Where the Dollars Go: Ethics, Trade, and the Hidden Cost of Making Things

When I wire money to my Chinese supplier, it feels like a simple transaction. I get an invoice in U.S. dollars, I send the funds, and eventually, skateboards arrive. But the more I’ve pulled on that thread, the more questions it raises. Where do those dollars actually go? Who benefits? Who loses? And what does it say about how we value labor—both here in the U.S. and abroad?

This isn’t just about longboards. It’s about a global system of production that feels both necessary and unjust, efficient and imbalanced. And as someone who has lived on both ends of the manufacturing food chain, I can’t stop thinking about the ethical weight of where we choose to make things.

The Journey of a Dollar

Let’s start with what actually happens when I wire U.S. dollars to China. My supplier gives me a price in dollars, not yuan. That’s already telling. The dollar is the world’s reserve currency, so international business is often done in USD. But my supplier doesn’t pay their employees in dollars. They pay them in RMB (renminbi).

So what happens?

The bank in China converts my dollars into RMB. This is where the Chinese central bank quietly steps in. Through a managed currency system, the Chinese government controls the exchange rate, keeping the RMB undervalued to make their exports more attractive. In essence, my dollars become RMB—and Chinese workers get paid. But the dollars don’t disappear.

They accumulate.

China ends up with a surplus of U.S. dollars, which it often uses to buy U.S. assets: Treasury bonds, real estate, companies, even farmland. This keeps their currency weak, their exports strong, and their economy humming. Meanwhile, American dollars are flowing out, goods are flowing in, and we’re running massive trade deficits.

Is that so Bad?

It’s easy to get alarmist here, but let’s be fair. This trade system has lifted millions out of poverty. Many Chinese factory workers are sending money back to rural families, helping parents and children survive—and even thrive—in ways that would have been unthinkable a generation ago. For many, these jobs represent upward mobility.

But here in the U.S., I’ve worked in manufacturing. I’ve been paid so little that I couldn’t afford basic living expenses. I started side businesses, worked weekends, cleaned houses—just to stay afloat. Manufacturing work in America often pays too little to live on, and that’s not because Americans are lazy or entitled. It’s because our cost of living is astronomical.

You can’t ask people to build your country’s infrastructure—to make things again—if they can’t afford a home, healthcare, or food. That’s not dignified labor. That’s economic cruelty.

The Real Imbalance

So the ethical dilemma gets complicated.

Should we bring manufacturing back to the U.S. if it means asking people to work jobs that still won’t support a decent life?

Or is it more ethical to manufacture abroad, where even a low wage can change a family’s life?

Neither answer feels entirely satisfying.

Meanwhile, American workers are told to compete with global labor forces living under vastly different economic conditions. How do you compete with someone whose cost of living is a fraction of yours? And how do you justify charging more for your product when your competitors are operating on a completely different playing field?

Making Toys in America

I make longboards. Athletic goods. Recreational gear. You could call them toys. Should toys be made in America?

Some would argue yes, on principle. But I have to consider the economics. Tooling costs in the U.S. are 2–2.5 times higher than in China. Unit costs? Also 2.5x. That might be survivable if you’re selling high-end equipment at a luxury price point—but what if your goal is to be accessible and premium?

It creates a real tension between ethics and economics.

Still, I believe there is a path forward. But it starts with recognizing that reshoring manufacturing requires more than patriotic slogans. It demands a rethinking of the fundamentals: housing, healthcare, transportation, and wages.

You can’t fix American manufacturing without fixing American life.

So What Does a Balanced Future Look Like?

In an ideal world, there is a balance. Not every product needs to be made in America, but we should be making enough high-value goods here to support a robust, middle-class workforce. That means paying people well and ensuring their work leads to a decent life.

It also means working with international partners who treat their workers fairly, transparently, and ethically. It means refusing to exploit either side of the equation.

Will the U.S. dollar lose value over time as we consume more and produce less? Maybe. But that’s not just about trade—it’s about whether we invest in ourselves. Manufacturing is one way to do that. So is education. So is affordable housing.

If we want to build a future that works for more people, we need to create conditions where making things is once again a viable way to live.

A Closing Thought

I don’t have a perfect answer. I’m still trying to figure it out. But I think we have to start asking better questions—about the dollars we spend, the lives they touch, and the world we’re building in the process. And about the conditions we are helping to create here at home, to make for the working American. 
Whether I make boards in Denver or Dongguan, I want to make sure I’m doing it in a way that respects the hands that build them. And that starts with understanding where the dollars go—and why that matters.

If you made it this far, thanks for reading. I’d love to hear your thoughts. If you’re in the business of making things—or even just thinking about what we consume—what’s your take on all this?