able to regenerate herself physically, psychologically, and spiritually in the long term. Sustainability is about challenging the insatiability of capitalist time, which looks for ever-stronger means of sucking productivity from each second of the day while finding new ways of moving that time off employers’ balance sheets. It is about resisting the way organizational life continually crowds out the wide variety of choices for how to spend the limited time one has on this earth. (pp. 214–15)
Thus, gig work is a key piece of a broad historical shift, one that has disrupted workers’ lives and rendered them profoundly vulnerable, all the while selling it to them as opportunity. Ravenelle’s analysis deepens our understanding of this far-reaching phenomenon.