Fair Shot Read online

  Fair Shot

  Rethinking Inequality and How We Earn

  Chris Hughes

  St. Martin’s Press

  New York

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  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  For my parents, Ray and Brenda, for teaching me that no one is invisible

  Introduction

  In May of 2013, I stood beside a podium on a wooden stage in the center of the Georgia Dome, an indoor stadium in Atlanta. I listened to the president of Georgia State University introduce me to a crowd of 20,000 students and their families attending that year’s commencement ceremony. “Chris began his career as an entrepreneur in 2004, when he co-founded Facebook with his Harvard roommates,” he said. “In 2007, he became director of online organizing for Barack Obama’s campaign.” He continued through a few more accolades, and the audience applauded thunderously. I stepped up to the podium to speak to the largest crowd I had ever faced. For a moment, I felt like a rock star.

  That moment was brief. In 2012, I bought The New Republic, a nearly 100-year-old print magazine, with the intent of stewarding the historic institution and finding a new business model for print media in a digital age. After a string of starry successes, this time my failure was deep, clear, and fast. I overinvested early, set unrealistic goals, and found that I lacked the patience to manage such a difficult transition. By the next year, all of the digital savvy and esteem I had earned was worth nothing to detractors who called me a phony in the pages of The Washington Post and Vanity Fair.

  That was a turning point for me. It confirmed my suspicion that the superficial praise that I had received for years had more to do with what people wanted me to be, rather than who I was. People believed me to be a genius because “Co-Founder of Facebook” followed my name. Fast Company once put me on its cover with the headline “The Kid Who Made Obama President,” as if I were single-handedly responsible. As soon as the house of cards collapsed, people zeroed in on the power of chance in my story and discounted everything else. I went overnight from a wunderkind to the hapless, lucky roommate of Mark Zuckerberg.

  The truth is somewhere in between. For the early part of my life, my story played like a movie reel for the American Dream. I grew up in a middle-class family in a small town in North Carolina. I studied hard, got financial aid to go to a fancy prep school, and then went to Harvard. My roommates and I started Facebook our sophomore year, and my early success there and at the Obama campaign garnered me acclaim and notoriety. Eventually, Facebook’s IPO made me a lot of money. I worked my way up, and I took every chance offered to me. I also got very lucky.

  That luck wasn’t just because I was Mark Zuckerberg’s roommate—much larger forces were at work. A collection of economic and political decisions over the past four decades has given rise to unprecedented wealth for a small number of fortunate people, collectively called the one percent. America has created and supported powerful economic forces—specifically globalization, rapid technological development, and the growth of finance—that have made the rise of Larry Page, Jeff Bezos, and other new billionaires possible. The companies we built went from dorm room ideas to assets worth hundreds of billions of dollars because America provided the companies with a fertile environment for explosive growth. Google, Amazon, and Facebook may be extreme examples, but the massive wealth they create for a select few isn’t as rare as you might think.

  Inequality has now reached levels not seen since 1929, the year the Great Depression began, and stands to get even worse. The same forces that have given rise to massive companies and concentrated wealth have made it more difficult for working people to benefit from the economic opportunity they expect and deserve. By the numbers, Americans are working just as hard as ever but are still struggling to get by. Most Americans cannot find $400 in the case of an emergency like a car accident or a hospitalization, yet I was able to make half a billion dollars for three years of work. Something is profoundly wrong with our economy and in our country, and we have to fix it.

  I believe we live at the beginning of a tumultuous era, similar to the turn of the last century, when railroad and shipping tycoons amassed historic fortunes. We need to be as open to creative, new ideas as the most forward-thinking leaders of the Progressive Era were then. They created an income tax, enacted direct elections for senators, banned corporate contributions to political campaigns, enfranchised women, and laid the groundwork for labor protections like the minimum wage and old-age pensions. We need to be equally bold today.

  And we should ground our solutions in what works. I have come to believe that, dollar for dollar, the most effective intervention in the fight for economic justice is the simplest: cash, put in the hands of the people who need it most. The guaranteed income is as radical an idea as it is simple. An income floor of $500 per month for every working adult whose family makes less than $50,000 would improve the lives of 90 million Americans and lift 20 million people out of poverty overnight. Wage laborers and informal workers alike—parents with young kids, adults taking care of aging parents, and students—would earn the benefit. It should be paid for by the one percent.

  I hope this book starts a broader conversation about why we need a guaranteed income in the United States and how it might work. We can be the generation that ends poverty in America and provides financial stability and economic opportunity to the middle class.

  This book traces my journey from a little town in North Carolina to Harvard, through Facebook’s blockbuster rise, and to my life afterward. It tells the story of how I grappled with the responsibility of such early “success,” and how I came to embrace a guaranteed income. That journey began with poking around blog posts and online forums. It took me to Kenya and back three times and to communities in Ohio, Michigan, North Carolina, California, and Alaska, all in the pursuit of figuring out what works and what doesn’t in our economy today.

