Research Findings

Back in the 1990s, my paternal grandparents lived in a condominium in a middle-class neighborhood in Mexico City. To get to them, you had to pass through Fortino, the portero—the building’s doorman. I remember him in the marbled lobby or just outside the entrance, always impeccably dressed, fiddling with a toothpick, and a rattling keychain. He greeted us warmly, remembering all our names, even in a building with over fifty apartments and hundreds of visitors. Fortino was more than a gatekeeper. He lived in a small service apartment and handled everything from parking cars and small repairs to carrying suitcases and passing along messages, long before cell phones were common. A legacy of the colonial estates, porteros like Fortino had no formal training, yet controlled access and maintained security through familiarity and trust. Across twentieth-century Latin America, porteros were a familiar figure in every major city, forming the backbone of a private security system based on patronage relations and even becoming cultural icons, immortalized by comedians like Cantinflas.

But over the past thirty years, porteros have been gradually replaced by private security firms, uniformed guards, and strict security protocols. Global security firms like Securitas and Allied Universal and domestic providers have created an entrepreneurial model of private security, combining risk assessment, protocols, and surveillance technologies with aesthetic standards that link authority to client prestige. Unlike the more lenient expectations of porteros, disciplined posture, polished uniforms, and performative attentiveness are now central to how security is produced, reassuring clients while deterring potential assailants.

A 2024 Saturday Night Live sketch takes viewers to an airplane cabin where a pregnant passenger in labor seeks a doctor, but no one on board is qualified. So, one passenger—a lawyer—volunteers to help on the basis that he has the “second best job” after doctor. Other passengers then jump in with their own claims about engineers, teachers, and mothers being the rightful number two. Debate ensues, leaving both the pregnant woman and the occupational hierarchy in limbo.

Yet previous sociological work on occupational prestige suggests there is one true ladder and ‘everyone’ knows it. If that’s the case, then why does the SNL sketch resonate?

In our recent research, and in previous work, we reconsider how Americans perceive the occupational hierarchy, a concept at the heart of stratification research. We find that the apparent consensus around occupational prestige primarily reflects the views of a small group of highly educated Americans. People outside this group deviate from this consensus, but not in systematic ways, leaving the elites’ consensus to dominate. In the end, there’s much less agreement about the status of occupations than estimates have suggested.

We all want to be recognized for doing good work. Whether it is winning an award, getting a shoutout from your boss, or receiving a great review online, recognition matters. But what happens when the recognition you get doesn’t match your performance?

In our new paper, published in the American Sociological Review, we explore how experiencing misrecognition—either being overlooked despite strong performance or being rewarded despite weak performance—shapes how people later evaluate others. We find that people tend to reproduce the same kind of recognition they themselves received, even when it means rewarding poor performers or ignoring top ones.  

Published jointly for Work in Progress and Power at Work

Employers are increasingly using algorithms and digital devices to control workers. As a new Human Rights Watch report puts it, “Workers around the world are increasingly hired, compensated, disciplined, and fired by algorithms that can be opaque, error-prone, and discriminatory; their faces, office badge swipes, email exchanges, browsing histories, keystrokes, driving patterns, and rest times are scanned to monitor performance and productivity.”

My research shows how this “algorithmic management” does not only affect working conditions; it expands the capacity of employers to subvert the efforts of workers to organize for better treatment.

At this point it has become common knowledge: leveraging your social capital will help you on the job market. We hear it from scholars, who illustrate the benefits that job candidates get from referrals; from career counselors, who encourage us to reach out personal contacts at companies where we hope to work; and online, where we are relentlessly reminded to expand our professional networks to advance our careers. To get a job, it often seems, you have to know someone.

Yet leveraging connections during the job search is at odds with another widespread belief, that hiring should be meritocratic, based on candidates’ qualifications rather than their connections. This gives rise to a tension. On the one hand, we want to maximize our chances of getting the job by getting a foot in the door. On the other, we feel committed to the principle of meritocracy and concerned that using connections may shade into nepotism.

In recent decades, terms such as “meritocracy” and “equality of opportunities” have gained significant political and social traction, while the globe has experienced recurring economic and social crises that widened the gap between the haves and have-nots. Amid this growing inequality, one must question whether true social mobility still exists. Can today’s youth, regardless of their background, genuinely aspire to climb the economic ladder, or are they bound by the socioeconomic status they were born into?

The Good, the Bad, and the Gig Economy

There are good jobs, which have fair wages, security, and a career ladder. There are bad jobs, which have none of these. 

And then there are “good bad jobs,” otherwise known as gig work.

Not long ago, labor scholars and activists fastened on Walmart’s labor practices as providing the most influential template for the “low road” approach toward employment generally. Since then, Amazon has in many ways surpassed Walmart, overtaking it in many retail markets, and bringing into play a whole new set of labor practices, many of which are equipped with powerful digital surveillance tools. This raises the question: What, precisely, do we know about the labor control mechanisms that workers encounter in Amazon’s warehouses? Despite journalistic forays and scattered but growing academic research, we have only a faint and tenuous outline of the company’s managerial regime, and of the workers’ responses to it.[1]

Imagine a small, rustic distillery tucked away in Utah’s Uinta mountains. The air is crisp with hints of fermenting grain and aging whiskey. Inside, a dedicated artisan tends to the copper still, crafting small batches of handmade spirits with care. Each bottle reflects the maker’s dedication and knowledge of the land.

This romantic image is likely what comes to mind when we hear “craft spirits.” We envision devoted producers pursuing their passion for making unique, quality products that stand in contrast to those mass-produced by big-name brands. It’s no wonder, then, that the craft spirits industry has seen such impressive growth in recent years.

But how accurately does this idealized image reflect the reality experienced by craft distillers? In a recent study, forthcoming in Qualitative Sociology, my colleague Eylül Yel and I shed new light on this question, revealing a landscape far more complex than this idealized vision suggests.