For black men, a permanent recession

NEW YORK — Six years after America sank into the deepest economic downturn since the 1930s, the jobless rate has fallen to 5.9 percent, the lowest since July 2008. But one demographic group — African-American men — seems to be stuck in a permanent recession.

Eleven percent of black men over 20 are unemployed today. That’s down from 19 percent in 2010, but it’s still the highest of any ethnic or racial group. By comparison, 9.6 percent of black women are unemployed, while white men have an unemployment rate of 4.4 percent. That racial disparity, alas, is nothing new. Since the government began tracking unemployment in 1940, the jobless rate for black men has consistently been at least twice that of white males.

Social scientists, economists and other experts cite a variety of reasons for the high unemployment rate among black males: lack of training, loss of public-sector jobs, high incarceration rates (at least five times that of white men), unequal access to social networks and outright discrimination. When coupled with the fact that the recession hit all men particularly hard (men lost 2.6 jobs to every 1 by a woman, in large part because of a decline in manufacturing and construction), a clearer picture of the tenuous relationship black men have with today’s labor market starts to emerge.

Wisconsin Rep. Paul Ryan brought the issue of unemployment among African-Americans in general to the forefront of national attention earlier this year, intentionally or not, when he said, there’s been a “tailspin of culture, in our inner cities in particular, of men not working and just generations of men not even thinking about working or learning the value and the culture of work.” Many saw his comments as racial code aimed at black men. (Ryan strongly denied this.) But research suggests that his perceptions of race and employment may not have been so out of step with the views of other white Americans. The New York Times Upshot blog found that in 2012, 40 percent of white Americans thought blacks didn’t work as hard as whites. Another 45 percent said that blacks lacked willpower and motivation to get out of poverty.

While federal law bans racial discrimination in employment and some companies have affirmative action policies designed to promote workforce diversity, Steven Pitts, a labor-policy specialist at the Labor Center at the University of California, Berkley, said racism continues to play a role in hiring practices. But Pitts added that structural racism in “feeder” institutions like higher education, the criminal justice system and the housing market plays a much larger role than individual bias: “The issue isn’t really one of individual behavior, but to actually change institutions and organize accordingly.”

Lee Bowes, the CEO of America Works, a nationwide for-profit employment program, said that, though the loss of manufacturing jobs has disproportionately hurt African-Americans, that doesn’t mean that there aren’t jobs. To find employment, people need to have personal relationships with employers, he explained. “Everyone thinks getting a job is having a good resume. We know it’s networking.”

The Congressional Black Caucus has pushed jobs to the top of its agenda, and last winter President Barack Obama announced the formation of a task force to strengthen opportunities for young boys of color, noting that there are some “groups that have had the odds stacked against them in unique ways that require unique solutions.” The Senate’s only two black members introduced a bill that would target minority youth unemployment.

But these efforts have yet to produce much of an impact. In New York state, home to the largest number of blacks in the country and consistently one of the most expensive places to live, the struggle to find a good job can be particularly difficult. According to the most recent data available, 17.4 of black men are unemployed in the state. Meanwhile, according to new research from the Community Service Society of New York, only 51 percent of black men are working (this includes students, the disabled and those not looking for work) in New York City.

In this series of articles, five African-American men in the New York area talk about their experience finding work. They say that their experience with the job market is different than that of white men and women of color. They say they are judged on their appearance and often are viewed as “thugs” or just plain lazy. Unemployment does not look the same in any one household, and that applies to the men profiled here. These stories aren’t meant to be comprehensive, but rather give a snapshot of the experience of looking for work as a black man.

When he left for college almost seven years ago, Rashad Shane never planned to return to his childhood home with the “nice clear view” of the Hudson River. Back then, he wanted to get his degree, buy a house in California and work for a big technology firm developing video games. But things haven’t exactly worked out that way.

After graduating from high school, Shane, who is from the New York City suburb of Ossining, moved to Phoenix to attend the for-profit Collins College, where he majored in video and game design. He loved Arizona and was excited about his future until he realized his financial aid package didn’t cover all of his housing needs.

In 2012, Shane was hired as a part-time sales associate at an office supply store by a manager he’d previously worked with. The job was close to a bus stop, the staff was nice and he was content with the $9 an hour wage. He was doing well until his grandmother fell ill and was diagnosed with breast cancer. As her primary caregiver, he wanted to be home to take care of her. He told his managers he would need a week or two off, but promised to stay in touch.

Ten days later, when his grandmother felt better, he went back to work. As soon as he stepped through the door, Shane said, his bosses told him he had been fired. He had already taken some sick days off and, coupled with his recent absence, he was over the limit and been classified as abandoning his job, they said. Shane was shocked.

Fourteen months later, he was still looking for a new job.

