ks IkU ?115 J?-.' N M 1 111. Anthony Esposito The Culture of Steel and Memory A RhetoricalAnalysis ofthe Youngstown Historical Center oflndustry and Labor edia representations of the working class and the changing nature of the manufacturing industry have harmed both blue-collar commu- nities and the individual American workers still residing there. In discussions of families and communities that have lost manufacturing jobs, the national media seem to craft melodramas with antiquated ster- eotypes of blue-collar workers, dismissing the positive stories still being told by members of these communities. In his seminal study The Uses of Literacy, Richard Hoggart defines the working class as "rough and unpol- ished . . . not refined and not intellectual" (2). I believe the media elite still adhere to Hoggart's problematic characterization. This stigmatiza- tion by the national media compounds the problems of deindustrialized communities. Many working-class communities have been transformed from manufacturing centers into towns that produce high unemploy- ment and crime rates. These changes have come as a result of a complex shift in production that facilitates foreign competition while transport- ing American jobs to countries with cheaper labor. These transforma- tions have devastated numerous communities. Youngstown, Ohio; Gary, Indiana; and Flint, Michigan, have seen their traditions of mak- ing steel and automobiles disappear. With the closing of plants-loci of thousands of jobs-how can the memory of work, worker identity, and community be preserved? If the media offers an incomplete representation of community 88 THE CULTURE OF STEEL AND MEMORY 89 identity, one could argue that the only genuine preservers of memories left are the instances of storytelling shared between family and friends and the build- ings that once housed good manufacturing jobs. While the abandoned buildings (those that are left standing) are certainly rhetorical objects, and oral tradition certainly aids in the process of identity construction, some deindustrialized com- munities are turning increasingly to museums to provide the lived voices of in- dividuals who worked and resided in these communities. Reliance on the media only provides a top-down, subordinate view of a culture; museums utilize real and diverse voices and artifacts of community members, providing a clearer rep- resentation of the native voices and cultural norms. For instance, The Youngstown Historical Center of Industry and Labor tells the story of its community of steel. The national press, fascinated with Youngs- town's narratives of deindustrialization and organized crime, explains Youngs- town from an outsider's perspective. Reporters would be well advised to visit the museum to broaden their perspectives. Being a former member of the Youngs- town community, my first visit to the museum was a history lesson of a town that I have only known to be in a state of decay. However, the museum's multifaceted construction of Youngstown leads visitors-including me-to a broader inter- pretation of workers' lives. The center becomes a speech act about the workers and their city. In a sense, it attempts to highlight the identity of this town and its fallen steelworkers. This rhetorical artifact indicates how memory can show reality as socially constructed by various members of the Youngstown community. Robert Scott emphasizes the importance of rhetoric as a knowing and a discovering of the world around us. To go a step further, Douglas Ehninger describes contemporary rhetoric as an instrument for understanding and improving human relations. In this vein, the Youngstown Historical Center of Industry and Labor houses original voices that tell their stories not usually articulated by the national media. According to Dick- inson, "Memories are stored in places where people enact the past, and these places of storage and enactment serve as a locus of investigation" (2). Zurkin ex- plains: "Thus old towns are remarkably sites of nostalgia, for which they can trig- ger the powerful memories characteristic of nostalgia, they can also house the so- cial relations that, to a great extent, constitute the instability that the nostalgia is called to cover over" (195). Since Youngstown has changed dramatically and negatively since the 1970s, scholars need to study the rich histories and memories of its residents. Youngs- town represents what Dudley describes as "rust belt-that great swath of Mid- 90 ANTHONY ESPOSITO die America razed by the decline of the rubber, steel, and automobile factory" (3). In the news, Youngstown is only known for high crime, unemployment, its new prison-based economy, and controversial ex-congressman James Traficant. Certainly, observers and community members can not deny that Youngstown has been reeling for some twenty-five years. However, by not delving into narra- tive and memory, the national media only portray a partial reality of a commu- nity that has struggled to rid itself of the numerous labels constructed by outside media. Youngstown's story is the story seldom heard about the industrial Mid- west-one that needs to be heard. Museums and Memory Public sites like museums create spaces in which others can view the para- mount nature of memory in diverse contexts. Bodnar says that public memory "is a body of beliefs and ideas about the past that help a public or society under- stand its past, present, and by implication, its future" (6). From a rhetorical per- spective, this provides the critic an opportunity to look at the construction of memory that represents a culture or community. Through the museum's holistic view of the community, public memory emerges from the intersection of official and vernacular expressions. According to Bodnar: "Vernacular culture ... rep- resents an array of specialized interests that are grounded in parts of the whole. Defenders of such cultures are numerous and intent on protecting values and re- stating views of reality derived from firsthand experience in small-scale commu- nities rather than the imagined communities of a large nation" (8). Bodnar praises the inclusion of individual voices, most important from the viewpoint of vernacular memory. He shows that public memory, though claimed by many, is the sole property of no one (io). The media seems at times to claim ownership of memory, but the context of a museum allows discursive voices to communicate their stories to real audiences. Working-class scholars can thus read and study the culture by considering multiple readings. In their analysis of the Youngstown community, Linkon and Russo state, "Memory is important be- cause it helps to shape both personal and communal identity ... how individu- als and communities see themselves influences their behavior and their sense of what is possible" (3). This is not to say that negative community dynamics are obscured. In fact, critics like Jay Winter have shown that sites of memory are also sites of mourn- ing. Working-class studies scholar Janet Zandy adds, "memory is a catalyst for THE CULTURE OF STEEL AND MEMORY 91 engagement with the present and future as much as for the reconstructing the past" (4). From a rhetorical perspective, these sites of memory provide the pub- lic with a real, material story, whether the outcome is positive or negative. For some, memory and tradition remain alive and serve as important structures for personal and communal identity (11). Individuals still employ memory to con- struct traditions that are part of both communal and individual reality. Com- munities "have a history-in an important sense they are constituted by their past-and for this reason we can speak of a real community as a community of memory, and one that does not forget its past" (Bellah et al. 251). It seems imperative that we as a culture enact sites of remembrance that dis- play the past. This place of remembrance typically is a museum. Davis states, "Though specifically oriented towards the cultivation of a sense of place and cul- tural roots, these museums are, in fact, part of the nostalgia wave that is found in many corners of our fast-paced, modern societies" (63). People use museums for diverse reasons. Katriel indicates the importance of museums when she states, "Indeed, as studies in many parts of the world have shown, museums and his- torical sites have, indeed, become major participants in contemporary efforts to construct culturally shared, historically anchored representations of self and other" (3). Not only do museums provide a cultural viewpoint that enables the visitor to mediate ambivalence, but they also provide individual voices that ar- gue for their own objective view of history of their respective cultures. Various studies demonstrate the importance of analyzing museums as cul- tural and rhetorical artifacts. Carlson and Hocking reveal how visitors use the Vietnam Veterans' Memorial to honor those who died in that war. The memorial serves to acknowledge that the legacy of deceased soldiers and their sacrifices are not discarded from the memory of present and future generations. Carlson and Hocking describe multiple readings in demonstrating how people derive mean- ing from this site. Similarly, Armanda analyzes the capacity of the National Civil Rights Museum to shape our individual and collective sense of reality regarding the legacy of the civil rights movement. Katriel's study of the Israeli Settlement Museums likewise explains how the past is invoked or reinvented through the multiple readings available at this site. These studies are not exhaustive, but in- dicative of how scholars of rhetoric construct the concept of memory as it situ- ates itself in varying contexts. In a sense, reality can be objectively derived from individual perspectives. The museum allows the visitor to interpret the important component parts of the represented culture. Katriel writes: "Removed from their original contexts 92 ANTHONY ESPOSITO of use, objects considered unusable in their day to day existence are re-located and re-arranged in their confines of the museum space in a way that creates a new context for their secondary, museum life" (4). Museums thus enable the visi- tor to understand the importance of cultural artifacts as narratives told through individual voices and objects. This rhetorical potential allows the past to be shared by both present and future visitors to the site. According to Hassian and Frank: "Millions of dollars are being invested in new markers of the past, as vari- ous communities create monuments and memorials to ensure that particular tra- ditions and rituals are remembered or forgotten in an increasingly fragmented world" (qtd. in Carlson and Hocking 6). This type of process reinforces the need for working-class studies scholars to investigate how museums present the val- ues, rituals, and mores of the culture being studied to their respective communi- ties. As a site of memory, the Youngstown Historical Center of Industry and La- bor provides the visitor a discursive perspective of how to view contemporary Youngstown through lenses of the past. Youngstown has become what Dudley describes as a "cultural drama of communities in transition and ordinary peo- ple struggling to find a place for the past in the present" (6). This museum em- ploys vernacular memory and allows observers to critique steel and its impact upon the Youngstown community. Each individual is participating in construct- ing their narratives of this lost community. The Youngstown Community In 1803, James and Daniel Heaton discovered iron ore lining the banks of Yel- low Creek just south of Youngstown. The Mahoning Valley located in Youngs- town helped produce cannonballs during the Civil War. As steel was needed for building bridges, ships, and automobiles, Youngstown became a major site for mill work and steel production. This steel was used in World War I, World War II, and the Korean and Vietnam Wars. At one time, twenty-eight blast furnaces churned out iron, and more steel was made in Youngstown than any other city in the nation. The largest of the mills was the Sheet and Tube Company, which had plants located in two sections of the community (Mahridge and Williamson). The prosperity of steel enabled Youngstown to grow as a