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Large electricity users that employ few workers are not what America’s reindustrialization dreams are made on.

A group of local activists recently rallied against a major new industrial site in their area.
They worried the new facility was going to suck up water and electricity. They fretted about the chemicals and risky materials it might store on site. And they argued that the land’s “light industrial” zoning designation is not appropriate for the incoming tenant.
All in all, it sounded like a typical neighborhood protest against an incoming data center. As we’ve covered here at Heatmap News, local opposition to data centers has surged over the past year, ultimately playing a role in the demise of about 25 proposed projects nationwide in 2025.
But the new facility wasn’t a data center at all. It was a factory set to produce solar panel components. The proposed Silfab Solar factory in Fort Mill, South Carolina, has fought legal efforts to change local zoning rules since May 2024 as residents have fought it in a spiraling series of cases. As of January, the battle was still ongoing.
The case serves as a reminder: While the ongoing exurban land-use backlash is notionally about data centers, it will not necessarily stop there. Many of the issues that concern residents about data centers — their power use, water use, and lack of jobs — are not unique to these vast computing facilities. Data centers more closely resemble modern factories and other industrial facilities than they do the vast, job-intensive projects of last century.
One thread unites many opponents’ stated concerns: AI data centers, which consume prodigious amounts of electricity, aren’t the kind of industrial development Americans are used to. The Bethlehem Steel site or the Ford River Rouge factory used huge amounts of energy at their peak — but also employed more than 100,000 people. Although a single data center can boast dozens of megawatts of backup diesel generation — potentially turning it into an industrial-scale polluter — it is also unlikely to create few if any permanent jobs.
This isn’t to say that AI data centers create no benefits for their communities: If their community benefits or tax packages are structured well, AI data centers can lower energy costs, help local nonprofits, or generate staggering amounts of public revenue. AI data center projects also, of course, employ construction and electrical workers (and enrich local landowners). They can also generate several dozen permanent jobs, according to Matt Dunne, the founder and executive director of the Center for Rural Innovation.
“In the places where data centers are showing up, the jobs are really quite good. These are 50 really good, high-paying jobs — and in a community of 10,000 people, that’s not nothing,” Dunne told me.
With limited land at their disposal to allocate for new developments, local officials typically prefer to see hundreds or even thousands of new jobs created by a new project. They imagine creating facilities like the BMW plant in Greer, South Carolina, or the Volkswagen facility in Chattanooga, Tennessee, both of which transformed their respective regions after they opened.
But AI data centers are more like wind and solar farms — or even oil or gas pipelines — than the factories or refineries of yore. They are a particularly “jobless” form of industrial development, and they seem to compare poorly with the more labor-intensive forms of economic activity that many exurban or rural communities say they crave.
The researcher Advait Arun at the Center for Public Enterprise also points out that some AI data centers take advantage of longstanding local tax incentive packages designed to help more traditional “cloud” data centers, which use less power and are less risky investments than the “neoclouds” and other more speculative proposals popping up across the U.S. No jobs and no tax revenue don’t add up to a particularly appealing package for local governments.
The challenge is that in the next few years, more forms of economic development will come to resemble AI data centers than factories or refineries. The country’s steel plants and shipyards used to employ tens of thousands of people. But SpaceX’s rocket factory near Brownsville, Texas, now employs closer to 4,000 people. Taiwanese chipmaker TSMC’s plant in Arizona — probably the country’s most advanced manufacturing facility — employs only 3,000. That number might eventually double, but it still pales in comparison to the heavy industrial sites of old.
The post-war factories of old were detrimental to their communities in any number of other ways — sending deadly particulate matter into the air, releasing chemicals into the water, and leaching contaminants into the soil — and drew their fair share of protesters as a result. These next-generation facilities share few if any of their forebears’ foibles, but that might not help them with the public, Jonas Nahm, a Johns Hopkins University professor who studies industrial policy, told me.
“The factories now being built are not the smokestack industries of the past. They are cleaner, and often among the least locally polluting facilities in the economy,” Nahm said.