  We have to start having honest conversations about fairness and economic opportunity—even if they are awkward or painful—if we are ever going to fix our country’s problems. I hope this book can be a starting point for a frank discussion about the fraying connection between work and wealth, and specifically, how a guaranteed income can restore stability and opportunity to the lives of working Americans.

  The American Dream, the idea that we can all do a bit better than the generation that came before us, is an optimistic idea that we should cultivate and reinforce. It has long been more myth than reality, but it is up to all of us, particularly those of us who are benefiting most from the status quo, to work to build a country where everyone has a fair shot to pursue their dreams.

  1

  How It Happens

  My father grew up on the grounds of a country club in Mount Airy, North Carolina, the town that inspired Mayberry on The Andy Griffith Show. He was born in the early years of the Great Depression, and for the first decade of his life, his parents and he shared a single room in the back of the s
mall clubhouse, heated by a wood stove. His father was the club manager and groundskeeper, and his mother worked in the pro shop. As a kid, he worked as a golf caddy, learning to endear himself to the golfers. When he became a traveling paper salesman as an adult, he used that charm to win the affection and loyalty of his customers.

  As he sees it, he picked himself up by his bootstraps and made good on the American Dream, providing our family with a home, a stable income, and a middle-class lifestyle. Today he is 85, and his life’s trajectory makes him skeptical that we need a guaranteed income in the United States.

  My own life leads me to the opposite conclusion. My success at Facebook taught me that seemingly small events like who you choose to room with in college can have outsized impacts on the rest of your life.

  To tell you how my dad and I eventually found common ground, I need to tell you the story of where I grew up, the rocket ship of Facebook’s success, and the power of unrestricted cash transfers to transform people’s lives.

  Our family goes back generations in North Carolina and Virginia, but there is no Southern gentry in our blood. My mother was part of a large family of rural farmers, Lutherans who emigrated from Germany before the Revolutionary War. They spent the next 200 years tilling the rocky soil in the foothills of Appalachia. Her parents left the farm to become workers in the local textile mill. Both my parents were the first in their families to go to college, and they worked full time in good, stable jobs until they retired. My mom became a public school teacher, and my dad sold industrial paper to small-town printers. They settled down in Hickory, North Carolina, not far from where they grew up. As their respective parents grew older, they picked up the slack and paid many of their bills—they had gone further than anyone in their families ever had, and they were happy to help.

  For the first five or six years of my life, our family belonged to New Jerusalem, a small church on the outskirts of Hickory. A simple, redbrick building with a steeple, the church sat on a small hill off a winding two-lane country road. The pastor and his family lived in a little parsonage across the way. The pictures on the stained glass windows inside the nave looked as if they were paint-by-number, and its wooden pews felt like they had been ordered out of a catalog and installed the day before. The cheapness of the setting didn’t matter, because the people who came to worship at New Jerusalem knew how to rejoice. Weekly fellowship nights were full of spirited laughter and hugs all around. The latest gossip and group prayers were shared over large bowls of homemade potato salad and plates of fried chicken. On Sundays after services, congregants milled about on the lawn outside the church’s firehouse-red doors and chatted about the hymns they’d sung that day and what was on the menu for Sunday dinner. I loved that hour after church in the sunshine. I remember playing tag with other kids in the maze of legs that surrounded my parents and dashing back to the safety of my mother to hide in the folds of her dress. For a time, my dad served on the church council, and the pastor’s wife taught me to read. New Jerusalem felt like a second home.

  But it was a long drive there from our actual home in the center of town. A year after I was born, my parents had moved us from a wooden, single-floor ranch-style house in the country into a smaller house in town with a fenced-in backyard just big enough for a little vegetable garden and some grass for our collie-mix, Smokey. The house was cramped even for a family of three, but I had my own room and there was a small sun porch in the back where we made peach ice cream with a hand-cranked machine in the summer. Our home sat a block away from a picture-perfect Southern downtown street lined with mansions that had magnolia trees in their front yards and wisteria vines growing in the back. We lived in the shadow of their grandeur but a world away in spirit.

  When I started elementary school, we left New Jerusalem and my parents joined the church a block away from us, Holy Trinity, which happened to be one of the largest and richest in town. Our family walked there every week, my dad and I wearing suits and my mom her Sunday best. Holy Trinity was a fixture of our lives—I can count on one hand the number of Sundays that we didn’t attend services—but it was also a place where our family stood out like a sore thumb. It was an enormous and towering building with cold stone floors, and the parishioners were wealthy and wanted you to know it. They liked the elite nature of the church and fought to keep it that way by exercising their snobbery over us. They smiled in the halls but never lingered to chat or invite my parents over for dinner.

  I found a couple of friends in Sunday school, but I had a lot less fun with them than I did with the friends I made in the government-run after-school program. Every day after class, I reported to the gym for a couple hours of unstructured homework and play. Almost all of the other kids were black and brown, unlike me, and none of us was rich. Each day, my mom picked me up around five after she had finished teaching and writing her lesson plans.