community. It is estimated that in the 1940s, Youngstown area mills employed sixty-five thou- sand workers directly in iron and steel making (Fuechtmann 15). Hundreds of teenagers graduating from high school could look to a prosperous future work- THE CULTURE OF STEEL AND MEMORY 93 ing in the mills. Individuals took pride in their work, and had respect for the powerful presence of steel and its relationship to the community. According to Fuechtmann: "The local economy, like the landscape, was dominated by the steel mills. Not only was steel the largest single employer; it was the largest pur- chaser of materials and services from local business. A number of steel related industries sprang up to service the mills with raw materials, transportation, and milling equipment. Virtually the entire local economy depended on steel" (17). Youngstown's reliance on the steel industry would prove to be disastrous. Foreign competition, apathetic management, and outdated modes of production were catalysts in the closings of numerous mills in Youngstown during the late 1970s. Fuechtmann explains one infamous day: "At ten o'clock in the morning on Monday, September, 19, 1977, vice-presidents of the Youngstown Sheet and Tube Company appeared for hastily arranged appointments at various offices around Youngstown, Ohio. Reporters were summoned to a news conference at company headquarters, where they were handed a brief release: "Sheet and Tube" was closing its largest steel mill in its home city. It was expected that five thousand jobs would be terminated, with layoffs beginning the following week" (17). The closing of the steel mills devastated this once proud city, leaving it in a state of high unemployment and increased crime, and making it the brunt ofjokes from other sections of the country. As a rhetorical artifact, the Youngstown Historical Center of Industry and Labor provides individuals unfamiliar with Youngstown's past an opportunity to understand the pluralism of the Youngstown story. Media Perceptions of the Youngstown Community Youngstown has been stigmatized by the national media as a place of cor- ruption since at least the 196os. In 1963, a Saturday Evening Post story said that Youngstown should be named "Crime Town, USA," and described seventy-five car bombings and eleven killings (qtd. in Linkon and Russo 46). After the clos- ing of the mills, Youngstown became the poster child of deindustrialization in the new America of lost dreams. National news agencies flocked to Youngstown to show the nation the plight of this community. There are too many articles and books written about Youngstown to review in this study; the stories and statistics resonate with individuals interested in class, crime, and unemployment. Twenty- five years after the closing of the mills, Youngstown is still in the national me- dia. Youngstown has become, as a CBS Morning News reporter said, a "symbol of failure" in America" (qtd. in Linkon and Russo 161). In 1998, George magazine named Youngstown one of the ten most corrupt cities in America (qtd. in Linkon 94 ANTHONY ESPOSITO and Russo 213). In 2000, James McCarthy of the Cleveland Plain Dealer stated that Youngstown had "the highest murder rate in the state during the 199os, with an annual average of 20 homicides per loo,ooo people-nearly twice as many as the runner up, Cuyahoga County" (1B). Additionally, David Grann's July 2000 ar- ticle in the New Republic described Youngstown as a violent and dangerous place. David Rusk, an urban theorist, cited Youngstown as number fourteen on a list of twenty-four American cities that are beyond the point of no return. Regardless of truth, these representations paint a picture of the town as being entirely nega- tive. These depictions are detrimental to a holistic and ethical understanding of discursive perspectives of the community. Local leaders and heroes have also tarnished the image of this community. Controversial former U.S. congressman James Traficant was indicted on federal corruption charges in 2002. Michael Monus, local resident and cofounder of the Phar Mor corporation, was sentenced to twenty years of prison for fraud, tax evasion, and embezzlement. Another Youngstown native, national entrepreneur Ed DeBartolo Jr., was forced to relinquish his position as owner of the San Fran- cisco 49ers because he concealed an extortion plot by former Louisiana governor Edwin Edwards. These stories, however, only provide a partial reality of this community. The voices and stories presented at the Youngstown Historical Center of Industry and Labor present the Youngstown story as told by individuals who lived in the community and were part of the steel industry. This is a strength of this rhetori- cal artifact. As Linkon and Russo state, "In rushing to erase the difficult parts of Youngstown's history, too many people have also forgotten the powerful events that made Youngstown so important in American industrial and working class history" (245). Nostalgia at the Center oflndustry and Labor The Youngstown Historical Center of Industry and Labor was completed in June 1989 at a cost of $3.9 million. It has received some exposure from the na- tional media. Philip Arcidi, a critic for Progressive Architecture, said, "the building documents the development of Ohio's steel industry and commemorates a van- ishing way of life" (84). The museum provides a discursive locale in which to view the impact of steel upon the Youngstown community. Rhetorically, the artifact informs visitors about steel-making processes, safety precautions, locker room design, and, in a broader sense, the construction of community. THE CULTURE OF STEEL AND MEMORY 95 Making ofSteel The museum's representation of steel mills provides a glimpse into the past as viewers begin their initial journey into the museum. The first thing a visitor sees upon entrance is a replica of a steelworker that works rhetorically to repre- sent steel's very human impact upon the Youngstown community. This vision negates-or at least augments-the reality that exists outside the museum. Some areas of the museum are didactic in nature. Information on the his- tory of steelmaking in the Mahoning Valley helps visitors to grasp the complex nature of the industry's impact upon the Youngstown community. Numerous quotations printed in the museum's display establish how Youngstown became a steel-making city. One prominent quotation, hanging from a broad sign near the museum's entrance, is by steel engineer Alexander Holley, in 1876: "I con- sider Youngstown a first rate place to establish the steel manufacturer because good and suitable ores are quite accessible and excellent fuel is of cheap abun- dance." This quotation is interesting in relation to current mythic perceptions of the community, the media's portrayal of Youngstown, and some of the contem- porary problems facing this population. Inside the museum, the concept of memory is further constructed to show the growth of this industry and its impact upon the Mahoning Valley and the rest of the nation. One section of the museum displaying the vast growth of this industry says, "By the early 20oth century, a line of steel mills straddled the Ma- honing River from Warren to Loweville, a distance of more than 20 miles. The Youngstown area had the largest concentration of steel making facilities per cap- ita and per square mile in the world." The museum's informative logos presents the magnitude of steel production in Youngstown and its effect on the commu- nity. Robert Bruno states, "The local mills employed approximately twenty-six thousand workers in basic steel-making, and they were responsible for a good deal of the 18 percent of the country's total steel output originating from the ar- ea's dozen or so facilities" (2). Bruno's words, combined with the massive ban- ners of the museum, realistically and dramatically contextualize steel's place in Youngstown's history. On the second floor, a reconstruction of a forty-four-inch blooming mill that operated from 1960 to 1982 includes replicas of the machinery, the men operat- ing the machinery, and finished products. Also included for the observer is infor- mation that says this reconstruction represents "the primary mill for converting ingots into blooms, slabs, and billets." Located across from this display is a large 96 ANTHONY ESPOSITO picture of individuals who worked in the mill during the 1920o. This is an astute picture, which, combined with the enactment of the mill, attempts to show the lived experiences of individuals and the machinery that impacted their lives and community. This is the kind of historical-contextual picture that the media fails to show to the general public. Other objects representative of the steel-making process are actual tools, in- cluding tongs, drop hammers, boots, glasses, sledge hammers, and a 1978 oil can from the Youngstown Sheet and Tube Company. In a sense, some of these arti- cles are given a new life of "productivity," as Katriel suggests. Overall, the section dealing with the history of steel making and its production instruments cele- brates the workers and the equipment that played a significant role in the con- struction of the community. The Influence ofSteel The museum operates as informative speech, capturing the influences of steel on this community. Steel provided jobs, obviously, but in addition, the steel companies literally crafted cultural communities. One of the most important cul- tural influences was the steel company's construction of housing for employees and their families. The company had its hand in every aspect of life. Rogovin and Frisch articulate the importance of the construction of these communities when they state, "We need to understand its people as workers in a vast network of in- terdependence that stretches from the major mills ... to the people, the neigh- borhoods ... and the region" (7). Understanding these communities allows those unfamiliar with Youngstown's discursive cultures to witness the steel companies' roles as catalysts in enabling their employees to create pluralistic cultures. The expansion of the steel industry in the early twentieth century created a housing shortage in mill communities. Therefore, one of the artifacts presented at the museum is a display of a housing development constructed for work- ers at the Campbell Plant by the Youngstown Sheet and Tube Company. These two rooms illustrate the use of memory and show the impact of steel in creat- ing housing and rooms for its workers. The year, according to a calendar on the wall, is 1931. In the first room, a small living room, a woman is needlepointing a garment as a little girl sits on the ground close by. Behind the woman is an old phonograph. The second room represents the kitchen. It includes a stove, an old faucet, and dishes. Above the faucet is a large sign printed with a quotation by a worker, Jim Barr, in 1910. It says, "I am at work most of the day and I am so tired at night that I just go to bed as soon as I have eaten supper. I have ideas of what THE CULTURE OF STEEL AND MEMORY 97 a home ought to be all right, but the way things are now I just eat and sleep." The authenticity of this voice, combined with the artifacts seen in both of these rooms-including the representations of the father, mother, and daughter-pro- vide a small glimpse into the lives of people who lived in these communities. The voices presented, although they come from a lost culture, offer the perspectives of Youngstown residents. This storytelling technique reveals an insider's view, in contrast with the narrative being presented by media members who do not un- derstand the history and culture of this community. Ethnic groups that established their own values, rules, and mores populated this community and are represented in the museum. This is evidenced in the sec- ond floor, which provides a history of immigration in Youngstown. In this ex- pansive section, information is provided on ethnic and racial groups, including African Americans and Italian, Greek, Polish, and Slovak immigrants. This area of the museum shows families involved in their customs, including attending church and eating traditional foods. Sam Donnarummo, a steelworker presented on videotape in the museum, informs us of his memories of