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The jobs AI can’t do – and the young adults doing them

Tuesday, March 31st, 2026

Gib and Michelle Mouser are proud of their son’s career – just not in the way they once imagined.

Only 23 years old, Cale Mouser already earns well over six figures, and he’ll end up making substantially more. He is an acknowledged expert in a highly specialized field who spends hours in deep thought solving hard problems. He uses a computer, but he’s not stuck behind it.

Cale Mouser repairs diesel engines.

The Minnesota native began working with medium- and heavy-duty trucks just five years ago. His aptitude quickly led to a diesel technology degree at North Dakota State College of Science – and then a faculty position there.

His family background offered no obvious path into the field – his mother is a nurse and his father a veterinarian – but he now teaches the next generation, which is still his own, how to diagnose and repair heavy equipment, from tractors to 53ft semis.

“It’s very exciting. I get to go do some sleuthing, like Sherlock and Watson,” he chuckles. “There’s a lot of awe and wonder involved.”

“Awe and wonder” is an unusual way to describe a hands-on job – the kind many Americans still see as a fallback at best, with only a tough daily grind to look forward to. What used to be called vocational education once carried a punch-the-clock stigma.

But for many young people on the verge of entering the workforce, that stigma is fading. And for some, the appeal is competitive: these trades now come with contests, rankings and national titles. That’s how Mouser became a national champion.

Mouser’s path began with a competition he didn’t even enter. One morning, a teacher told him to show up at a cavernous industrial hall in Wahpeton, North Dakota, where the non-profit SkillsUSA had filled the floor with parked diesel trucks.

Students had 25 minutes to rotate through 14 truck stations, diagnosing built-in faults and fixing what they could on the fly. It was a long and challenging 10-hour day, with the added stress of the judges recording every small error.

Somehow, with no prior competition experience, Mouser won. “I had an absolute blast, just working my way through the stations and enjoying my time. I loved the challenge and the thought process behind it,” he recalls.

Suddenly, he had his first state gold medal, hundreds of dollars’ worth of sponsored tools and a ticket to compete in the SkillsUSA Championships, which are held each year in Atlanta. Soon he would add another gold medal to his collection – this time as a national champion.

…

From welders to skilled robotics technicians, auto repair experts to EMTs, numerous US industries are struggling to find and hire people with Mouser’s level of complex cognitive skills, speed and determination – all things he learned in competitions, at school and on the job.

Fix a broken tractor or combine fast enough in the real world, you help save a farmer’s crops or get medicine to where it needs to go. And competitions are often their first access point, says Chelle Travis, executive director of SkillsUSA, the largest nationwide workforce development organization for students. “ Everyone is after skilled talent,” she says. “We see employers asking to increase competitions.”

To witness a skills competition is to be struck by the curiosity and drive that these students bring to a category of work that does not receive its share of headlines: “middle-skill” jobs – the kind that require training and credentials beyond high school, but not a four-year bachelor’s degree to enter.

While wildly different, these fields have two important things in common, according to Prof David Autor, associate department head of the MIT Department of Economics.

One, they all over-index on what he calls human expertise, which he defines as applying learned proficiency to problem solving and making one-off, high-stakes decisions. And two, they are all poised to benefit in the best possible version of a robotics- and AI-entwined economy – where humans are called on to collaborate with technologies that help them form new expertise on brand-new work processes which are likely to emerge.

These hands-on jobs “are an area where there’s tremendous specialized knowledge. It’s often acquired in the field. And it’s not easily automatable because it requires lots and lots of judgment, combined with a level of dexterity and adaptability in an ever-changing environment. That’s very, very challenging for robotics,” he says.

AI is skilled at knowledge tasks performed on computers, leaving the so-called “knowledge workers” who do them, especially entry-level graduates, among the most exposed. Yet Autor believes predictions of an impending “AI robocalypse” – his term – lack nuance.

In his analysis, general purpose AI models could change certain middle-skills fields like cybersecurity or IT by making them higher paid but potentially less numerous. Those who remain in those roles will be more specialized and their human oversight and judgment will be essential.

As for skilled trades, Travis says that in her 20 years with SkillsUSA, she has never before seen such concentrated interest from policymakers and CEOs in developing work-based learning programs for students, sometimes starting in elementary school. SkillsUSA’s membership now stands at more than 440,000 students nationwide, and its annual championships draw thousands of competitors.