“But political opposition no longer tracks pollution alone,” he added. “It increasingly tracks who bears the costs of scarce resources—electricity, water, land—and who captures the benefits. On that dimension, advanced factories can start to resemble data centers: clean in emissions, heavy in infrastructure, and relatively light on jobs.”
Silfab is not alone among manufacturers in facing local opposition — factories across the country have pushback on par with the budding data center rebellion. Rivian’s proposed 1,800-acre manufacturing facility in Stanton Springs, Georgia, has dealt with a “No2Rivian” campaign focused on “land and water preservation.” The Chinese company Gotion faced years of local opposition when it tried to build a plant in Big Rapids, Michigan, before it eventually killed the project.
Economic and national security imperatives will not ease these challenges in the near term. If America wants to compete with China’s dominant electronics or batteries industries, then its manufacturing industry must become even more capital-light. Some Chinese firms, such as the EV maker Zeeker, have begun experimenting with “lights-out factories,” where robots alone can build a product without much human involvement. Despite China’s much larger population, the country now uses more industrial robots per 10,000 workers than the United States does. (South Korea and Japan still lead in robot density.)
This isn’t the first time automation and technological change have transformed the labor market in exurban and rural communities, Dunne said.
“The great automation of agriculture is what drove a lot of people to cities in the Twenties, Thirties, and Forties — about half of Americans were employed in agriculture at that moment in time, and then these things called tractors came along,” he said. “Manufacturing today is going through the same thing.”
Manufacturing has become progressively less job-intensive over the past few decades, he added. Many companies invested in manufacturing “competitiveness” programs, he said, which “sounded great until folks realized the ‘competitiveness’ of a certain plant meant shedding 60% to 70% of its jobs.”
Nahm, the Johns Hopkins professor, agreed. “The tension is that competitiveness now requires more automation, not less,” he said. “We can’t rely indefinitely on tariffs or subsidies to make domestic production viable, and China is showing what large-scale industrial automation and AI deployment can achieve. The factories that actually make reshoring work, however, are unlikely to recreate the mass employment that once tied industrial facilities tightly to local communities.
“That gap — between national economic goals and local political buy-in — is where the next set of conflicts is likely to emerge,” he added.
Of course, AI data centers differ from factories in key ways. New data centers suck up huge amounts of electricity despite taking up a small plot of land, a concentration of power use rivaled only by a few industries, such as aluminum smelters. Factories also tend to support a network of local high-end employment — engineers, machinists, robotics specialists — even if robots themselves do much of the assembling work.
But if a future policymaker wants to revive U.S. manufacturing — as every president in recent decades has vowed to do — then they will discover a new raft of obstacles. And the employment juice of a manufacturing-focused economy might no longer deliver the benefit that it once did.
In one big way, factories and data centers present similar risks for local communities. Often a town or county will only have a few high-quality sites for economic development, Dunne, the Center for Rural Innovation director, said. Once a facility uses that land, then the community’s economic fate is tied up with that industry.
“I think we’ve all seen the story where over-dependence on a single industry — not to mention a single company — does not go well,” Dunne said. “If a data center is coming in and going to take over a huge amount of your potential developable property, you still need to be thinking about how to diversify your economy effectively.”
“The only way to do that,” he continued, “is to continue to create wealth in the community and invest in local entrepreneurship, to invest in quality-of-life amenities, in quality K-12 schools — all the things that make a place exciting for folks to want to live in.”
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Cement, plywood, and some electronic equipment will face 50% levies. But the real cost is much higher.
Here we go again. The United States will impose new 50% tariffs on a slew of imports from Canada, the White House announced on Monday afternoon. The trade levies — which will hit more than 500 categories of goods, from anoraks, beer, and curtains, to yarn, wool, and whey protein — will take effect in 30 days.
The new tariffs don’t seem to be wildfire-related. President Trump threatened to impose new tariffs last week after smoke from Canadian wildfires drifted south over the northern U.S. border, but administration officials have claimed to CNN that these new levies were already in motion by then.
Even so, a few aspects of the announcement stand out. Most important, at least from a generalist perspective, is the legal mechanism that President Trump is using to apply them: Section 338 of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act. This passage, which has never been used by a previous president to levy tariffs, allows the United States to tax trade from countries that the president says have “discriminated against” U.S. commerce.
