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Class Confidence

The making of the millennial working class

Alex Press

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A Starbucks strike in New York City, 2025.(Mostafa Bassim / Getty)

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For more than a generation, this country has told young people the same thing: Go to college. A college degree wouldn’t guarantee wealth, but it would provide ballast and keep you out of the most precarious segments of the labor market. If factories closed and clerical work was automated, a college degree would serve as insurance. The alternative was to risk falling into a widening service economy defined by unstable hours, flat wages, and a shrinking sense of control.

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Mutiny: The Rise and Revolt of the College-Educated Working Class Buy this book

After the Great Recession, this advice became a recurring theme in political speeches and policy debates. In his 2009 State of the Union address, Barack Obama implored Americans to commit themselves to “one year or more of higher education or career training.” “Every American,” he decreed, “will need to get more than a high-school diploma.” Obama offered this guidance as a matter of realism but also as a type of social contract: If you go to college, then we will find you a job.

But who paid for young people’s college education? As public funding for state universities continued to erode and tuition at private universities skyrocketed, the bill fell more and more on students and their families. By 2023, the country’s total outstanding student-loan debt surpassed $1.7 trillion. The labor market, meanwhile, did not produce a matching supply of stable, degree-indexed jobs to justify this debt. A 2024 report found that one year after graduation, more than half of recent four-year college graduates were working in jobs that didn’t require a degree, and nearly half still lacked a degree-level job a decade later. The social contract wasn’t working: Going to college did not ensure anything other than monthly loan payments and unstable and often low-paying work.

Noam Scheiber’s new book, Mutiny: The Rise and Revolt of the College-Educated Working Class, takes place against this backdrop. Scheiber, a labor reporter for The New York Times, follows the organizing campaigns—often led by college-educated workers—at Starbucks, Apple retail stores, Hollywood writers’ rooms, universities, video-game companies, and Amazon warehouses. These sectors differ in prestige and pay scales, but the job design often doesn’t. Tasks are modularized. Performance is monitored through dashboards and software. Chances for advancement thin out. Authority consolidates upward. Contracts shorten or schedules fluctuate from week to week.

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In these workplaces, workers acquire what the sociologist Ruth Milkman calls “class confidence”: that moment when workers stop seeing their woes as the result of personal miscalculation and begin to understand them as structural. A college degree was supposed to be the path to advancement. Increasingly, collective action feels like the safer bet.

Scheiber approaches these fights as labor disputes, not as the generational melodramas they’re often reduced to in airy commentary. He lays out the material reasons for the new wave of labor organizing—those changes in pay scales, scheduling systems, contract language, and management tactics—and focuses on how workplace organization itself produces organizing.

TV writer Sydney Mitchel’s journey from an NYU Tisch undergraduate carrying substantial debt to a job in the television industry captures the volatility of migrating into work that still advertises itself as “professional.” For a brief stretch, Mitchel’s career looked like the story that aspiring screenwriters are often still told: Get into a TV series’ writers’ room and start moving up the ladder. Mitchel became a staff writer and then a story editor for the NCIS franchise, paid on a union-negotiated scale. For a moment, her career path looked promising: steady employment on a durable television franchise, incremental advancement, and a middle-class life in Los Angeles.

That stability disappeared in February 2021. While the show’s writers raced toward a season finale, the showrunners announced a new series, NCIS: Hawai’i,and dissolved the existing writers’ room with about a week’s notice. Mitchel and her coworkers called one another trying to understand what had just happened. The ladder she was climbing turned out to be modular: The franchise continued, but the personnel rotated.

Hollywood has always been precarious, but streaming has upended the structure for everyone—from those yet to break into the industry to those at the top. It has shortened seasons and created “mini-rooms”—brief, preproduction writers’ rooms which map out a season and then disband—that compress writing timelines. Studios now often separate writing from production. Residuals no longer function as the reliable floor they once were for mid-level writers. Mitchel went more than a year without writing work. To make ends meet, she took a job as a personal assistant for a wealthy family in Los Angeles. The work was logistical and steady. It was also a reminder that the career she had sought to build could be reduced to a series of short engagements with long gaps in between.

Mitchel eventually returned to NCIS: New Orleans as a writers’ assistant. The move could be read as a step backward in title, a retreat in a career that is supposed to be linear. But she took the job because she needed the income. This is one of Scheiber’s recurring subjects: employers and industries that keep insisting on a merit story even as they redesign jobs into something closer to temping. You can do everything “right” and still find yourself out of work.