…

Eva Carroll discovered the trades almost by accident.

Her high school offered electives in construction, electrical work and building technology. No one in her family worked with their hands. But during her first electrical project, a teacher showed the class how to generate a charge using nothing more than a potato sliced in half and a pair of wires. She was hooked.

Last year, Carroll proudly stood out as the only national female medalist in her division on the podium when she and her team took silver at SkillsUSA. She had traveled to Atlanta from Columbia, South Carolina, to compete in the TeamWorks competition, one of the most high-pressure skills contests known for attracting only the most tough-as-nails construction fanatics.

Students must frame out and build an eight-foot by 10-foot mini home in 16 hours flat, complete with roof, working electrical and plumbing, making it one of the most arduous challenges on the convention floor.

In Atlanta, judges provided just enough wood, masonry materials, electrical wire and other items for the build, which Carroll, 20, undertook with her team of three male students from Midlands Technical College in South Carolina. Going in, they knew they would have no margin for error. One stud out of place would lose them points. Make the wrong cut, a board would be short and they would lose 10 points or more.

Carroll’s main passion is for electrical installation, but she does it all. Even in the whirl of panic and accidentally hammering a finger, she enjoyed herself immensely. “I’d look around and everyone’s freaking out. And I’m just doing my own thing, singing to myself,” she says. “I’m in my own world when I’m out there.”

Carroll initially got some alarmed pushback from her parents when she came home in high school talking excitedly about the electives she had signed up for. “Me being a girl in this, they were kind of scared that I might get hurt,” she says. They do support her, but they first wanted their daughter to understand she was choosing a field that would probably entail a lot of hard labor.

Carroll isn’t sure yet what elements of the trade she’ll pursue. She likes construction math and teamwork, so she could become a construction manager or estimator and earn well above $90,000 a year to start.

Carroll knows that being a woman on a construction site can come with its challenges, but she believes that competing and training has given her all the self-confidence she’ll ever need. “Plus, it’s cool that I get to beat a bunch of dudes that do this all the time,” she laughs.

…

It took a stray conversation with a friend about a criminal justice class to pique Aydrie Ruff’s interest enough that she enrolled at Meridian Technology Center, a trade school in Stillwater, Oklahoma, at 16.

By far the most interesting part of the class, for her, focused on crime scene investigation and forensics. So when her teacher asked her whether she would like to compete as part of a crime scene team through SkillsUSA, her heart leapt. “That sounds like the most interesting thing ever,” she remembers thinking.

In a competition, students are presented with the staged aftermath of a violent crime. They have to think quickly to decide what to do. “We photograph the evidence, we draw the scene. One person will swab for blood. One person will lift a fingerprint and another will package evidence and find fibers and stuff,” she explains.

Ruff’s team – three girls from her school – made it to nationals on their first try. It was extremely nerve-racking, she recalls. In Atlanta, her CSI team had 15 minutes to process a simulated hotel robbery scene – overturned furniture, broken glass, synthetic blood, a gun underneath the mattress with prints on it. They had to capture everything without contaminating the scene. And every move they made was judged by real-life forensics experts.

Back home in Oklahoma, Ruff’s classroom work ranges from the detailed to the grisly. She’s practiced redirecting traffic away from a crime scene, and spent time at the local jail with her class. She can calculate, using a special math equation, where a suspect or victim was standing at the crime scene, based on the pattern of the blood spatter (“It’s very, very cool”).

And she has learned a lot about bugs. Specifically, the kinds of bugs that grow inside corpses. In fact, listening to visiting entomologists lecture her class about the life cycles of maggots and flies was one of the highlights of her school year.

Ruff keeps her medals tacked up on her bedroom wall. The soft-spoken 17-year-old was raised by her grandparents. Her upbringing had no connection to the criminal justice field, other than the enjoyable hours she spent cozying up next to her grandfather as a child to watch Forensic Files, a documentary TV show that highlighted real-life cases solved by forensic scientists.

Once she completes her final year at Meridian Tech, Ruff will be off to the University of Central Oklahoma to major in forensics. “You can be a forensic scientist or a pathologist, or a toxicologist,” she says, happily. “There’s work you can do with just bones or just fingerprints or bugs. There are hundreds of jobs out there.”