growing up in Brier Hill, a predominately Ital- ian section of this community. He states, "Them were good old days. It was a nice neighborhood. Everybody used to bake their own bread. People were one big happy family living in that neighborhood. People would bake bread and you would sit around the backyard and eat pizza and bread." Such authentic voices are available via multiple media throughout the museum. The section dealing with Greek culture presents a unique, contextual per- spective on living in Youngstown-yet another perspective lacking in the press. Unlike the other cultures presented, Greeks were rarely steelworkers; they owned most of the downtown businesses. The museum explains how their culture flour- ished because of the steel mills. Through taped interviews and other materi- als, this display shows what specific individuals looked like, what their customs were, and how their customs influenced this cultural community. These lived ex- periences constitute a wonderful narrative to tell to the general public visiting the museum. This part of the museum illustrates how the steel community enabled ethnic workers to create cultures separate from the culture of work, even as they were influenced by the steel industry. These cultures had such rituals as food, reli- gion, and sites of communication, which produced familiarity with other mem- bers of the neighborhood. The neighborhood became a place where members felt comfortable communicating with one another. Philipsen defines place as a Who says. 98 ANTHONY ESPOSITO "[p]osition in a social hierarchy, a physical setting, or the niche properly occu- pied by a thing person, or idea" (16). The concept of place becomes important to an outsider attempting to understand the concept of talk and meaning in this community. The Locker Room The museum reveals places of talk that workers employed both at work and in their home environments. The artifacts of talk include both verbal and non- verbal modes of communication. One such site is the reconstruction of a locker room, which helps visitors grasp a deeper understanding of the everyday life of the workers and what they were experiencing during various decades. Accord- ing to Dunk, "To question the ordinary, the routine, the everyday is a necessary project for a truly critical social science" (16). The word "ordinary" is paramount for individuals attempting to understand the everyday intricacies of blue-collar working environments. Each individual locker contains artifacts such as newspaper clippings, mag- azines, and clothing that would be representative of the workers' experience throughout the fifty-year span of the Youngstown steel industry. For example, to represent the 1920s, the locker contains a Youngstown Sheet and Tube bulletin dated September 25, 1927. An American flag with the rules of correct use is pre- sented. The locker also includes a Sears and Roebuck catalog of houses, Prince Albert tobacco, and a black suit jacket. This information provides the novice his- torian a plethora of examples of popular culture products used by workers dur- ing this time period, subtly reminding visitors that the workers took part in capi- talist society on a number of levels: as workers and as consumers. The locker containing information from the 1930s includes weekly passes for the bus, books, Mennen skin balm, work goggles, and a thermos. An issue of the local newspaper, the Youngstown Vindicator, dated June 26, 1937, discusses riots at Youngstown Sheet and Tube led by workers angered by low wages and work- ing conditions. The strikes started May 26, 1937, and lasted for one full month. This news story shows the working conditions and wage problems that were fac- ing the workers during this decade-once again, a reminder of the dynamics of the working class. The locker containing the information from the 1940s is not as expansive as the previous decades. Most of the information included in this locker is pre- sented through personal artifacts, including a hardhat, shirt, jacket, lunchbox, black shoes, and Life magazine dated October 16, 1944. The 1950s, however, THE CULTURE OF STEEL AND MEMORY 99 is more extensive, since this was the height of the steel industry in the United States and, most importantly, in Youngstown. Popular culture is presented by a Life magazine dated September 14, 1959, with Marilyn Monroe on the cover. Ad- ditionally, there is an article on astronauts and America's progress in space ex- ploration. Some of the artifacts include an electric razor, Aqua Velva skin condi- tioner, and an "I Like Ike" button. Certainly the electric razor shows the progress of American ingenuity and how these inventions were employed by the Ameri- can people, especially Youngstown steelworkers. One of the most important ar- eas in this section is an article in the Youngstown Vindicator on the walkout of fifty-five thousand steelworkers. The paper is dated June 2, 1952. Even though the mills would not shut down until the mid-1970s, this article gives one a glimpse of some of the problems that the steel industry and Youngstown workers were ex- periencing in 1952. Continuing the progress of the everyday American laborer, the locker con- taining information from the 196os includes a transistor radio, a hair pick, an "I love my Cleveland Browns" button, wing-tip shoes, and football cards. The locker containing artifacts from the 1970s is more discursive in nature. Some of the information presented to the visitor includes an Old Spice stick deodorant, No Doz, goggles, earplugs, and tongs. Life magazine, dated May 15, 1977, con- tains information on Three Mile Island and Muhammad Ali, subjects that tap into the both the national problems and popular culture figures during this dec- ade. Most importantly, the Youngstown Vindicator, dated September 19, 1977, re- ports the closing of mills in Youngstown. The pluralistic information provided through the display of these lockers offers a wonderful perspective on vernacular memory told by and about Youngstown steelworkers In another part of the same room, the visitor encounters a replica of a steel- worker drinking water and an old washroom that was provided to the workers by the company. On a large wall the museum shows workers taking showers at the Youngstown Sheet and Tube Mill in 1910. The display reads, "the locker room has often served as a semi-private retreat bridging the private concerns of the in- dividual and work place issues." The concepts of place and talk become an im- portant component in enabling the ritual of communication to take place in this contextual environment. Steel's Negative Impact upon the Community In accordance with the concept of vernacular memory, the museum addi- tionally portrays, through various forms of information, the impact that the clos- 100 ANTHONY ESPOSITO ing of the mills had on the community it helped to create. One particular area of the museum emphasizes the closing of the mills in 1977. What has been referred to as the bleakest day, or Black Monday, is described on a large sign in the mu- seum: On September 19, 1977, the Lykes Corporation, the parent company of Youngstown Sheet and Tube, announced the closing of the Campbell Works. This was followed by the clos- ing of the Brier Hill Works, 1978, United States Steel Corporation, Ohio Works and Mc- Donald Mills, 1980, and the Youngstown Works and Republic Steel, 1981. Although all indicators had pointed towards a failing industry, the shock of five major steel plant clos- ings devastated the Mahoning Valley. Nearly 25,000 jobs were permanently eliminated as the mills passed into history. In the years that followed the American steel industry be- came less centralized and many individual plants were downsized. The Mahoning Valley was transformed to a less industrial region. This entire section, including artifacts and individual tapes, instructs visitors how loss is constructed, reminding museum guests of the mill closings and the impact upon the Youngstown community. The museum's ability to show the negative implications of the steel industry is another strength of the museum. Numerous artifacts and individual voices demonstrate the use of memory to illustrate the pain that mill closings caused members of this community. Various buttons and bumper stickers that urge others to support steelworkers show the solidarity of the town toward those affected by the closings. Even though this in- formation is interesting, it pales in comparison to the authenticity of the work- ers' voices in videotapes that provide the workers' responses to the closing of the mills. One video in particular, entitled "Shout Youngstown," shows the reaction of the community and the workers to the plant closings. Bob Vasquez, a worker, asserts his feelings about the closings: "My wife and I both cried in bed. We have a house, we have kids, and I plan to send my child to college in two years and it will never take place. My self, I don't know if I will be working or not. Eighteen years, what are you going to do? With ten thousand steelworkers out of work and truckers, it doesn't look good." This represents how many of the steelwork- ers reacted to the plant closings. These taped interviews enable both an insider and outsider to grasp the magnitude of the plant closings upon individual fami- lies and the community in general. Dickinson notes, "by visiting/reading/listen- ing to particular recollections of the past, we perform acts of remembrance that help authenticate identities" (3). Implementation of these authentic narratives provides multiple readings from workers' perspectives, which broaden the expe- rience of those unfamiliar with Youngstown's history. One of the most important THE CULTURE OF STEEL AND MEMORY o101 ingredients is the truthful critique of the workers toward management. This is evidenced by Sam Donnarummo's response to his last day on the job, which was December 27, 1979. He says: "After the closing, what was I gonna do? Everybody felt bad. I put all them years in down there. Where could you get another job? I couldn't get another job. I felt sorry for the young guys who just started and only had two or three years. I really felt bad when they shut that place down. Them kind of jobs, you can't get them kind of jobs these days that pay that kind of money. They come up with minimum wage, how can people live like that?" This comment is one that is instructive to working-class studies scholars analyzing memory in the context of a museum setting. First, he speaks from the perspec- tive of one affected by the closing of the mills. Second, he speaks of the impact upon the community. Finally, by employing his Youngstown slang, the museum attempts to show through these voices, the native culture and their patterns of speaking. This is an area that, aside from brief and pithy soundbites, the media can't replicate. The museum attempts to provide a holistic view of the workers' response to the closings. They sometimes select individual voices that are incensed about the extinction of their jobs. Ed Mann acted as a spokesperson for the workers. In one clip in the video, he displays his disdain toward the company: "They have no care about the community, the infrastructure of the community, the schools, the community life, the homes, the churches. The whole life of Youngstown is being thrown aside for the sake of profit." The selection of Mann's quotation is impor- tant for several reasons: he labels the companies as the enemy and also refers to the destruction of many of the sacred symbols of the community that would be discarded because of the plant closings. The importance of steel is reinforced by Bob Vasquez, who says, "When it did go down, it was a terrible blow. Really felt impotent I couldn't really feel anything about it. Nobody would listen and no- body would even talk." The museum is instructive in that it provides a multifaceted view of the plant closings. For example, the museum provides the management's view to the vis- itor. David Roderick, chairman of U.S. Steel, articulates his feelings when he states: "It was only after a very extensive review and careful review that we deter- mined that these plants were not profitable, could not be made profitable with a reasonable amount of investment and therefore