Significant, too, is the fact the White House asserts this new kind of tariff could apply to any kind of product — even those that would normally be covered by the North American free trade pact, the U.S.-Mexico-Canada Agreement. So far, the “Big Three” automakers — whose supply chains cross the Mexican or Canadian borders half a dozen times before a car is finally assembled — have avoided major tariff danger because auto parts and other inputs fall under the USMCA’s auspices. If the White House now thinks it can levy taxes despite that pact, then the risks for Ford, General Motors, and their suppliers have increased.
Energy and critical minerals are exempt from the new tariffs, so Canadian crude oil, gasoline, diesel, natural gas, and electricity will presumably keep flowing into the United States. (That explicit carve-out might be ominous in its own right, because energy had been protected by USMCA so far, too.) By omitting energy, Trump and his officials may be calculating they can avoid major inflationary hazards from this round of tariffs.
Who knows. In any case, to my eye, these tariffs do seem like they could aggravate construction costs and possibly contribute to wider U.S. inflation. There’s already some evidence that data centers are driving a new wave of inflation, for instance, by hiking construction input and labor costs. Yet data centers use a lot of cement — and cement will now face a 50% tariff under the new regime. So too will plywood, plaster, and paperboard, as well as industrial cooling equipment, chemicals, and some circuit boards.
I could keep listing the potential economic costs here — I could point out that overall inflation risk is rising or that average U.S. gas prices rose to $4 a gallon today on the Iran war news — but I think it’s important to look at least one step beyond the hits to commerce alone.
I mentioned earlier that these tariffs are meant to punish “discrimination.” In this case, some of the “discrimination” appears to be what some Canadian provinces did to retaliate against the president’s earlier tariffs. The state-owned liquor stores in Quebec and Ontario, for instance, stopped buying U.S.-made booze after Trump slapped 25% tariffs on Canada in March 2025; those boycotts are mentioned by name in today’s proclamation. Canada, you see, is not supposed to respond to Trump’s tariffs. It is just supposed to take it — just like it’s supposed to take the constant stream of falsehoods, abuse, belittling, and invasion threat.
Over the past few years, politicians and pundits have learned to respond to Trump’s policies by appealing to U.S. self-interest — by explaining how the president’s policies are making Americans poorer. It is a sensible strategy for a morally denuded era. A recent statement from Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer about Canada, for example, criticized the president for hurting “our closest ally and partner … right when summer tourism season is arriving.” I get the move here — and I think, in some sense, Schumer is trying to avoid polarizing Trump’s treatment of Canada along partisan lines — but Canadians are more than their tourism dollars.
For the past several years, Trump has threatened to strip Canada of its sovereignty and its dignity. He has treated what was once a deep and secure relationship as something to be bartered and mined and dissipated. It is a mucilaginous approach to statecraft, and as recent reporting has made clear, its long-term costs will exceed any simple accounting. We Americans have been robbed of an honorable friendship. Some losses cannot be counted in dollars.
In seven years of owning an electric car, I’ve done practically no maintenance. My 2019 Tesla Model 3 has gotten a new set of tires and windshield wipers, but because an EV doesn’t require oil changes or many of the other occasional chores that come with gas cars, that’s about it.
The one thing I have had to fix is the battery, and no, I don’t mean the big one that makes the car go.
Twice in those seven years, I’ve replaced the car’s 12-volt battery. This is the toolbox-sized unit that’s familiar to millions — it’s what the phrase “car battery” used to mean back before electric vehicles. Lots of new or aspiring EV drivers may not even realize their car has a second, smaller battery borrowed from combustion days. But this crucial holdover — the most recycled object on the planet, by the way, at a rate of more than 100 million annually — has already been a source of annoyance for EV engineers and drivers.
The reason behind the weird setup is straightforward. Despite the fact that EVs are effectively giant batteries on wheels, they need a backup source to operate the power windows and doors. If you’re in a car accident that disables the main battery, for instance, you need power to the doors to escape, and also a way to disconnect the high-voltage battery. Thus, the old-fashioned 12-volt battery squirreled away deep inside the car to protect it during collisions.