Shane doesn’t think his race has played a part in employers not hiring him, but thinks in this tight market, the standards are higher and employers have their pick. His ideal job would be in law enforcement, but, he says, “Right now I’m thinking of jobs and survival rather than career.”

Each day at 6 a.m., Keith Wyche gets up, meditates and works out. He then makes breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast and coffee and eats while sitting at his table looking out the window and into the serene woods of his one-acre property. If it’s nice enough outside, he’ll sit on the deck, but he’s always at his desk by 8 a.m. It’s the same routine he followed when he was president of one of the largest grocery stores in the Philadelphia region, except now he sits in his home office. It’s been this way for more than a year.

Last March, after a management shakeup at ACME Markets, the regional grocery chain where he served as president, Wyche found himself unemployed for the first time since 1981. Since then he’s struggled to find a full-time job in which, he says, he can “make a difference.”

Wyche is not sure why he can’t find a job. The four other executives who were let go along with him all found work within four months, he says. They had almost the exact same positions and were around the same age as Wyche, but there was one difference. They were all white men.

A report by The New York Times last year found that during the recession, racial diversity dropped as a priority for many businesses.

Wyche, who is used to having salary packages (base plus incentives) that are around $700,000 a year, says that despite the fact that he is financially stable at the moment, he misses feeling like he is adding value to society. “So much of who we are is tied into our jobs. You work on your career to be the president and CEO of this and that, and all of a sudden that’s not who you are.”

He’s found new networks of support such as the Executive Leadership Council, a group of current and former African-American CEOs and senior executives that promotes workplace inclusion and diversity; his pastor; and his family, including a wife he’s been “in love with since seventh grade.”

Wyche has given himself about two years to find a full-time job anywhere in the country. If he is still out of work then he plans on starting a consulting business, a less attractive option to him because he likes executing projects, but one that, he says, might be a blessing in disguise. 

“Wherever I land will be where I need to be and where God wants me to be.”

After 15 years working as an actor in New York City, Jackson is used to the nerve-racking audition process, the constant bouts of unemployment and inconsistent pay. Like other creative types in the city, he’s created a patchwork of ways to generate income — teaching jobs, acting projects and unemployment insurance when he needs it.

Jackson, who is in his late 30s, has found some success on Broadway and on television but still hasn’t made what he would call a middle-class income, save for a period between 2007 and 2008. During that time, his work on two Broadway plays earned him $83,759. It was a stark contrast to the $28,212 he made last year.

In some ways, the Atlanta native is used to the instability of an artistic life: His father was a portrait artist who, he says, lived “outside of the system,” refusing to open a bank account or pay taxes. His mom, who came from an upper-middle-class background, worked as a teacher, leaving them somewhere between poor and middle class. His parents split up when he was seven, and though he still didn’t have a lot, his mom managed her finances well.

Jackson says the nonprofit Actor’s Fund Work Program has helped him cope through some of the rough times. The group was founded 30 years ago as a “comprehensive workforce development program” to help performers figure out how to survive in the industry, often by utilizing their skills in flexible noncreative gigs.

Jackson said the group has provided emergency funds when he was behind on rent, run workshops that helped him figure out to manage his cash flow and referred him to some nonacting jobs, like teaching gigs, when he needed it most.

Despite the financial insecurity, Jackson said he isn’t ready to abandon acting as a career. “It draws on things that no other fields offers me, mind, body and soul. It’s a very unique kind of endeavor, being an actor, putting it all out there like that, the ability to let go in the moment.”

Jackson is trying to find more creative and profitable ways to deal with his shaky employment situation, so he has picked up an adjunct gig at a local college teaching public speaking and has started to consult for a group called Improv Edge, which teaches companies how to apply improvisation skills to business. He’s also filling in for an actor in a local production of “When January Feels Like Summer” for the next few weeks. But he is still looking for a tenure-track job in which he can mix acting and teaching at the college level. And he is waiting for that one gig that will support the middle-class lifestyle he experienced in 2008.

“I’ve got my feelers out,” he said.

Jackson didn’t get  any of those television and film gigs he auditioned for earlier this year, including the Heather Graham project, but he was OK with it.

It only paid $268, plus a 10 percent agent fee.

His monthly rent is $1,200.

 Coleman, who spent two years at the University of Connecticut before dropping out, believes that while his name “Robert Lee” sometimes gets him in the door more readily than others, hiring managers often look at black men with greater scrutiny when considering them for a job.

He thinks being bilingual or white might have helped him find a new position quicker. “Appearance is key. They judge you on appearance without knowing what’s going on with you.”

Dressed in a beige, collared shirt, khaki pants and a straw hat on his day off, Coleman says he works hard to counter expectations. “I try to get away from that stereotype [by not] wearing baggy pants and jeans and sneakers and not speaking too much slang when I’m around certain people. I try to articulate and speak properly.”