needed to be phased out. A cor- poration even though it is a much more complex structure is just like an individ- ual, just like you and I. You can only spend what you have and what you have the ability to borrow. So modernization is a complete function of cash flow. Avail- 102 ANTHONY ESPOSITO ability of investment funds." This statement reinforces the company's reliance upon the ideology of capitalism. Additionally, from a memory perspective, it un- derscores the reality that a profit was not being made in the Youngstown com- munity. However, other taped interviews in the museum provide management's negation of the above assertions. W. Lawrence Weeks, a manager for Republic Steel, discusses the shutdown at the Sheet and Tube mills. Weeks expresses his belief that the company was still a viable maker of steel: "The thing that both- ered me the most about the Sheet and Tube shutdown was that I went into the strip mill after it was shut down to look at purchasing some of the equipment. And they had shut down a mill that was much better than the one I was trying to operate. This is scary." Employing this quote by Weeks shows the ability of the museum to situate voices from different management perspectives. Roder- ick, in contrast to Weeks's assertion, states, "The closings were needed because in today's environment in the economy these facilities were no longer competi- tive and therefore needed to phased out." Memory in these instances is provided from discursive viewpoints. A visitor viewing these forms of rhetoric is given the opportunity to experience multiple readings of the arguments. Loss and pain are two themes that become dominant through the voices of the workers. Pain is present in the description of the termination ofjobs, friend- ships, and communities. In response to these closings, June Lucas, once em- ployed at the mill, asserts, "We have nothing but a damn scrap yard in Young- stown now; they didn't even have to clean up after themselves; you know what I mean. Like leading your dog around in your neighbor's yard and saying just 'leave that there,' they have done that same kind of thing." This quote helps the museum to posit the notion that in order to tell a story, you must represent the widest possible constituency. Steel Museums and Memory In some instances, the national media is guilty of creating a perception of towns without really understanding their people and histories. Youngstown has been affected by negative media attention, and its problems cannot be denied. These include, but are not limited to, high unemployment, crime, and James Tra- ficant. But to understand the true story of Youngstown, one must engage with the voices of people who have been affected by the closing of the steel mills. The Youngstown Historical Center of Industry and Labor provides those unfa- miliar with the narrative of steel the ability to grasp a deeper understanding of THE CULTURE OF STEEL AND MEMORY 103 how memory is constructed in this rhetorical artifact. According to Linkon and Russo, "If Youngstown is to be a real community, then, it must understand its past. It must embrace pride in what was produced here-not just steel but also a strong working class community" (234). As other parts of Ohio and the national media castigate Youngstown, the mu- seum attempts to tell a story that the national media fail to share with their read- ing or viewing populations. This story is an extended narrative about the impor- tance of people and their community. As more blue-collar towns are becoming like Youngstown because of plant closings, these places of memory will be crucial sites where native voices can reason and validate their story to the American peo- ple. Although, in some ways, these museums are reminders of lost communities, it is in these museums that we can learn how vernacular memories and stories can construct the future. WORKS CITED Arcidi, Philip. "Steel Industry Enshrined: Youngstown Museum, Youngstown, Ohio." Progressive Architecture (March 199o): 84. Armanda, Bernard. "Memorial Agon: An Interpretive Tour of the National Civil Rights Museum." Southern Communication Journal 63 (1998): 235-43. Bellah, Robert, et al. Habits of the Heart: Individualism and Commitment in American Life. Berkeley: U of California P, 1995. Bodnar, John. Remaking America: Public Memory, Commemoration, and Patriotism in the Twentieth Century. Princeton: U of Princeton P, 1992. Bruno, Robert. Steelworker Alley: How Class Works in Youngstown. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1999. Carlson, Cheree, and John Hocking. "Strategies of Redemption at the Vietnam Veterans' Memo- rial." Western Journal ofSpeech Communication 52 (1998): 203-15. Davis, Fred. Yearningfor Yesterday: Sociology of Nostalgia. New York: Free, 1979. Dickinson, Greg. "Memories for Sale: Nostalgia and Construction of Memory in Old Pasadena." Quarterly Journal of Speech 83 (1997): 1-27. Dudley, Katherine. The End of the Line: LostJobs, New Lives in Postindustrial America. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1994. Dunk, Thomas. It's a Working Man's Town: Male Working Class Culture in Northwest Ontario. Mon- treal: McGill-Queens UP, 1991. Ehninger, Douglas. "On Systems of Rhetoric." Philosophy and Rhetoric 1 (1968): 131-44. Fuechtmann, Terry. Steeples and Stacks: Religion and Steel Crisis in Youngstown. New York: Cam- bridge UP, 1995. Grann, David. "The City that Fell in Love with the Mob." New Republic, July o10 and 17, 2000: 23-31. Hoggart, Richard. The Uses ofLiteracy. New Brunswick: Transaction, 1957. Katriel, Tamar. "Sites of Memory: Discourses of the Past in Israeli Pioneering Settlement Muse- ums." Quarterly Journal of Speech 80 (1994): 1-20. Linkon, Sherry, and John Russo. Steeltown USA: Work and Memory in Youngstown. Lawrence: U of Kansas P, 2002. 104 ANTHONY ESPOSITO Mahridge, Dale, and Michael Williamson.Journey to Nowhere: The Saga of the New Underclass. New York: Hyperion, 1996. McCarthy, James. "Traficant Plays Familiar Role." Cleveland Plain Dealer, February 6, 2ooo: iB. Philipsen, Gerry. "Speaking Like a Man in Teamsterville: Cultural Patterns of Role Enactment in an Urban Neighborhood." Quarterly Journal ofSpeech 61 (1975): 13-22. Rogovin, Milton, and Michael Frisch. Portraits in Steel. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1993. Rusk, David. Cities without Suburbs. Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 1993. Scott, Robert. "On Viewing Rhetoric as Epistemic." Central States Speech Journal 18 (1967): 9-17. Winter, Jay. Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning: The Great Wars in European Cultural History. Cam- bridge: Cambridge UP, 1995. Zandy, Janet. "Introduction." Liberating Memory: Our Work and Our Working-Class Consciousness. Ed. Janet Zandy. New Brunswick: Rutgers UP, 1995. 1-18. Zurkin, Sherry. Landscapes of Power: From Detroit to Disney World. Berkeley: U of California P, 1992. Part H Rhetorics of the Workplace Emily Plec The Rhetoric of Migrant Farmworkers n 1936, John Steinbeck published a series of articles about migrant farmworkers in the San Francisco News. The articles, later collected under the title The Harvest Gypsies, condemned the treatment of farm lab- orers by government, society, and corporate farmers. Many of the of- fenses cited by Steinbeck are still, more than half a century later, a daily part of the lives of farmworkers and their families. Farmworkers are the poorest, most disadvantaged, and most underprivileged class of laborers in the United States. Roughly one million migrant farmwork- ers, most of whom are members of racial minority groups, travel from one location to another to earn a living, some bringing their families with them. In With These Hands, Rothenberg estimates 450,000 chil- dren and adult dependents accompany migrant farmworkers. He also points out some of the unique challenges faced by these workers and their families: When arriving in a new community, migrant workers must find temporary housing, either in labor camps provided by their employers or in short-term rental housing. If they don't have their own vehicles, migrants need to find ways of getting from one place to another .... Since migrant farmworkers have limited resources and few contacts in the communities they pass through, they rely upon intermediaries and informal networks in order to survive. In this way, migrant workers are socially invisible; they play a crucial role in the local economies where they labor, yet their struggles are generally hidden from view. (6) Likewise, I argue that migrant farmworkers' perspectives on their social and economic positions are too often kept from broader pub- 107 108 EMILY PLEC lic view. By listening to the voices of migrant farmworkers, we can better under- stand the ways socioeconomic class intersects with a variety of other issues such as environmental justice, labor organizing, race, gender, and immigration. In many respects, the history of farm labor in the United States is also the history of twentieth- and twenty-first-century migration to, and across, America. White American, African American, Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, and Mexican (as well as other Central and South American) farmworkers have alternately dominated this migrating class of low-wage workers. Farmworkers bring transnational and intercultural understandings to bear on social, political, and economic prob- lems. Their voices and their viewpoints are significant for these and many other reasons. At the time of his travels and writing, Steinbeck firmly believed that the "fu- ture farm workers are to be White and American" (57). Attendant to this belief, Steinbeck saw a brighter future for farmworkers, since he claimed that white America would not long tolerate the fascistic working conditions imposed by large farmers. Rather than transform farm labor practices, however, these white workers left agriculture for industry or were displaced by farmers and contrac- tors who preferred low paid, and often illegal, immigrant labor. By the mid- 1950s-due in part to federal migrant worker programs-farm laborers in the western United States came largely from Mexico. Today, Mexicans and Mexi- can Americans constitute the largest working class among migrant and seasonal farm laborers. For example, in Oregon, 98 percent of the state's more than one hundred thousand farmworkers are Latino, most of Mexican origin (Stephen 6). The experiences and perspectives of these workers provide an intersectional lens through which we can view one of the central tensions within, and most signifi- cant contexts for, contemporary class conflict in the United States: big business (in this case, agribusiness) versus the (agricultural) working class. Calavita, Majka and Majka, and Rothenberg, among others, have document- ed the conflicting democratic and corporate capitalist interests that undergird the injustices heaped upon farmworkers. Yet it is the farmworkers themselves who perhaps have the most significant contributions to make to our understand- ing of the inequalities facing agricultural workers in the United States. Some former farmworkers move up in the ranks of the agricultural labor hierarchy to become contractors and some move into related work such as food service or transportation for fieldworkers. Other workers look for stable, year-round em- ployment, and often turn to agricultural processing plants or other factory work as an alternative to seasonal fieldwork. The limited upward mobility experienced THE RHETORIC OF MIGRANT FARMWORKERS 109 by these workers provides them with critical and nuanced understandings of the dynamics of power and profit in agribusiness. The individuals who do the most arduous physical labor work the longest hours, under the worst conditions, for the lowest pay of anyone in the chain of agricultural production and distribu- tion. Rhetorical critics such as Jensen and Hammerback have fruitfully analyzed the public address of noted farmworker activists like Cesar Chavez. Little atten- tion, however, has been paid to farmworkers as a working class in the rhetori- cal and communication literature. Examination of the rhetoric of migrant farm- workers helps to reveal and focus critical attention on some of the dominant themes and issues in