  Our days followed predictable rhythms. My mom made breakfast every morning and dinner every night, and we would go out to eat on Saturdays once a month. We visited my grandparents who lived down the street most evenings and picked up KFC after church to share as an extended family. Weekends were full of chores like mowing the lawn, cleaning the gutters, and vacuuming. My mom clipped coupons from the Sunday paper every week, and we occasionally stopped by the Stouffer’s factory to buy rejected frozen meals in bulk for our deep freeze. We were thrifty and cheap, but we always had enough to make ends meet.

  My parents worked hard to make sure I got the keys to every room they had been locked out of in their own lives. By the time I was eight, I was invited to join classes for the “gifted”—code in the small-town South for the white and wealthy—and I learned that I could be friends with the after-school kids and the rich kids at the same time. I felt a little like a chameleon, trying to be everything to everyone all at once, pleasing my parents and finding time to be with the friends with whom I was the most relaxed.

  As I grew older, I was increasingly socialized into groups of white, wealthy kids, but from early on, I was suspicious of their privilege. I joined sports leagues and enrolled in the manners-building cotillion classes that my parents had never been invited into when they were teenagers. But the rest of the kids in my after-school program, who were just as smart, didn’t get tracked into the gifted classes or the cotillion classes or sports teams. Their parents didn’t belong to the white church or sit a few pews away from the school principal each Sunday.

  While the color of my skin helped me blend in and offered its own set of privileges, it was clear that I was not one of the Hickory elites. We drove an Oldsmobile; the people up the street, Lexuses. We were more devout in our religion, kneeling together as a family each evening for our nightly prayers. The well-to-do went to the country club pool in the summer; we went to the YMCA. I gradually made it into the social class my parents wanted me to be a part of, but in spirit, I knew I never really belonged there. As I became more aware of the world as a teenager, I felt a percolating anger and a desire to defend my parents from the men who snubbed their noses at my dad and the women who never invited my mom to bridge or dinner parties.

  By the time I was 14, I had become restless. I was at the top of my class and had a handful of friends, but I found few people who liked the things that I did—classical music, homework, and books. I wasn’t clear-eyed about it at the time, but I was gay and in a place where I knew that was anything but okay. My parents told me I could do anything I wanted, and I took their words literally. I wanted to go to a high school where everyone loved to read the fattest books on the shelf and there was a culture of openness and tolerance, unlike the culture of Hickory. One day I searched for “best high school in America” on one of the pre-Google search engines of the early Internet, and I thought I had discovered paradise.

  I saw photos of leafy campuses, smiling students, and Oxford-style libraries stacked high with books. Every one of the schools had a gay student group, and a lot of the grad
uates went to colleges like Yale and Harvard. I applied to several boarding schools, all in liberal New England, without having ever stepped foot anywhere near there. I didn’t do it on a lark, but I knew the idea was far-fetched. My parents looked on, unsure if this was part of the plan. I was accepted everywhere I applied. Phillips Academy, often called Andover, offered me a financial aid package, but it wasn’t enough. My parents had saved $40,000 to pay for my college, an enormous amount for them, and a single year at Andover cost just shy of that. Even with the financial aid, they would have exhausted the whole $40,000 before I even started college. I called up the admissions agent and explained the situation. They called back and increased the package to nearly a full ride. My parents, nervous and reluctant to see their only child leave so soon, nevertheless agreed to allow me to go.

  The day I arrived on campus was idyllic. I had taken a $19 shared SuperShuttle from Boston Logan Airport, and as the blue van pulled up in front of the school, I caught a first glimpse of the vast green lawns, known as the Great Quad, washed in autumn light. Stepping down from the van with a single large rolling suitcase in tow, I must have appeared more than a little out of place. Southern, religious, a scholarship kid, and closeted, I was in a sea of other teenagers with white polo shirts, copper-red shorts, and penny loafers that their parents in finance had bought them over the summer in Nantucket. I had no common language and no common interests with these children of America’s elite, who had come from the top private schools and the wealthiest neighborhoods of New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, and Boston. They were friendly enough. No one made fun of me to my face, but neither did they seem all that interested in spending more than a minute or two in my presence.

  I settled into a dorm room with a reclusive roommate from Greenwich, a wealthy Connecticut enclave outside New York, and struggled to make friends. Over the following months, I dreaded nothing more than the challenge of finding someone to sit with at meals in one of the school’s four dining halls. One was for the popular kids, another for the jocks, a third for theater types, and the fourth for faculty, their kids, and the stray misfit. I tried my hand at each, but every time I sat down with a tray and joined a group, I struggled to know the right thing to say, the right person to be. Afraid of rejection, I froze and ended up saying nothing. I took to skipping meals, filling my stomach with Butterfingers and Reese’s from the dorm’s basement vending machine instead.