Last Sunday and Monday night we did inventory at the department
store where I work. We worked from the time the store closed until
about 3am scanning bar codes with scanner
”
guns.
”
The process was well-organized by the management team, and we
worked in near-silence, broken only by the beep of the guns and the
occasional cry of
”
trouble,
”
when somebody came to an item without a bar code or one that
wouldn’t scan properly.
Last Sunday and Monday night we did inventory at the department store where I work. We worked from the time the store closed until about 3am scanning bar codes with scanner “guns.” The process was well-organized by the management team, and we worked in near-silence, broken only by the beep of the guns and the occasional cry of “trouble,” when somebody came to an item without a bar code or one that wouldn’t scan properly.
It was my favorite kind of adventure: the kind where you get to stay up late and do something new and different, but nothing scary happens.
And yet, on the second night, as I was scanning row upon row of costume jewelry, something kind of scary was indeed happening.
Of the two dozen spinner racks of earrings, necklaces and bracelets that I either scanned, re-counted or put back in order, more than 80 percent said “made in China” on the back.
The name of the designer or brand might be American, Italian, French or even Egyptian-sounding, but the baubles themselves were all made in China.
I had read about the flight of production to other countries and usually look at clothing labels to see where something is made, giving myself vague reassurances that such-and-such is a “nice” country with a long textile tradition, that probably doesn’t abuse its workers. I hope.
But the overwhelming quantity of stuff “made in China” really hit me the other night. China was our scary enemy for most of my youth, until the Nixon administration opened the diplomatic door and our relationship began to thaw.
If Nixon had known the eventual result, I wonder if he would have thought this was a good idea. Because every item we buy from China adds to our trade deficit and thus weakens our economy.
This put my “buy locally” crusade into a whole new perspective. It made me think about my – and many Americans’ – eagerness to buy the latest thing, whether stylish earrings or organic produce, without considering the consequences.
For example, I picked up a bunch of scallions from the organic section of a local supermarket, happy to know they had been grown without pesticides or herbicides. But wait! The barely legible label said they were grown in Mexico. I put them back and decided to keep buying produce at a locally owned market. I don’t know where this market’s produce is grown, but at least, because it’s locally owned, some of my dollars will stay here.
What’s the answer? Not embargoes and tariffs, I’m pretty sure. Our access to goods produced cheaply overseas is partly responsible for our high standard of living, at least in the short term.
In the longer term, what will it mean? Are foreign earrings and foreign onions as dangerous as foreign oil?
And what does “local” mean, anyway? Whole Foods supermarkets define “local” as having traveled less than seven hours from grower to seller. But seven hours how? If it’s by air, local could be just about anywhere in the United States, southern Canada or northern Mexico.
I’ll be glad when the Farmer’s Market starts up again so “local” and “organic” will be together in the same place and the right thing to do won’t be so hard to figure out.