Cale Mouser’s passion for diesel technology took him all the way to WorldSkills in 2024 in Lyon, France, where the then- 21-year-old earned a fifth-place medallion of excellence for the high score he obtained.

“ They always told us we were the best of the best, and I always doubted ’em until I got there and realized how big of a deal it really was,” he says.

And crucially, AI won’t be stealing his Sherlock Holmes hat anytime soon.

“I just diagnosed a transmission the other night, where the computer didn’t even know anything was wrong,” says Mouser. “AI will not replace the skilled trades.”

Tags: AI, AI and jobs, Artificial intelligence, Automation, Blue-collar jobs, David Autor, Julia Scott, New-collar economy, Skills, SkillsUSA, WorldSkills
Posted in Front Page, Uncategorized | No Comments »

The Enchanting Mr. Rice Guy

Thursday, January 20th, 2022

Here’s the last time I remember playing with my childhood imaginary friend, Mister Rice Guy. I’m 8, and it’s my least favorite time of day: recess. I’m friendless and alone at my new school, and so I bring him with me that day — normally he stays home. We walk the perimeter of the chain-link enclosed yard behind the school as kids around us scream and play. My classmates assume I’m talking to myself, so they start mouthing my words, wreathing them with derisive laughter.

Until that day, my imaginary friend had been a source of comfort. That moment transformed him into a source of shame. Mister Rice Guy (whose name I am sure I took from misunderstanding the phrase “Mister Nice Guy”) disappeared.

Thirty-two years later, in the nadir of a global pandemic, he came back again. But more on that in a moment.

According to my parents, Mister Rice Guy first showed up when I was 5. I was an awkward only child with a need for an imaginary companion who understood me. I was very private about him. He never came to the dinner table, and I never told my parents what he looked like. He and I spent long hours locked in conversation, playing together on the floor of my green-carpeted bedroom. What did he look like? In later years, I’ve been embarrassed to admit I couldn’t quite remember. What I do know is how he made me feel. Safe and warm. Seen, heard and protected.

Maybe you had a special friend in childhood who made you feel that way. Or more than one. The experience exists on a spectrum, stretching from conversations with a favorite toy or stuffed animal to personified imaginary entities like mine.

For the most part, children know these friends are “pretend.” That’s the point. They’re not a delusion, but rather a way to access feelings and qualities that our youthful selves know to be important, but which we’re not ready to claim as part of our essential identities. They’re our emotional backpacks, apart but close at hand, there when needed to deliver a store of strength or calm.

Experts say a child’s imaginary friend can be someone to consult when making a decision. They can make us feel better about our peer relationships, giving us insights on how to handle friendships and disagreements. And they offer the capacity to imagine new outcomes to difficult situations. Feeling trapped and confused, say, in a pandemic? Your imaginary friend might help you imagine a way out.

“The kind of mind that can reason about the past and think about the future is the kind of mind that can come up with an alternative,” says Marjorie Taylor, a professor emerita of psychology at the University of Oregon. Taylor has studied children’s fantasy lives for decades. I called her up recently to ask if I was crazy, because suddenly Mister Rice Guy was back.

No, she said. I was not crazy. In fact, more adults could benefit from finding new ways to play.

In the shortest, darkest days of that first fearful winter, as COVID-19 mutations circled the globe, I sat at home, hushed and frightened and uncertain. From bleary days to long, insomniac nights, a heaviness assailed me in my solar plexus. It dragged me down and made me cry, on and off, for days at a time. And then suddenly, one night, all I could think of was Mister Rice Guy. I swore I could feel his presence in my bedroom.

Was I losing my mind? I looked around in the dark and felt like a fool. Why would my old companion be back in my life? Could he even recognize this sad, 40-year-old variation on the (also kind of sad) child he had comforted at the age of 8?

The next morning, I woke up, exhausted and confused, and took a hike for the first time in months. I drove to a hilly park with fresh green grass. At the outset, I wondered if Mister Rice Guy would tag along, but still it made no sense. Why would my old companion want a friend like me? I was weepy and depressed and old. If he were there, he’d want to play.