When his unemployment ran out late last year, Coleman had to find a job quickly, so he decided to take a course to become a licensed security guard, a field in which jobs seemed plentiful. He passed the course and found a job in January working the night shift at the building in Harlem.

Even though he technically has a job, however, his employment woes aren’t over.

Coleman’s $9 an hour wage barely covers his expenses. His hours fluctuate between almost full-time, at 32 hours a week, to much less, at 16 hours, so his paychecks can vary greatly week to week and he doesn’t have health care or other benefits. At his current pay rate, even if Coleman consistently worked 40 hours a week this year, he would only make around $18,000 annually.

The pay cut has taken its toll. He’s had to move out of his beloved Bronx apartment of 12 years and back in with family. Recreational activities he enjoyed — from seemingly small things, like going to movies, to bigger-budget items, like vacationing in Cancun — had to be put on hold. More than recreation, he’s increasingly worried about money, because he has a new toddler that he needs to help support. 

He’s thought about getting a second job, but between his late hours, time practicing in his new band (music is a passion of his), working as a volunteer chef at a senior center and looking for a new full-time job, he thinks he would be overwhelmed. 

Coleman hopes to return to sales soon. There’s a new mall opening up and he thinks it may be the perfect place to find a better job. “I don’t want to get too comfortable with security,” he says. “I’m trying to get out of there as soon as possible.” 

One of the hardest parts of this experience is not being able to support his younger relatives like he used to. “In life you want to provide and be a provider. I’m the oldest grandson. You have the younger generation looking up to you," he says. "At one point — I wouldn’t say I was taking care of them, but if they came to me for anything I had it. Now they come to me and it’s like ‘Look, I don’t have it right now.’”

Olverson is from Queensbridge, the largest public housing project in the nation and one that is notorious for crime, drugs and violence. Hustling is the career path for many of his peers, but he wanted to be different. “I don’t have a father. I don’t want to sell drugs. I don’t want to jeopardize the future.”

When his neighbor Corey Kelley told him about a program through which he could train him in construction work, he jumped at the chance. Along with Kelley and two other friends, Olverson enrolled in Strive. 

Strive International is a national nonprofit employment center that was started in East Harlem more than 25 years ago to help hard-to-employ, at-risk men and women develop skills that will enable them to compete in New York’s job market. Strive uses a tough-love approach to help its clients develop “soft skills” like “workplace readiness” and “attitudinal modification.”

On each orientation day, Strive co-founder Rob Carmona walks into a packed classroom where he finds a bunch of men and women eager to start anew. He starts by telling the group they must learn how to own up to their past and then move on. He describes the story of his struggles as a drug addict and, more recently, a very public dispute with a former employee. It was a painful and embarrassing experience, he says, but it was simply life. “Life can be patently unfair.”

Carmona says that black and Latino men in particular (95 percent of Strive’s students identify as a black or nonwhite Hispanic and 55 percent are male) have a “right” to be angry, but they don’t have the right not to do something about it. “America is a land of contradiction and we have to learn to live with that contradiction in a constructive way.” He closes his lecture by telling students to look around the room because most of them won’t make it through the rigorous training program. Others, he notes, won’t even be alive a few years from now.

According to Strive’s research from 2012, 60 percent of those who begin their basic program finish it, and out of that group, two out of three are placed in jobs. Three months later, 90 percent are still at those jobs.

Olverson and his three friends all stayed with the program and received a number of state accreditations in “green” construction.

Nelson Lee, one of the friends, thinks it was because they had each other. “It was cool being with my friends because I always had real support, no fake love.”

“I think it’s going to be easy getting a job,” Olverson said during one of his last days in the Strive program.

More than three months after finishing the nine-week training program, all of the young men had been on at least one job interview — Lee for an elevator-operator position with a moving company and Kelley for an apprenticeship with a construction labor union. Olverson interviewed for a few construction jobs, including an apprenticeship and another at a construction company that he says will pay $35 an hour.

Olverson isn’t waiting around. He said Strive motivated him to find work on his own and he has been spending time making connections on his own. There was one particularly promising call that he believes may lead to permanent work, and he is just waiting for the final call.

“I feel like a grown man now,” he said in late spring.   

By early fall, the group from Queens had found mixed success.

Lee got the job as an elevator operator and is now making around $12.50 an hour, said Brian Colon, an account manager at Strive who is responsible for placing graduates of the program. “He hasn’t looked back since.” Kelly and the fourth member of the group, he notes, are still looking for work and struggling to find a place to live, moving from couch to couch.

As for Olverson, no one’s heard from him in over two months. “I think he might have been successful,” said Colon. “He seemed confident. The energy I got from him was good.” After a pause he confidently repeats his words.

 “Yeah, I think Anthony’s fine.”