It’s not just a matter of backup power, either. A large, high-voltage battery would have to step down its electrical output for applications other than pushing a car down the road; it’s simpler to power them with a 12-volt battery and use the big unit to recharge the smaller one. After all, legacy carmakers have decades of experience building this kind of electrical system for gasoline-powered cars. Some EVs also use the 12-volt setup to disconnect the high-voltage power supply when the car is simply parked for a long time.
All this makes solid engineering sense. It also means that a sleek, modern EV is reliant upon the clunky car battery of yesteryear. Some drivers, including those in new Kia EVs, have said they can’t drive their cars even though there’s plenty of juice in the big unit because something went wrong with the 12-volt. As one Reddit commenter wrote: “It seems absurd to design a car that can run out of electrons and not be able to start while it is carrying 70 kWh of energy in a giant battery.” Yet that’s exactly the reality.
There are a few reasons why. As InsideEVs has noted, the rugged old 12-volt keeps getting more and more responsibility. Nowadays, the constant cellular connectivity of modem EVs — as well as features that can be used while the car is parked, such as security systems that tap into the vehicle’s exterior cameras to monitor the surrounding area — can cause a continuous drain on the 12-volt battery. That requires the car’s big battery to “wake up” and recharge the smaller one, which not only bleeds the vehicle’s driving range while it’s sitting still but also causes lots of recharging cycles for the 12-volt, prematurely aging the small battery.
Rivian had notorious problems from this issue for the older R1T and R1S and had to engineer a fix. Hyundais and Kias, meanwhile, have had longstanding issues with their Integrated Charging Control Unit, the system that recharges the 12-volt battery, that have caused a variety of recalls and headaches widely documented in online posts and videos. Chevy and Toyota have endured their own growing pains trying to make a low-voltage electrical system work well inside an EV.
But the car companies are getting smarter. Rather than duplicating what works in gas cars, more of them are building EV-specific systems with this application in mind. For example, the 12-volt in an EV doesn’t need to provide the big single burst needed to start up a gas engine, but it does need to be able to survive being subjected to more recharging cycles. In other words, it’s not that using these batteries in modern EVs is a bad idea — we just need to be smarter about how.
Perhaps EV builders one day will engineer away the old battery. Rivian, for one, has filed a patent for an electrical architecture that would work without a low-voltage battery at all. But those workarounds are a long way out. For now, even the most futuristic-feeling electric cars are stuck with the same kind of battery your dad had to jump-start in the church parking lot that time you left the AC on and the engine wasn’t running. My big, high-voltage battery might keep running forever, even as its capacity continues to diminish. But inevitably, I’ll need another small, dumb battery when this one goes kaput.
GOP lawmakers know climate change is real. But they lack political incentives to do anything about it.
The New York Times recently profiled former Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist and his increasing engagement on climate change. Many of the online comments accused him of hypocrisy. Why, they asked, did he only become concerned about climate change after leaving Congress?
It’s an understandable question.
I have spent the better part of a decade discussing climate change with Republican members of Congress and can see a frequently overlooked part of the answer. During my hundreds of one-on-one conversations with Republican senators and representatives, almost none of them deny that climate change is occurring. Most understand the science well enough, and many acknowledge privately that it presents serious long-term risks.
They don’t lack knowledge. They lack political incentives.
Members of Congress have finite political capital. Every day they must decide which issues deserve their attention. Naturally, they devote their time to the issues that voters, donors, activists, staff, and party leaders tell them matter most.
Politics is a marketplace of incentives. For decades, climate advocates have devoted their efforts to changing Republicans’ minds, but have devoted little effort to changing the incentives for Republicans to act.
The political ecosystem for Democrats could not be more different. Democrats are surrounded by organizations that continually reinforce the importance of climate policy. Environmental groups, philanthropies, labor organizations, advocacy organizations, academics, campaign donors, think tanks, and congressional staff all create an environment in which climate engagement is expected and rewarded.
Republicans experience almost none of that.