their discourse. As a fledgling activist in the farmworker movement, and the granddaughter of a small, independent farmer, I am dually invested in understanding and pro- moting farmworker discourse as a rhetorically powerful and significant commen- tary on class inequality in the United States. My aim is not to try to speak for mi- grant farmworkers, but rather to make their voices and experiences more visible to individuals and disciplines equipped with the tools to support their struggle. Historical Overview Agriculture has traditionally played a significant role in the U.S. economy. In the southern states of the early nation, enslaved Africans, their children, and poor whites labored to make the American South one of the most prosperous re- gions in the world. After emancipation, many former slaves continued to work in the fields, often under similar conditions. In order to maintain and eventu- ally widen the social and economic gap between growers and farmworkers, the federal government instituted a number of immigration laws and guest worker policies to ensure a constant supply of low-wage workers. Rothenberg writes: "The American agricultural industry has always relied on marginalized workers. Fruit and vegetable farms have employed successive waves of recent immigrants from China, Japan, the Philippines, Mexico, Europe, the Caribbean, and Central America as well as poor domestic laborers such as African Americans in the ru- ral south, poor White workers from Appalachia, dust bowl refugees, and alcohol- ics recruited off skid row" (31). Farmworkers thus constitute a working class that cuts across racial, ethnic, national, and gendered lines. Many of the concerns expressed by farmworkers also cut across these lines. As immigrant farmworkers became increasingly accustomed to U.S. society, they 110 EMILY PLEC often abandoned farmwork or organized to improve the conditions and price of their labor. For example, Japanese workers who were recruited by California growers in the 189os, after anti-Chinese xenophobia led to the 1882 Chinese Ex- clusion Act, managed to become the highest paid farmworkers in California at that time. Japanese immigrants organized harvest strikes and work stoppages, rented or purchased land to sharecrop, and many even bought their own farms. The success of the Japanese farms threatened the monopoly that white growers and farmers held in California. By 1913, when the majority of California's farm- workers were from Japan, the state passed the Alien Lands Act, which prohib- ited noncitizen immigrants from buying, owning, and, later, leasing, renting, or guardianship ofland. As early as 1907, the U.S. government, bolstered by wealthy agricultural interests, sought ways of restricting Japanese immigration. Less than two decades later, the federal government passed the Immigration Act of 1924, which effectively terminated all Japanese immigration to the United States. The case of Japanese farmworkers in the United States is illustrative of the ways that racism, xenophobia, capitalism, and legislation regarding farmwork- ers are intertwined. Political legislation regarding agricultural labor and immi- gration during the first half of the twentieth century clearly reveals the racial dy- namics of these interconnections. Japanese workers, like the Mexican workers who would soon follow, were initially praised by growers for their docility and hard work, but were soon the targets of racialized violence and aggression as well as political exclusion and internment. In fact, many of the Japanese American farmers who were interned by the U.S. government during World War II had their lands forcibly taken and never returned. During the first two decades of the twentieth century, Mexican farmwork- ers became established in the West, with roughly fifty thousand Mexicans en- tering the United States each year (Rothenberg 33). In the 1920S and 1930s, with numerous dust bowl workers coming to California, Oregon, and Washington to flee the famine in the Midwest, the federal government restricted Mexican immi- gration at its southern border. Additionally, Mexicans were rounded up by state and local police for mass deportations, with an estimated five hundred thousand to one million Mexicans (including some American citizens) deported or repatri- ated to Mexico (Nevins 33). Still, many growers preferred to hire illegal Mexican laborers since it was less expensive than hiring braceros (Nevins 34). Moreover, the economic abuse of noncitizen immigrant workers was routinely ignored by the government and by society at large. In 1942, under pressure from agribusiness lobbyists and war-related labor THE RHETORIC OF MIGRANT FARMWORKERS 111 shortages, the U.S. government formalized Mexican immigration through the Bracero Program, a guest worker program implemented to appease agricultural interests' demands for noncitizen labor (Calavita; Garcia). This program, which operated for twenty-two years and brought approximately five million Mexi- can workers into the United Sates, helped to make "agricultural labor ... virtu- ally synonymous with Mexican labor, and Mexican wages with 'cheap' wages in the U.S. Southwest" (Takaki 323). Ironically, the Bracero Program led indirectly to the very condition it aimed to circumvent. The program brought temporary workers to the United States with the understanding that these workers would return to Mexico after the harvest. As the number of bracero contracts declined, however, many seasonal workers chose to stay year-round in order to avoid the difficulty of crossing the border without authorization. Some brought their fami- lies and some began families while in the United States. An informal process that was linked with the Bracero Program, wherein the INS legalized many undocu- mented Mexican workers who currently labored in U.S. agriculture, aided their residency (Nevins 34). Before long, growers' attraction to Mexican workers waned, and the threat of communism was used as a partial justification, along with general nativist senti- ments, for the U.S. government's "Operation Wetback," initiated in early June of 1954 (Garcia). In Operation Gatekeeper, Joseph Nevins argues that the most im- portant outcome of this program, aimed at the apprehension and deportation of unauthorized migrants, "was to increase state and grower control over migrant labor" (35). He also points out, "the U.S. government compensated agricultural interests by greatly increasing the number of braceros admitted into the United States" (35). The search for even more marginalized workers continues today; labor is outsourced in the form of sweatshops, and international trade agreements al- low corporations to sidestep U.S. labor and civil rights laws as well as environ- mental regulations (especially those regulating pesticides in the fields). These in- ternational loopholes do not, however, lessen the oppression of farmworkers in the United States. Many migrant farmworkers in the United States are not much better off now than their predecessors were a century ago. In fact, farmworkers continue to be exempted from much legislation aimed at improving the lives or working conditions of other working class laborers, despite the tremendous ef- forts of organizations such as the United Farm Workers of America (UFW). Until recently, employers were not required to allow farmworkers to take breaks, and many did not even provide a toilet or clean drinking water for workers. In order 112 EMILY PLEC to improve the working conditions facing farmworkers, we must listen to, and understand, their experiences. Theory and Methodology The perspective of critical rhetoric enables me to analyze and assess farm- worker discourse in terms of the ways it creates, highlights, resists, and/or de- constructs particular ways of thinking about agricultural labor and the lives of farmworkers. Two particular facets of critical rhetoric make it an especially ap- propriate framework from which to proceed. It is a perspective that views nam- ing as the central act of a nominalist rhetoric. This is significant because farm- workers label their experiences, order their priorities, name their beliefs and, in so many ways, define what it means to be economically oppressed in the United States. Studies of the rhetoric of farmworkers, in addition to already existing studies of the farmworkers' movement and federal policies regarding immigrant labor, can help us to understand the ways in which certain rhetorical practices (such as the use of water metaphors) function for different groups. Such stud- ies might also indicate a bottom-up way of comprehending class stratification within agricultural economies. Also, by labeling themes discerned from migrant farmworkers' discourse, I participate in a nominalist rhetoric oriented toward the activist telos of critical rhetoric; that is, I endeavor to provide ways of talk- ing about and making more visible the injustices faced by farmworkers as well as their self-affirmations and societal contributions. Another feature of critical rhetoric, its doxastic quality, also supports this goal. Raymie McKerrow asserts that rhetoric is doxastic in that all knowledge is contingent and is a product of consensus. He contrasts his position with the idea of rhetoric as epistemic, or constitutive and constructive of all knowledge. In re- sponse to the dichotomizing of the doxastic and epistemic functions of rhetoric, Robert Hariman suggests a more inclusive engagement of the two terms. Simi- larly, this study proceeds from the assumption that farmworker discourse is both epistemic and doxastic. It is epistemic in that it shapes knowledge about the re- alities of farmworkers' lives. The doxastic quality of rhetoric is made clear by the way in which the discourse has changed as the demographics and experiences of farmworkers have changed. Moreover, the differences between the rhetoric of unionized and nonunionized farmworkers, or documented and undocumented workers, or workers from different national and racial backgrounds, impact the stability of my claims about their discourse as a working class. Nevertheless, I THE RHETORIC OF MIGRANT FARMWORKERS 113 undertake an initial explication of some of the dominant themes in farmworker discourse in order to encourage critical examination of this significant working class rhetoric. Thematic Analysis I analyze discourse drawn from interviews collected and reported in Daniel Rothenberg's With These Hands; thus, all of the limitations he cites in the report- ing of data are reproduced and perhaps made more obvious here.' I focus upon the discourse of former and current farmworkers and survey those workers' dis- course for common points of argument as well as themes that illustrate the en- during problems farmworkers face. The five dominant themes found in the discourse are: economic injustice; dan- ger, violence, and victimization; dehumanization; the role of children in farm- workers' lives; and freedom, self-determination, and pride in honest work. In addi- tion, less dominant themes appeared, including: racism; immigration; leadership and activism; social invisibility and abandonment; and drug addiction. In many cases, a farmworker's testimony would illustrate multiple forms of oppression and subjugation such as violence and dehumanization and drug addiction. In other words, the themes overlap rather than functioning as discrete categories of experi- ence. I isolate them in order to highlight the frequency with which they appear in migrant farmworkers' discourse. Economic Injustice Migrant farmworkers are the most poorly paid seasonal workers in the coun- try. Most farmworkers live far below the poverty line, earning between three and eight thousand dollars per year (Rothenberg 6). The federal government, under pressure from agribusiness lobbyists, maintains a steady oversupply of immi- grant labor in order to keep wages low and competition for jobs high. The result, quite predictably, is an economically depressed working class constantly under the threat of being replaced by an economically desperate unemployed class.2 It is not unusual for documented immigrant laborers to be overlooked in favor of unauthorized workers who are unwilling and unable to organize or protest against the injustices