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During the 2023 Writers Guild of America strike, Mitchel became a strike captain. On the picket line, writers compared notes and discovered how much they had in common: fewer weeks of guaranteed work, fewer writers employed, pay structures that made it harder to bridge the downtime, and employers that treated instability as the new baseline. The strike became a place where people stopped treating job insecurity as a personal failure and started treating it as a strategy. The industry’s decline turned out to have primed its workers for a prolonged strike: Months without work in their chosen field was nothing new for most of the picketers.

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From Hollywood, Scheiber moves to Towson, Maryland, where work was being reorganized in a local Apple retail store, with workers experiencing the changes as a loss of autonomy. Under founder Steve Jobs, Apple treated retail as a design object. Its stores were architectural monuments—gray stone imported from a single Italian quarry, glass staircases, titanium. The employees also received generous benefits, under the theory that a worker who felt second-class would make a customer feel that way, too.

When Tim Cook became the head of Apple, the company’s priorities shifted. Cook’s expertise lay in operations: inventory reduction, outsourcing, margin optimization. Apple shifted its focus toward services like Apple Music, iCloud, and the App Store—recurring revenue streams rather than one-off device purchases. AppleCare+ became a multibillion-dollar product. And while Apple’s stores still had a quasi-professional aura and attracted young employees who hoped their proximity to innovation would translate into social mobility, almost everything else had changed. If the stores had once had a “creative” role—employees taught sessions using Apple products for filmmaking, music production, and design—now Apple’s retail workers were more like sales clerks. The company’s branding kept talking about “creativity,” yet once its workers arrived on the sales floor, they encountered a labor process that kept moving their work toward standardization. This fact did not necessarily dissuade people from working there: With many young, college-educated people in debt and looking for jobs, Towson was not exactly a workers’ utopia—especially for recent graduates who were Black. “In this grim landscape,” Scheiber notes, “an Apple Store job could look pretty promising.”

Chaya Barrett, for example, had done everything that she was supposed to do. She’d worked hard in school and graduated from Towson University. A lifelong Apple enthusiast, she then took a job at the Towson store, attracted by a foothold in a company that marketed itself as creative rather than extractive. But as Apple shifted her role toward that of any other salesperson, Barrett began to see the store less as a stepping stone and more as a ceiling—as did her coworkers. Soon they organized a union drive to renegotiate the terms of a job whose foundation was falling out beneath their feet.

The Towson workers unionized with the International Association of Machinists and Aerospace Workers and eventually won a contract—the first collective-bargaining agreement at an Apple store in the United States. Scheiber is attentive to the banality of this process: the meetings in addition to work shifts, management’s predictable anti-union tactics, and the slow move from an election to collective bargaining to an agreement.

Throughout the other industries that Scheiber examines, the same pattern appears. In higher education, the same types of labor relations emerge and the same organizing drives follow. Just as Apple and Hollywood advertise themselves as spaces for creativity, one also finds this at the university. Graduate students and adjunct instructors are told that the work they do as poorly paid preceptors and TAs and RAs is part of an apprenticeship that leads to a life of professional scholarship. And yet the numbers rarely support that story: Universities expand graduate admissions while tenure-track hiring stagnates or even constricts. Departments rely on contingent teaching labor to subsidize a business model built on tuition, branding, and real estate. “Training” becomes a convenient label for employment that is cheap, insecure, and structurally oversupplied. It can also function as a way to avoid allowing workers to unionize.

Scheiber is attentive to how this has led to a resurgence of labor organizing within the university and by the United Auto Workers, which now represents many graduate employees. The union’s increasing presence in university departments might seem strange at first—auto manufacturing and higher education are sectors that look dissimilar, but as Scheiber notes, they are structured using similar forms of segmentation and managerial control. Autoworkers fight tiered wages, temporary workers, speedups, and management’s insistence on “flexibility”—the ability to adjust staffing, hours, and job assignments at will. Graduate workers fight short appointments, unpredictable funding, workload creep, and institutional structures that split workers into categories with different rights. Different industries, same logic: Management fragments workers into different tiers and classifications so that insecurity becomes individualized.

Starbucks and Amazon complicate this story. These are not jobs that were ever marketed as creative, yet they do often share a similar demographic of workers: downwardly mobile college graduates, shackled with debt and forced to take jobs defined by tight managerial control and algorithmic scheduling. At Starbucks, Scheiber follows a group of college-educated organizers whose degrees delivered them jobs that provided them with health insurance and a modest paycheck as well as workplaces that were perennially understaffed, overly Taylorized, and ruled by software optimization. They were also ripe to be organized—and a series of union drives spread across the country, beginning in Buffalo and then replicating from store to store as workers compared notes and followed the same playbook. The speed of that spread reflected how standardized the job was: Once one store organized, others could recognize their own conditions almost immediately.