Suddenly I knew what I needed to do. I took off my pack, climbed a medium-size hill, waited until no one else was looking — and rolled down that hill. I collapsed at the bottom, giggly and dizzy and covered in burs. You cannot be sad after you roll down a hill. And I know for a fact that I didn’t roll down that hill all by myself. I got a push from Mister Rice Guy.

After that, we spent a lot of time together. As the first pandemic winter yielded to its second spring, I left my apartment as often as I could, taking long walks where I paid special attention to bird and insect worlds. What were their days like? I imagined walking side by side with Mister Rice Guy on these explorations, which made them feel adventurous and fun. That line of ants streaming by a smeared banana — where was their nest? (We tried to follow the trail of ants for as far as we could.) How closely could we sneak up next to the hummingbirds on my street before they zoomed away? By then I’d realized, to my delight, that I hadn’t forgotten what my childhood friend looked like: He looked like no one, or like everyone who isn’t me. In an era that seems all too ready to demonize the Other, here was a presence of pure Otherness, radiating the acceptance I hadn’t been able to access on my own. 

If someone saw me talking to myself, let them wonder. I felt no shame.

I’m sure I am not alone in having invoked a childhood presence for my own comfort over the past year. More than one friend has told me they reached for their oldest, most cherished stuffed animal in recent times — rescuing them from closets or shelves, gently stroking their much-repaired coat and reconnecting with ancient feelings of safety and innocence.

I spent 32 years living without Mister Rice Guy, because I made friends and gained confidence out in the world. But I had forgotten how to play.

We’ve all observed the intense absorption of children at play. As a writer, I’m envious of their ability to invent characters, storylines and games without effort. Imagination is a form of pleasure and escape. It’s not quite like an adult daydream. To play is to live in the present, unremittingly, without distraction or self-judgment. There’s a sense of discovery and wonder.

Playfulness is a collective trait. “I can walk into any daycare anywhere in this country and see children pretending all day long,” says Taylor, who wrote the definitive book on pretend friends and has spent her career unraveling the mysteries of why we play. She believes the instinct for imaginary play is universal, and that imagination itself is fundamental to the human condition. And not just for humans. Taylor points to a handful of studies going back to the 1950s that suggest gorillas, chimpanzees and dolphins engage in imaginary play — among each other or with their human interlocutors. 

The “why” of it is less evident: Play may serve a profound evolutionary purpose that we still don’t understand. But the capacity for imagination benefits us all our lives — whether it’s to propel us to the moon or to write the occasional poem. We also all have the capacity to think about things that don’t exist, might have been or could be. Thinking about the past, imagining a future: These are the tools of fiction. And what is our daily self-talk if not the adult version of our childhood attempts to cope with these past and future notions?

Who can we be speaking to?

Imaginary friendships weren’t even thought to be good for children until the 1990s, when an efflorescence of research began to suggest otherwise. Today, having fantasies of this nature is considered not just healthy, but an important rite of passage for some. Studies by Taylor and others suggest that up to 65 percent of us had an imaginary friend, or multiple friends, in childhood or adolescence. (Other studies suggest the number is much lower, around 30 percent).

Researchers have found that the presence of an imaginary friend — whether a wholly-invented figment of a child’s imagination or a favorite object like a stuffed animal that has a personality and “converses” with the child — tends to correlate with high levels of creativity and empathy. Some of us invented entire worlds with imaginary characters and storylines, called paracosms. In doing so, we gained a whole lot more than companionship.

The benefits also accrue later in life. Several recent studies have shown the experience of having an imaginary companion likely makes adolescents and adults more independent, resilient and prone to ask for help when they need it. And, yes, adults who used to have imaginary friends do engage in more self-talk than other people.

But why might I — or any of us — seek a reunion with our pretend playmates? The answer may lie in the disorienting circumstances of our new reality. My childhood world was small and turbulent and vulnerable. Adults were the force majeure, compelling where I went and what I did. Our COVID-19 lives today are similarly proscribed, attenuated and disordered by forces outside our control. There’s a deadly pandemic on, and not even the grown-ups know what’s going to happen next. Our worlds are again defined by hard boundaries and closed doors. And just like in childhood, we survey our lives in the lonely hours of before-sleep or before-dawn, waiting for the point where we again have something to look forward to.