in their workplaces for fear of deportation. Migrant farmworkers cite numerous instances of economic injustice, the most overtly illegal being the withholding of pay. A former farmworker named Sofia argues that the bolillos (gringos) "think people come to the United States 114 EMILY PLEC because they're starving .... They think we're desperate, and because of that, they feel justified in abusing us. There are many bosses here who steal workers' Social Security or pay workers below the minimum wage" (qtd. in Rothenberg 201). Maria, a UFW activist and one of the founders of the Farmworker Women's Leadership Project, recounts instances in which she was both threatened and cheated by contractors: "The contractor started threatening us the moment we entered the fields, saying he'd fire us if we accidentally broke a branch or dam- aged the vine. Then he paid us only what he felt like paying us. He was cheat- ing us on the hours. ... The man had changed all the hours. If you worked eight hours, he was only paying for six" (qtd. in Rothenberg 56). Underreporting hours worked in the fields is one of the most common meth- ods by which farmers and contractors cheat workers of their earned pay. Another strategy is to promise hourly wages but actually pay a piece rate so that workers must labor for long hours without breaks in order to approach minimum wage. Piece rate wages also ensure that farmers and contractors still turn a comforta- ble profit when harvests are poor. A migrant worker from Jamaica explains how some workers are recruited abroad and then brought to the United States by the false promise of steady, hourly wage work: In Kingston, they tell you they going to pay five dollars thirty an hour. This is what it say on the contract. When you get to Florida, they don't pay you by the hour, they pay you by how much cane you cut. ... If you can cut fast and the row is fifty dollars, the ticket writer will write that you worked eight hours. But if you work all day and only cut a quarter row, the ticket will show that you earned twelve fifty and only worked for two hours-even though you were out there for the full eight. The company rob you.... You can't com- plain, because if you do, they send you home the next day. (qtd. in Rothenberg 224) Many of the farmworkers interviewed by Rothenberg did register complaints about their treatment by corrupt crewleaders, contractors, and farmers. For ex- ample, one farmworker who picked cotton in Mississippi as a boy, then moved to Chicago and worked in a variety of industries before returning to farmwork, called the labor board after seeing the crew leader physically attack some of the older workers. The abusive crew leader would "slap workers to get them up in the morning and then he'd give them wine": "Most of the crew was addicted to wine.... He'd make us work from sunup to sundown.... The people would work all day long every day. At the end of the week, most of them would only get a few dollars. It sure made you angry to work fifty hours a week and then have the man tell you that the only thing you got coming was eight dollars" (qtd. in Rothenberg 43). When investigators arrived at the site and heard about "all the THE RHETORIC OF MIGRANT FARMWORKERS 115 things that the contractor was doing," the situation did not improve. "They went over and talked to the contractor, came back with my wages, and took me to the Greyhound bus station. You see, the farmer, the contractor, and the labor board guys all work hand in hand" (43). In addition to the economic injustices they face in the fields and on payday, farmworkers also have to contend with other occupational hazards. It is no secret that farmworkers labor under extremely dangerous conditions, typically with- out any benefits or health protections. Farmworkers are exposed to toxic chemi- cal pesticides, receive little or no compensation for occupational injuries and ill- nesses, and are often fired or threatened for protesting, organizing, or contacting a labor board. According to the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), pesti- cide exposure causes roughly three hundred thousand acute illnesses and inju- ries among farmworkers each year (qtd. in Rothenberg 50). A contractor named Jose removed his workers after a severe incident of pesticide exposure. As a result of his refusal to prolong his workers' exposure, he lost his job. He recounts the conflicting reports of the clinic and insurance physicians: The doctor in the clinic said that the workers were poisoned by a very strong pesticide. He gave the order that everybody should get out of the fields. ... He said it could take years before you would see the effects of the pesticides. You could get cancer, go blind, or be- come sterile. Then there was an argument between the doctor from the insurance com- pany and the doctor at the clinic. The insurance company doctor sent us back to work but the other doctor knew that we were still sick. . . . There are some workers who still have attacks.... There are others who complain that they feel bad and get headaches when they work in the fields. We'd been affected by the chemicals before, but all that had hap- pened was blurred vision and some swelling. Now all the workers are afraid. We've met with doctors and they've told us that every day you're in the field, you can absorb small amounts of poisons so that after many years the chemicals will build up and you can get really sick. . . . The grower didn't tell us they had just applied the pesticide. . . . Eventually the government did an investigation and fined the grower five thousand dollars. (qtd. in Rothenberg 51-53) Environmental injustices compound the economic oppression of migrant farmworkers since most farmworkers are exposed to pesticides while working in the fields. The unsanitary conditions of labor camps, lack of clean drinking wa- ter and bathroom facilities in the fields, and the inadequate shelter provided by farmers and contractors (a topic discussed in more detail later) also contribute to the health threats faced by these workers. For undocumented migrant farmworkers, the economic injustices extend to the process of crossing the border to work in the United States. Smugglers known 116 EMILY PLEC as coyotes, pateros, or polleros cheat and steal from naive or desperate migrants seeking entry into the agricultural economy of the United States. Contractors continually exploit this underclass of workers; in fact, some farm laborers suffer under a system of debt peonage about which many Americans are oblivious. As one farmworker reports: "The first week they didn't let us work too much. They put us out in the field, but they wouldn't let us pick for more than two or three hours each day. At the time, I didn't know what they were doing, but now I un- derstand. See, when you first get to the camp, the crewleader won't let you make enough money to clear that first week. That way, you go into debt. Even before you get a chance to put your own self in debt, she gets you in the hole, and she won't let you out" (qtd. in Rothenberg 156-57). Migrant farmworkers have no shortage of examples of crew leaders and con- tractors who ply workers with alcohol and drugs in order to sustain this system of wage slavery. Since many farmworkers live in camps and have no transporta- tion, they are forced to buy goods directly from the contractor or an associate at greatly inflated prices. Such economic exploitation is a form of victimization, yet it pales in comparison to many of the other dangers faced by farmworkers. Danger, Violence, and Victimization For some refugees who become migrant farmworkers, the dangers faced in the fields are a last desperate alternative to violent conflict in their home coun- tries. Still, illegal border crossings are risky and unusually life threatening. Each year, hundreds of migrants are murdered or killed because of negligence or expo- sure while trying to cross the border. In a landmark case reported in the Associ- ated Press in April 2003, a farm labor contractor was sentenced to six and a half years in prison for conspiracy resulting in the deaths of fourteen Mexican im- migrants. The case is unusual because it is "among the first to hold a contractor responsible for illegal immigrant deaths"(Yang A2). A Q'eqchi' Indian refugee from Guatemala describes the conditions under which he traveled to the United States through Mexico: I took a bus to the Mexican border. There, I found a coyote who put me and fifteen oth- ers in the back of a truck. They placed boards down above us, and over the boards they loaded boxes of tomatoes and watermelons. We spent two days and two nights below the boards without getting out. If we wanted to pee or defecate, we had to do it where we lay. Finally we got to Mexico City. From there we went to Monterrey where another coyote was supposed to take us across the border. They left us there and we never saw them again. (qtd. in Rothenberg 48) THE RHETORIC OF MIGRANT FARMWORKERS 117 Crossing the Mexico-United States border is one of the most dangerous as- pects of migration for farmworkers, as it is for so many undocumented, tran- snational migrants. In the first half of the century, white farmworkers such as Okies and Depression-era fruit tramps often encountered dangerous conditions when supplies ran short, vehicles broke down, or a family member fell ill. Tran- snational migrant workers face the added dangers of arrest by immigration of- ficials, abuse by smugglers, and racist aggression from white U.S. citizens. Al- though crossing the border itself is a dangerous act (women are sometimes raped by smugglers, and many people, including children, drown in the Rio Grande or die of exposure in the deserts of Texas, Arizona, and California), it is the danger posed by other capitalists that is most acute. Rothenberg argues that it is the il- legality of border crossing that has "created a violent underworld of smugglers, bandits, and thieves" (130). Indeed, much of the violence experienced by mi- grants crossing the border from Mexico is suffered as a result of the illicit, and therefore profitable, nature of their passage. Once settled on farms or in camps, it is corrupt crew leaders and contrac- tors who inflict most of the violence in migrant farmworkers' lives. Contractors tell blatant lies to coerce workers across the country and into the fields. Some contractors seek out homeless and drug-addicted men to live and work in the camps because they are able to manipulate these workers more easily. The con- ditions in the work camps are not only unpleasant but also, and often, danger- ous. A former drug addict describes the conditions he faced planting onions in Georgia: "In Glennville, we lived in a chicken coop. It was a big place with wood boards for the walls and tin for the roof. Everybody lived in there together. The roof leaked and there were rats everywhere .... The bathroom and the shower were in the same place with the sinks. Sometimes it would all back up and the human waste would come out through the shower. You couldn't stand on the shower floor because of all the mess that was there. If you wanted to keep clean, you had to go outside and bathe with a bucket" (qtd. in Rothenberg 157). Another worker recalls trying to escape from a camp where a crew leader de- liberately ran over a hung-over worker's leg in his truck and refused to take the injured worker to the hospital or to see a doctor. "I wanted to get off the camp, but the only way you could leave was to run away. If you tried to get away, they'd send somebody after you. Then they'd take you back to the camp and beat you up. I saw people being beaten after they tried to escape" (qtd. in Rothenberg 179). Undocumented migrant farmworkers are frequently the target of crew leader violence since they have no legal recourse that won't also jeopardize their abil- William DeGenaro Introduction What Are Working-Class Rhetorics? he study of rhetoric most oftel takes the form of the study of elite fig- ures, communities, traditions, and tropes. Rhetoricians analyze speech patterns, rhetorical strategies, oral and literate practices, argumentation styles, and rehearsals of dominant or dissenting ideolo- gies among privileged practitioners of rhetoric. Inertia has kept scholars