At Amazon, on-the-job surveillance is overt and the pace relentless. The Amazon Labor Union’s victory at the JFK8 warehouse in Staten Island was remarkable and briefly punctured the company’s aura. But what followed were legal appeals, bargaining delays, and the grind of turning a union election into shop-floor power. Scheiber follows what happens after the election win: discipline, internal strain, and the education of a new union in how long the road from certification to a contract can be. Examining Amazon’s labor regime through the organizing efforts of Chris Smalls and his coworkers, he shows both the possibilities and the limits of insurgent unionism inside a company built to resist it. The Amazon Labor Union’s early success depended on a loose, worker-led structure that could move quickly and win trust on the shop floor; yet that same structure proved hard to sustain once the task shifted to legal fights and keeping a fragile organization together in the face of an intransigent employer determined to defeat them. 

Across these industries, employers have been taking complex social or creative work and reorganizing it into something closer to an assembly line. Hollywood writing gets chopped into mini-rooms and contract fragments. Apple’s “creative” role fades as the store becomes a traditional sales pipeline. Universities turn teaching into contingent labor and treat research training as a flexible labor pool. Starbucks and Amazon intensify control through scheduling software and productivity surveillance, causing the already poor working conditions to decline further. The workers Scheiber follows occupy roles in a variety of industries, yet they increasingly find themselves in the same position: They are measured, monitored, and replaced in ways that their credentials were supposed to prevent.

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In placing these stories in the same book, Scheiber captures the downstream consequences of a society that told everyone to invest in themselves—and to pay for that investment of their own accord—and then expanded credentialing without expanding the value of that credential. People have long understood the mismatch between credential and outcome as personal failure. But as things have gotten more dire and work more standardized, Scheiber shows, that interpretation has now eroded as workers compare notes and recognize a shared pattern.

The book is less interested in situating that pattern historically. Scheiber gestures toward history and nods to international movements in his epilogue, yet Mutiny offers relatively little historical context for this “middle layer” of radicalization, and as a result Scheiber concedes too much to the idea that the workers he examines are anomalous, when they are not. American labor history, in fact, has seen repeated waves of organizing among workers with some degree of skill, education, or authority who faced the erosion of that authority and the narrowing of their prospects. In the late 19th century, railroad engineers and conductors—workers with specialized skills and a degree of control over the labor process—organized nationally as companies consolidated and standardized operations, reducing their autonomy. Skilled machinists and printers followed similar trajectories, building unions in response to the spread of managerial control and the de-skilling of their trades.

In the early 20th century, foremen and lower-level supervisors formed associations as corporate consolidation compressed their autonomy. Their ability to organize workers worried lawmakers and employers, and the 1947 Taft-Hartley Act sought to harden the boundaries between workers by excluding supervisors from bargaining units. The postwar “labor peace” depended on this kind of sorting. Unions traded certain forms of disruption for contractual governance. Employers traded wages and benefits for managerial prerogative. The state policed the boundaries of legitimate bargaining. Skilled workers and foremen once occupied a volatile position in this arrangement; their partial autonomy made them difficult to discipline, and their exclusion helped lock in a more stable hierarchy.

Scheiber’s reporting doesn’t depend on this history, but bringing it into Mutiny would have given his portrait even more context to explain why the current wave of organizing is not simply some generational quirk but a response to political economy: credential inflation, debt financing, employer strategies that standardize labor, and legal regimes that shape who can bargain.

Even so, Mutiny also offers sustained on-the-ground reporting. Each chapter is full of the unglamorous things that determine whether an organizing campaign survives: who shows up to meetings outside of a shift, how discipline is administered, how a first contract gets negotiated, how people manage fear. Scheiber tracks the bargaining committees, internal disagreements, and procedural delays by employers determined to wait out the union.

The country told these workers to invest in themselves. They did. Now they are bargaining over what that investment is worth. They are bargaining over wages and benefits, but also over authority—who controls the pace, who controls the scheduling, who decides whether a writers’ room dissolves in a week, whether a store is staffed, whether teaching labor is treated as employment.

In Towson, that dispute surfaced in a retail job that still advertises creativity while quietly reorganizing around upselling and metrics. In Hollywood, it appeared in the speedy dissolution of the writers’ room on a popular TV series, with one screenwriter taking a personal-assistant job to bridge a year without writing work and then returning as a strike captain. In universities, it took shape as graduate-student workers insisted that their institution was an employer first and foremost, because that’s how it acted. In an Amazon warehouse, it became the slow education of a new union learning how long the road from certification to contract can be.

The credential economy has expanded as workplace autonomy has constricted. Employers have been building assembly lines in places that were once sold as career ladders. People are noticing, and some of them are organizing. Mutiny traces what that recognition looks like on the ground. The outcome is still being negotiated.

Alex PressTwitterAlex Press is an assistant editor at Jacobin and freelance writer based in New York City.


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