Ask anyone over 35 what their summer job was, and they’ll have an answer or two. Theme parks. Restaurants. Retail stores. Local boutiques. Call centers. Lifeguard stands. Camp counselor gigs that paid in bug spray and sunburns. Once upon a time, I got my first summer job at Target, when big-box stores still trained you in folding techniques and how to survive the back-to-school rush.
That was normal. Teenagers and college students flooded the workforce when school let out. And smart managers made room for us. The good ones even let us stay on through the year, working around our class schedules.
That model? Almost extinct.
Now, it seems that many employers want full-time “entry-level” employees with open availability, long-term commitment and adult-level reliability. But without the pay or benefits to match. It’s no surprise that the first thing to go was flexibility. What student can swing a 40-hour workweek when classes resume in August?
Often restaurants and the hospitality industry, for example, still carve out space for young workers, thanks to shift-based chaos and constant turnover. But mall jobs? Grocery gigs? Local one-offs that used to train the neighborhood teens every June? Gone. Or automated. Or consolidated under scheduling apps and algorithms that often ignore anyone who can't commit year-round or full-time.
It’s not that Gen Z doesn’t want to work. Many do. Many need to. But in a job market shaped by corporate efficiency and post-pandemic labor tightening, summer jobs no longer make economic sense for businesses or, increasingly, for the students themselves.
Instead, summer is now a strategic season. Unpaid internships. Carefully curated volunteering. Freelance side hustles. “Building a brand.” Students are still hustling, but frequently without a paycheck, a schedule or the foundational experience that comes from wrangling customers, clocking in and learning on the fly.
So when you see a teen or college kid bagging groceries or waiting tables this summer, give them some credit. They’re not just working — they’re preserving a vintage tradition.
Like landlines. Or cargo shorts. Or jobs that end when school starts.
