Last week, I sent an email to author and podcaster Scott Galloway. You might remember him from a video I shared a few months ago, where he outlined the financial crisis young people are facing in America. I agreed wholeheartedly with his perspective on that.
But this time, I wasn’t writing to agree with him.
Oh no.
I was writing because I vehemently disagreed with something he said in a recent podcast.
On the Prof G Markets podcast, he and his cohost were discussing the strike by Boeing workers. One of the workers’ key demands was to save their pensions. This led to a broader discussion about pensions, during which Scott and his cohost labeled retired workers as “unproductive assets.”
Let me tell you, my freakin’ head almost exploded.
So, I did what any rational, slightly combative person would do: I wrote them an email. Here’s what I said:
“Good Morning Scott and Ed,
I always look forward to your Prof G Markets podcast and have even encouraged my 20-year-old son to listen. I’m sure he’s eagerly following my advice—just as every son does! 😉
I’m writing to share some thoughts on pensions following your discussion about Boeing and their strike. I appreciated the insights you offered, particularly on shareholder value, but I’d like to add some historical and human context to the conversation.
During the heyday of American industrialization—from the 1920s through the 1970s—a social contract existed between workers and corporations, particularly for those engaged in manual labor. The implicit agreement was this: corporations acknowledged the physical toll that such work would take on the body and offered pensions—lifetime financial security after retirement—in return. Workers understood that their sacrifices would be honored, and this agreement helped define the American labor experience for much of the 20th century.
The reality of manual labor is brutal: it ruins the body. Construction workers, factory employees, farmers, and others whose livelihoods depend on physical work often face debilitating ailments after decades of creating value for their employers. Knee replacements, hip surgeries, and rods in their spines or necks are commonplace. The loss of pensions—and their replacement with defined contribution plans like 401(k)s—has left these workers without the stability and security they once relied upon.
The rhetoric of “taking personal responsibility for your retirement” ignores the realities of manual laborers. It often shifts blame onto workers for poor investment choices or subjects them to the whims of bad actors in the financial industry. This narrative erases the original social contract and leaves millions of workers feeling abandoned, anxious, and disillusioned—a sentiment that politicians promising to “restore greatness” exploit effectively.
As Ed mentioned, the number of workers with defined benefit plans dropped from 40% in the 1980s to just 8% today. That means millions of workers now face an insecure retirement despite having spent decades sacrificing their physical health to create value. While financiers may label retired workers as “unproductive assets,” this fails to account for the years of physical and emotional sacrifice they made for their employers.
The conversation shouldn’t focus solely on individual responsibility for retirement planning but also on the corporate responsibility to honor their workers’ sacrifices. These workers deserve more than unstable 401(k)s and respect beyond being dismissed as “unproductive assets.”
Thank you for your thoughtful discussions on the podcast. I hope this perspective adds to your ongoing exploration of these critical issues.”
What got under my skin most about the phrase “unproductive assets” is the way it abstracts away the humanity of the people it describes. It takes a person—a worker who has sacrificed their body for years—and reduces them to a financial liability. It’s easier to disregard a human when you’ve stripped them of their humanity, reducing them to a cold, impersonal number.
And here’s the kicker: this exact same kind of abstraction happens in education.
A learner in your school isn’t seen as a whole person. They’re fragmented into data points: a test score, a racial category, a diagnosed disability, an attendance record, and a discipline statistic. Sound familiar?
Here’s the hard truth: reducing people (and learners) to numbers isn’t an administrative necessity—it’s violence against their humanity. When we abstract students into data points, it becomes easier to justify harmful policies, ignore individual needs, and see learners as problems to solve rather than people to support.
So, here’s my challenge for you as a school leader:
- How often do you or your team default to thinking of students as numbers instead of individuals with dreams, struggles, and unique stories?
- How can you shift your school’s culture to resist abstraction and put the humanity of your learners first?
When you focus on the whole person—not just the data they generate—you lead in a way that honors their dignity.
That’s leadership that matters.
Let’s stop the violence of abstraction. It starts with seeing the human being behind the number.