For me, spending time with Mister Rice Guy helped me realize how big my world truly is, no matter how small it can feel inside the daily closed loop of my pandemic bubble. The last time he and I played together when I was 8, his world was bounded by my green-carpeted bedroom and the fenced-in recess yard behind my school. When he came back to me, we enjoyed a leisurely ramble through the Sonoma County hills all day, hunted for ripe blackberries and compared the personalities of the different cows we ran into (and tried to run up to) on skinny ranchland trails.

After we took those first post-vaccination forays into the world, my fears started to ebb, and Mister Rice Guy stopped coming around. I’m OK with that — it was a reunion, after all, and this time his departure isn’t the sudden banishment of an ashamed 8-year-old girl. He’s gone away for now. But if living is coping with uncertainty, he could very well be back.

He’ll be welcome. I sleep better these days knowing I have an extra friend who requires no social distancing, who sees me clearly with his every-colored eyes. And who’ll remind me when it’s time to play.

Tags: childhood, COVID-19, Dr. Marjorie Taylor, Imaginary friends, Julia Scott, pandemic, Paracosms, The power of play
Posted in Uncategorized | Comments Off on The Enchanting Mr. Rice Guy

Duolingo: Two Unexpected Entrepreneurs

Thursday, August 20th, 2020

EPISODE PART 1:
She Can Fix It

Stephanie Lopez is a woman in a man’s profession, something some men have never let her forget.

Stephanie, a mother of two, owns Woosters Garage in Weston, a small town in central Wisconsin. She named her garage after her great-great grandfather Glen Wooster, the first in a long family line of men — including her grandfather and father — who love fixing cars… a passion she inherited.

Today, Stephanie Lopez is proud to run her own garage. But her road there was bumpy, winding and full of unexpected barriers.

EPISODE PART 2:
Silicon Valley’s Wizard of Jobs

Rahim Fazal seemed destined for a thriving career in the tech industry when the web company he co-founded as a teenager made him a millionaire overnight. 

Rahim is 38 today. His dreams of making it in Silicon Valley eventually did come true… But along the way, he noticed that not everybody was equally welcome there. The troubling question of who gets to belong in the heart of the tech world — and who doesn’t — eventually led Rahim to take the biggest leap of his career. 

Tags: Duolingo, Entrepreneurs, inspiring, Joel Scott, Julia Scott, podcast, Rahim Fazal, Silicon Valley, Stephanie Lopez, SV Academy, Woosters Garage
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Under One Roof: How COVID-19 Turned My Apartment Building Into a Community

Thursday, April 16th, 2020

I live in a tall condo building with hundreds of neighbours in Oakland, California. The San Francisco Bay Area has been under lockdown for five weeks now, though many of us have already lost count.

These are long days. Sometimes I forget to eat. I sit in front of my laptop at my kitchen table — which is also my dining room table — and mark time by counting the number of delivery vans in the driveway from Amazon. Everyone in my building is ordering in and no one is venturing out.

And I’ve started to wonder: how are we all coping? How has the coronavirus changed our lives so far, and how will it change us as a building? As neighbours?

We live solitary lives behind our 119 doors. And yet we’ve never had more in common. The threat we face from outside is invisible, terrifying and real. And all of a sudden, we’ve come to depend on each other to stay healthy. One person’s COVID-19 exposure could endanger others in proximity. We all need to protect each other at the same time.

Possibly no one in the building understands the threat better than Katie Stephenson. She’s a pediatrics resident at a local hospital, and she lives on the second floor. She regularly works 12-hour shifts at the hospital, where she sees children who have been admitted because their parents are afraid they might have COVID-19.

‘I just assume that I’ve been exposed’

When she comes home from work, the first thing she does is strip off her scrubs and take a long shower with a lot of soap. “Because it’s not only just the germs, but it’s also the sweat and everything from being in the hospital and trying to sleep on the little cots there, and being exposed to all the coughing,” she says.

Katie is not just trying to stay clean. She’s trying to protect our neighbours from the coronavirus — since she thinks it’s only a matter of time before she becomes infected herself.

I just assume that I’ve been exposed, or that I’ll be exposed again. So my mission is just to keep my germs confined to my little space and not let them get out,” she shrugs.

The prospect of infection doesn’t scare her. But she knows she could infect our neighbour Judy Rosenberg, a woman in her 70s who lives just two doors down. Judy is an improvisational pianist who keeps a concert piano in her living room. She doesn’t find herself wanting to play that much these days, though.