focused on those privileged enough to have access to the resources- generally speaking, time, treasure, and technology-that facilitate par- taking in public speech acts. So even a casual glance at major journals and monographs in the field(s) of rhetoric reveals an abundance of work on politicians, highbrow intellectuals, educators, mainstream religious leaders, movers and shakers. Quintillian's "good man speaking well" is still with us. Attempts to canonize a rhetorical tradition have resulted in a mythic history of rhetoric comprised of a history of intellectualism (Plato to Cicero to Augustine to Ramus to Vico to Derrida) and a history that privileges theorizing. This history contains an inherent and often explicit streak of elitism, often characterized by a disdain for physical la- bor and the people who partake in such work. The Aristotle Example Rhetoricians often point to Aristotle as the grand patriarch of rhet- oric as a discipline. James Berlin has brilliantly contextualized Aristo- tle's life and work within the Athenian political economy, pointing out 118 EMILY PLEC ity to live and work in the United States. One farmworker recalls a crew leader who "said he didn't like to hire white workers because he didn't want to hire the wrong one, someone whose father or relative might come down on him" (qtd. in Rothenberg 178). Women sometimes experience unique and devastating forms of violence due to the dangerous conditions of camps and criminal mentalities of crew leaders. In his series of articles, Steinbeck cites instances of women who have miscarriages, whose children are stillborn or die in infancy of malnourishment or curable dis- ease. Female farmworkers today are more likely to miscarry or bear children with significant birth defects than women in almost any other occupation due to their close proximity to pesticides and the insufficient health care provided by employers. The poor conditions of farm labor camps can be attributed, for the most part, to the crew leaders' and farmers' lack of concern for, or investment in, the well-being of their workers. In addition to their general antagonism toward workers and tendency to physically abuse them, some crew leaders are directly responsible for the rape of female workers. Women, even the wives of other workers, are often told that they must have sex with a contractor or crew leader in order to get work. Women who refuse are typically abandoned, beaten, or for- cibly raped. Hazel Filoxsian, the founder of the Migrant and Immigrant Assist- ant Center and a former Florida farmworker herself, describes one female crew leader's implication in the rape of female workers: "Taylor had a room that she would force women into. Whatever man earned the most money that week could choose which woman he wanted to sleep with. Taylor would force the women to do it. She'd lock them in the room, and if anybody came to their aid, she'd warn them off with her gun. She'd say, 'If anyone interferes, I'm going to kill 'em.' We all knew that she meant it" (qtd. in Rothenberg 163). Filoxsian, fearing for her own safety, kept a gun and was forced to use it when Taylor attempted to force her to sleep with one of the male workers. After firing the gun, and shooting the man in the finger, she fled to her room to gather her things and run away. The crew leader sent "henchmen" to stop her from leav- ing. "One came with a bat and the others had those big belts. The one with the bat hit me and I lost all feeling in one arm." Filoxsian describes the beating and her eventual escape, noting that she had to hide in the woods because "at that time they were hijacking people and selling them to the contractor who bid the highest" (164). The violence Hazel Filoxsian experienced in the camp run by crew leader Irene Taylor is not unlike that experienced by numerous other victims at the hands of both men and women throughout the country. Not all crew leaders THE RHETORIC OF MIGRANT FARMWORKERS 119 are as bad as Taylor or the others mentioned above, but many crew leaders, con- tractors, and farmers do treat farmworkers in general, and members of racial mi- nority groups especially, as less than human. Dehumanization Migrant farmworkers are acutely aware of how they are seen by outsiders. Growers, crew leaders, and social workers characterize Mexican migrants as chil- dren, failing to acknowledge their intellectual and emotional maturity. Farm- workers who were high-ranking professionals in their home countries are treated as imbeciles by racist crew leaders. At minimum, individuals who deserve to be treated with dignity and respect are too often treated only as laboring objects. In- deed, migrant workers from racial minority groups, such as African Americans, Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, or Latinos suffer under the dual oppressions of rac- ism and classism. The terms "nigger" and "pussy" are commonly used by crew leaders to denigrate and control workers. The phrase "the migrant stream," used by farmworkers and commentators alike to describe the movement of workers from one area to another, invokes the image of water as a way of understanding the "flow" of undocumented immi- grants into and across the United States. Terms such as "wetback" are hurled at Mexican migrants as reminders of their presupposed illegal river crossing. Such water metaphors dehumanize those they are used to reference by likening indi- vidual human beings to indistinguishable drops of water, and by reducing hu- man subjects to objects. In Shifting Borders, Kent Ono and John Sloop argue, "In colonialist discourse, the metaphor of water is used to lump people together, to suggest their unified agenda, and to reduce them to objects that lack any signifi- cant variations, feelings, or emotions, save for physically predictable ones" (55). Reina Quintanilla, the daughter of migrant farmworkers, calls attention to white Americans' prejudices and their tendency to verbally dehumanize Mexicans: "If a Mexican kills someone, they think all Mexicans are killers. If a Mexican robs someone, they think all Mexicans are thieves. Even though they see all these Mexicans working in the fields, they never think of Mexicans as workers.... They don't even call us Mexicans. They call us wetbacks. You hear them say this all the time. 'Look, there's some more wetbacks.' Why do they call us wetbacks? It makes me angry. We've come here to work" (qtd. in Rothenberg 183). Like Quintanilla, other farmworkers' discourse offers a critique of the dehu- manization heaped upon them in the form of verbal assaults and physical de- mands. Several workers describe the verbal and physical abuse inflicted by crew 120 EMILY PLEC leaders, or mayordomos. One woman who eventually became a crew leader her- self recalls, "When we were workers, the crew leaders treated us like animals" (qtd. in Rothenberg 111). A Mexican migrant who returned to Michocan recalls, similarly, "They treated us like animals. The mayordomos insulted us. If you did something wrong, they'd yell, 'What are you? an idiot? a fool?' There was a lot of discrimination.... Some employees even beat their workers" (qtd. in Rothen- berg 38). Another worker suggests that the farmers and crew leaders see farm- workers more as machines than human beings: "The mayordomos want you to work fast so the rancheros are happy. ... All they care is that you work, and work fast. They get mad at you if you take a break or use the bathroom. Sometimes you spend ten hours bending over, crawling around on your knees.... They make you work fast and you leave the field exhausted, your back tired, your hands ach- ing. The bosses look at us as machines, things that are always supposed to be working. A machine works and works, but a person can't keep at it if he's tired or in pain" (qtd. in Rothenberg 18). The machine metaphor is echoed by a fruit picker who complains that "most of the orchards are run by big companies" rather than small family farmers, as they were in the past. "To them, you're just a machine to get fruit off the tree" (qtd. in Rothenberg 15). Likewise, in Brown Tide Rising, Otto Santa Ana (draw- ing from the research of Patricia Loo) argues that "Mexican braceros have long tended to be metaphorized as passive industrial and farm equipment, as TOOLS to be used by Anglo-Americans" (299). Farmworkers are cognizant of these rhe- torical and material forms of dehumanization, and struggle to provide a life for their children free from such forms of oppression. While they cannot single- handedly overcome American racism, farmworkers can, and sometimes do, man- age to break the cycle of poverty so common among the descendents of low-wage workers. In their efforts to stay employed, support their families, and promise a financially sound start to their children's lives, many farmworkers pay an enor- mous psychological price. Workers who protest their treatment and the condi- tions in the camps and fields find themselves unemployed (and often blacklisted by crew leaders) while agribusiness lobbyists, contractors, and coyotes ensure a steady supply of willing replacements. Like other poor, working-class people who confront dehumanizing conditions on a daily basis, some migrant farmworkers turn their anger and resentment inward toward themselves, their wives, and their children. Yet the cycle of poverty and abuse that can be attendant to such condi- tions is not evidenced in the discourse of migrant farmworkers; rather, their fo- cus is upon the ways in which families are brought together by their shared chal- lenges and problems. In this way, the family becomes a respite from the harsh THE RHETORIC OF MIGRANT FARMWORKERS 121 conditions of the fields and the daily discriminations of the growers and crew leaders. Dolores Huerta, cofounder of the UFW with Cesar Chavez, summarizes the dehumanization offarmworkers by their employers as a matter of racism coupled with capitalism. She argues that growers "don't give a damn about their workers" and have, in fact, become wealthy by exploiting people of color. "Growers dehu- manize their workers. Why would you refuse to give workers a toilet? Because if you don't give them a toilet, then they're not human beings. Why would you al- low workers to be sprayed with pesticides? Growers view farmworkers as tools" (qtd. in Rothenberg 243). Huerta also acknowledges the importance of revers- ing the psychological damage caused by such rhetorical and material practices of dehumanization, noting "If you dehumanize people, then they lose their self- worth and they won't fight for their rights. The union gives workers self-worth, it gives them faith in their ability to really change their situation" (244). Union- ized farmworkers report a similar sense of self-empowerment and commitment to the quality of their work.3 For most migrant farmworkers, however, dehuman- ization by crew leaders and growers is more rule than exception. It is also just one of many forms of oppression, some of which have been discussed above, that farmworkers face in their ongoing effort to construct a better life for their chil- dren and grandchildren. The Role of Children in Farmworkers' Lives Farmworkers' children have important stories of their own to tell.4 Accord- ing to Rothenberg, about three hundred thousand of the over two million farm- worker children in the United States migrate with their parents, and a large per- centage of these families live far below the poverty line. More than one third of migrant farmworker children over the age of seven labor in the fields alongside their parents (276). Dr. Ed Zuroweste, a former farm laborer and the medical director of a community health center that serves migrant farmworkers, claims that twenty-four thousand children under the age of sixteen are injured and three hundred die each year in farmwork-related accidents (qtd. in Rothenberg 228). Though not all of these children migrate, the children of migrant farmworkers are often exposed to the most hazardous conditions. Dr. Zuroweste compares this industry and fatality rate to industries such as a steel mill or mine, where child labor laws prohibit the hiring of children. "But they can work out on a farm and they can pick from dawn to dark around pesticides and heavy machinery, and that's legal" (qtd. in