When I was quoted in the New York Times article, I described the “eco right” as “a lonely place.” I meant it literally. There are remarkably few conservative organizations whose primary mission is helping Republican elected officials develop serious climate policy. Few donors make climate engagement a condition of support. Few advocacy groups reward constructive leadership. Few congressional staff have access to a deep bench of conservative climate experts. Climate is far more often presented as a political liability than a leadership opportunity.
In that environment, addressing climate change is rarely a priority. This largely explains what puzzles many observers — that Republican leaders often become noticeably more outspoken about addressing climate change after leaving office. The science has not changed. Their incentives have.
Freed from primary elections, fundraising pressures, and the constant competition for legislative attention, they’re able to think about problems whose consequences unfold over decades instead of election cycles.
That observation leads to an uncomfortable conclusion for those of us who want stronger climate policy: Persuading Republicans that climate change is real is not just unnecessary, it’s unproductive. They know it’s real. The more important task is building the institutions that make climate engagement a priority. That means investing in conservative policy organizations, developing Republican congressional staff expertise, supporting Republican governors and state legislators, encouraging business leaders to engage, creating donor networks that reward constructive center-right leadership, and giving Republican members credible partners they can trust.
In other words, we need to make the eco-right a much less lonely place.
Building institutions requires capital, both political and financial. Today, the overwhelming majority of climate-related political spending — whether by advocacy organizations, political action committees, or philanthropically supported campaigns — flows to Democratic candidates and causes. It’s understandable. Democrats have generally been more supportive of climate action, and donors naturally want to reward those who stand with them.
But rewarding allies isn’t the same as expanding the number of them.
If the objective is durable climate policy rather than simply electing more Democrats, then the current allocation of political spending deserves reconsideration. Congress writes laws, and lasting legislation almost always requires bipartisan support. A movement that invests overwhelmingly in one party shouldn’t be surprised when the other party lacks champions, expertise, and political incentives.
Climate philanthropists, advocacy organizations, and political action committees should explicitly seek to create Republican allies by committing a more significant portion of their electoral spending to Republican candidates. This support would send a powerful signal throughout Republican politics that constructive engagement on climate change will be rewarded. More Republican candidates would respond to those incentives, and the universe of viable partners would expand.
For Republicans, the greatest opportunity lies in primary elections. While general elections determine which party governs, primaries determine what kind of Republicans and Democrats will govern. Donors should identify Republican candidates who are willing to engage on a variety of climate-related topics — from adaptation and resilience to market-based policies that reduce emissions to energy innovation — and help them succeed. The objective isn’t ideological purity. It’s to demonstrate that constructive climate leadership is politically viable within today’s Republican Party, and to give those candidates the confidence that they aren’t alone.
Over time, this approach would accomplish something today’s funding model cannot. Rather than simply rewarding an existing coalition, it would create a larger one. It would produce more Republican members who see climate engagement as compatible with conservative principles. Climate change would still be a scientific and economic challenge, but politics would no longer preclude addressing it.
Rather than increasingly evident climate change adding to political division, it could drive both parties to act. America’s biggest policy achievements have generally occurred when a president elevated an issue as a national priority and Congress responded. Tax reform, welfare reform, civil rights, and other major agreements all required presidential leadership before they produced durable bipartisan legislation.
Climate policy has not yet reached that level. While voters increasingly care about it, it does not determine presidential elections or dominate governing agendas.
The closest climate change has come to being a top-tier issue was when President George H.W. Bush signed the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change in 1992, but that was before addressing climate change became so partisan. More recently, President Joe Biden included clean energy tax credits in the Inflation Reduction Act. That modest success is noteworthy in part because it rode upon legislation to address inflation, a top-tier voter issue — and because the provisions were largely repealed less than three years later. Until climate change becomes a presidential-level issue — one that candidates in both parties believe they must address — Congress is unlikely to devote sustained attention to it.
That day will come. And when that moment arrives, the quality of the legislation will depend on the work being done now. If we want bipartisan climate policy tomorrow, we need to build bipartisan political capacity today.
The climate movement has spent decades rewarding allies. The next several decades should be spent adding more. Politics follows incentives more than information. If we want Republicans to lead on addressing climate change or at least become those allies, we must stop just trying to persuade them and start investing in the institutions, incentives, and people that make it possible.