“I just feel an overriding sadness, and I have felt depression in my life. The amount of deaths per day is just staggering to me,” she says. “I’m in my early 70s and nothing like this has ever happened to my generation. Even 9/11 was horrible … but it was an event; it came and it went.

“This is of a different character, and this has a quality of war to it,” she adds.

Judy’s days revolve around not getting sick; the outcome would likely be far worse for her than for Katie. She still goes out every day with a mask on for walks and groceries, but she’s shut in the rest of the day, emailing friends and reading spy novels to pass the time. She tries not to watch the news.

Katie and Judy’s lives have little in common, but it struck me that — now more than ever — what we do to protect each other makes a stark difference — maybe even between life and death.

Our land-based cruise ship

Gina Belleci and her girlfriend Jessica Holt, my neighbours on the sixth floor, made their unit into a shared office space after the lockdown. They settled into a routine, dropping food off for Gina’s mom once a week to keep her from being exposed in the grocery aisles. They also took care of their neighbours, shopping for an elderly friend on the eighth floor who really should not leave the building.

But as the news worsened and the disease’s virulence became more widely understood, they made the difficult decision to clear out of our building and go live with Gina’s mom. They were worried that living with 180 people gave them more potential exposure to COVID-19, and they feared transmitting it to Gina’s mom on those weekly visits.

“I either need to choose being with my mom, or we need to really commit to this land-based cruise ship we live on, which is so big and has so many people coming in and out. And quite frankly, I don’t know that anything’s being cleaned above and beyond,” says Gina.

“Land-based cruise ship.” I hadn’t quite thought of it that way, but there is a concern here about sanitation. Our building’s maintenance man has gone home, and there is no cleaning going on. All of the building’s common touch points could now be vectors for infection. Elevator buttons. Door knobs. I’ve taken to wearing gloves just to go downstairs. When people see me inside an elevator they’re waiting for, they give a tight smile and wait for the next one. Even the mailroom has started to feel a little snug.

But a lot of nice little things have happened in my building, too. Several neighbours left notes on the bulletin board in the lobby, offering to help anyone who needs it. On

e person organized the entire seventh floor into a group text, so that when someone’s leaving for a grocery run, they can take requests and minimize the number of trips from the building.

We’re also connecting in new ways. My sixth-floor neighbour Guillaume Chartier, a fellow Montrealer, dropped off a slice of homemade lemon meringue pie after I interviewed him for this story. I had my first real conversation with my third-floor neighbour Ernesto Victoria, who has lived above me for five years but with whom I’ve mostly exchanged only pleasantries.

And after a few people started meeting on the roof to watch the sunset, it turned into a socially-distant Friday happy hour where everyone brings their own drink and stands at least two metres apart.

This pandemic has changed our world, but it has also changed our building. I’ve met more neighbours in the last week than I’ve gotten to know in the past five years. I already feel better knowing I have so many people to talk to who are facing the same situation — the same questions — as I am. We may all be behind our doors for now, but we really are in this together.

Tags: CBC, Coronavirus, COVID-19, Julia Scott, The Current
Posted in Podcast and Radio Work, Uncategorized | No Comments »

How Canadians Took Silicon Valley… And Never Owned the Win

Tuesday, June 12th, 2018

Tags: brain drain, C100, Canada, Julia Scott, Silicon Valley, The Logic
Posted in Uncategorized | No Comments »

Beyond #MeToo: Teaching Boys About Consent

Wednesday, January 24th, 2018

Coaching Boys Into Men

When is the right time to start teaching young boys about consent, boundaries and respect toward women?

A nationwide program called Coaching Boys Into Men trains school coaches to work with boys as young as 11, who are on their school’s athletic teams. Boys trust their coaches, and the conversations that ensue are designed to plant seeds that will help prevent abuse — and give young men the tools to speak up when they see something that’s not right.

Student athletes are often the leaders at their schools, and they can set the tone for the other students.

At Petaluma Junior High School, former student Danny Marzo and Athletic Director Zach Dee told us about how the program has led to changes on a personal level in the school culture overall.

This story was part of a series on KQED’s The California Report, Beyond #MeToo: Sex, Abuse and Power Through a California Lens .

Tags: #MeToo, Julia Scott, KQED, The California Report
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