Rothenberg 228). Despite the grim realities facing many children who work on farms, the dis- 122 EMILY PLEC course of adult migrant farmworkers often suggests a more positive role for farm- worker children. A farmworker named Veronica, who traded her family's dreams of college and career for love and family, shares fond memories of her first child's early years in the fields: At first, I would leave my daughter with a baby-sitter, but then I started taking her with me to work. I would sit her by my set on a blanket next to the ladder. As I was picking, I would watch her and talk to her. I gave her toys to play with and sometimes my husband would sing to her. There were lots of families there and they'd all come by to talk to her. It was kind offun. ... When she was two, she said that she wanted to help me. We were working on tray grapes, where you dry grapes to become raisins. So I gave her some trays and she rolled them up. She always stayed right next to me and when it got hot she'd fall asleep under the grape vines. (qtd. in Rothenberg 292-93) After she and her husband divorced, Veronica's twelve-year-old son became a primary breadwinner for the household of five. She states, "Although he was only twelve, we depended on him, emotionally and economically" (qtd. in Rothen- berg 293). Though she admits that she likes "the closeness of having my family together and watching them" and she believes that working "is good for kids be- cause it teaches them how to be responsible and helps them understand where the family's money comes from," Veronica stresses education over fieldwork: "I want my children to continue their education so they won't fall back to working in the fields like I did. .. . I figure that in a way it was my destiny to be a farmworker, to teach my children this way of life so that they could do better, so that they won't have to struggle like we do now, from day to day" (qtd. in Rothenberg 195). Like all parents, migrant farmworkers want their children to lead safe, com- fortable, and happy lives. A former teacher and a coordinator with the Migrant Education Program admits, "There are very few parents who want their chil- dren to work in the fields" (qtd. in Rothenberg 288). Likewise, a crew leader who continues to work in the fields alongside the other farmworkers remarks, "I'm working for my children. ... I don't want my kids to be like me. Kids today have choices. They can finish school. They can be whatever they want to be" (qtd. in Rothenberg 112). Another farmworker and mother echoes a similar sentiment: "I hope that our children won't have to migrate or work in the fields, suffering through hunger and cold. I hope our children will have a better life" (24-25). Her husband responds: "We don't want our children to work the way that we've had to work, to suffer what we've suffered. We want our children to have toys and new shoes, and to study as much as they can. We want them to learn to speak English so that they can find good jobs. We don't want our children carrying a THE RHETORIC OF MIGRANT FARMWORKERS 123 picking sack to the orange groves" (qtd. in Rothenberg 24-25). Migrant farm- workers' hopes that their children will have a better life, outside of fieldwork, are attributable largely to the social and economic devaluation of farmwork in the United States. Despite its difficult nature, most farmworkers take pride in their work and find it, under certain conditions, rather liberating. Freedom, Self-Determination, and Pride in Honest Work Some farmworkers initially choose fieldwork because they can decide when and where they work, and because they believe in the importance of their work. A self-proclaimed "fruit tramp" describes his early attraction to farmwork: "Back then, you could move around and do what you wanted, work as little or as much as you felt like working, depending on your ambition. ... You could walk off one job and go to the next orchard and get another job. It used to be loose. It was lots of fun" (qtd. in Rothenberg 14). Farmwork has become significantly more com- petitive in recent decades, and increasingly corporatized. Nevertheless, the same fruit picker stands by his decision to choose this line of work and, in doing so, also points out the dual appeal of farmwork: I chose this lifestyle and I like it. Look at what a lot of other people do-advertising and shit like that. What does that do for the world? At least I'm helping to feed somebody. I mean, it might not be much, but I'm not destroying anything. ... I do physical labor. It's honest. I'm not especially proud, but I work hard. I make an honest living.... Migrant work is a good lifestyle. You're out in the sunshine all day. Usually nobody's screwing with you.... Where I pick, there are mountains and lakes. It's beautiful. When you're doing piecework, you take a break whenever you want. ... I like to move around, to live day to day. ... To me, farmwork is about freedom. (qtd. in Rothenberg 15-16) Other workers concur that "migrant work is a good life" (280). Former farm- worker Troy Lambert, now a custodian, left farmwork for more stable and less physically arduous work as he got older. He is similarly nostalgic about the free- dom provided by the lifestyle but also acknowledges "the trouble with migrant work," including a lack of fieldwork or bad weather. "If you were able to make enough money as a migrant to have a normal life, not to get rich, but to sup- port yourself when you got older, then I think it would be a good lifestyle. What it comes down to is migrant work would be good work if it paid better" (qtd. in Rothenberg 280). A worker who has seen the whole spectrum from crew leader abuse to worker freedom claims that farmwork is "good work if they pay you well and you're out there with a group of people that's happy" (qtd. in Rothenberg 44). He states that farmworkers "feel free," especially when they are in a position 124 EMILY PLEC to demand fair wages for their work: "Farmwork is kind of beautiful. It's peace- ful. In the city, there's a whole lot of killing and shooting going on. Out here, you can breathe nice clean air. You can hear the birds. You can look up and see the sky. You're not cramped. ... That's what makes me happy, just seeing the plants, seeing how they change color, seeing the flowers. You can see all of God's nature out there" (qtd. in Rothenberg 44). In sum, farmworkers see the beauty and acknowledge the freedom that can come with fieldwork. They also express a strong sense of pride in the honesty, dif- ficulty, and necessity of their work. A sixteen-year-old farmworker whose earn- ings have supported his family for several years admires farmworkers because they "get up every single day and work in the fields. They don't complain, they just get up and work, knowing that they're going to be doing that for the rest of their lives. . . . They're the people who make this state what it is" (qtd. in Rothen- berg 297). A forty-one-year-old farmworker takes pride in his status by asserting "I am a real migrant worker. I earned that name. ... I'm a honest man. I want a honest day's work" (qtd. in Rothenberg 2, 4). He remembers a beauty in agricul- tural work when he concludes: I hate to see the tobacco go. I hate to see the potato go. I love the moonlight. (qtd. in Rothenberg 6) Symbolic Worlds and Material Realities The themes of economic injustice; danger, violence, and victimization; and dehumanization discursively capture many of the forms of oppression facing farmworkers. They are significant discursive categories because of their capac- ity to make visible the suffering of farmworkers across the United States. The themes dealing with children and the positive qualities of farmwork, in contrast, offer alternatives to the conceptualization of farmwork as menial labor reserved for the most oppressed classes of workers. These latter themes appear to be less universal, as many white workers praise the freedom and self-determination pro- vided by farmwork, while many Mexican farmworkers express that they are la- boring for their children's futures. White migrant farmworkers encounter many of the same abuses other farmworkers face but are spared the racism that com- pounds the difficulties faced by nonwhite migrant workers. By understanding migrant farmworkers' struggles and concerns in their own words, we are able to view working-class issues in a new light. It is my hope that such research and THE RHETORIC OF MIGRANT FARMWORKERS 125 analysis also better equips us to join farmworkers in their fight against the injus- tices perpetuated by crew leaders, contractors, farmers, and agribusiness. Future studies should focus on the ways these themes, and other aspects of farmworker discourse, can open spaces for consumers, producers, and workers to participate in a collective struggle against the oppression of the farmworking class. My emphasis on the rhetoric of migrant farmworkers stems from the be- lief that our symbolic worlds help to shape our material ones. The emphasis on family and children in the discourse of many farmworkers, especially Mexican migrant workers, aids in the reconfiguration of farmwork as an occupation in line with the American dream. The kind of pride and self-affirmation possible for farmworkers who are fairly compensated for their hard work can and should serve as a model for working-class rhetorics in a democratic society. NOTES 1. Many of Rothenberg's interviews are presented in translation and have been edited. Strengths of the data set include the wide variety of agricultural laborers represented, the diverse racial and ethnic backgrounds of the farmworkers interviewed, and the author's efforts to main- tain the integrity of the comments of all interviewees. Rothenberg also interviews contractors, farmers, corporate executives, and government officials. 2. The dynamics of the economic oppression offarmworkers are illustrated in David Griffith, Ed Kissam, and Jeronimo Campaseco's Working Poor. 3. Writings by Cesar Chavez, Daniel Rothenberg, and Lynn Stephen as well as numerous others offer evidence of the self-reported empowerment of unionized farmworkers. 4. Some of these stories are collected in Beth Atkin's Voices From the Fields and Robert Coles's Uprooted Children. WORKS CITED Atkin, S. Beth. Voices From the Fields: Children of Migrant Farmworkers Tell Their Stories. Boston: Little, 1991. Calavita, Kitty. Inside the State: The Bracero Program, Immigration and the IN.S. New York: Routledge, 1992. Chavez, Cesar. The Words of Csar Chdvez. Ed. Richard J. Jensen and John C. Hammerback. Corpus Christi: Texas A&M UP, 2002. Coles, Robert. Uprooted Children: The Early Life of Migrant Farm Workers. New York: Harper, 1971. Garcia, Juan Ram6n. Operation Wetback: The Mass Deportation of Mexican Undocumented Workers in 1954. Westport: Greenwood Press, 1980. Griffith, David, Ed Kissam, and Jeronimo Campaseco. Working Poor: Farmworkers in the United States. Philadelphia: Temple UP, 1995. Hammerback, John C., and Richard J. Jensen. The Rhetorical Career of Cesar Chdvez. College Sta- tion: Texas A&M UP, 1998. 126 EMILY PLEC Hariman, Robert A. "Critical Rhetoric and Postmodern Theory." Quarterly Journal of Speech 77 (1991): 67-70. Majka, Linda C., and Theo J. Majka. Farmworkers, Agribusiness and the State. Philadelphia: Tem- ple UP, 1982. McKerrow, Raymie E. "Critical Rhetoric: Theory and Praxis." Communication Monographs 56 (1989): 91-111. -. "Critical Rhetoric in a Postmodern World." Quarterly Journal of Speech 77 (1991): 75-78. Nevins, Joseph. Operation Gatekeeper: The Rise of the "Illegal Alien" and the Making of the U.S.-Mexico Boundary. New York: Routledge, 2002. Ono, Kent A., and John M. Sloop. "Commitment to Telos: A Sustained Critical Rhetoric." Com- munication Monographs 59 (1992): 48-60. - . Shifting Borders: Rhetoric, Immigration, and California's Proposition 187. Philadelphia: Tem- ple UP, 2002. Rothenberg, Daniel. With These Hands: The Hidden World of Migrant Farmworkers Today. Berkeley: U of California P, 1998. Santa Ana, Otto. Brown Tide Rising: Metaphors ofLatinos in Contemporary American Public Address. Austin: U of Texas P, 2002. Steinbeck, John. The Harvest Gypsies: On the Road to the Grapes of Wrath. 1936. Berkeley: Heyday, 1988. Stephen, Lynn. The Story ofPCUN and the Farmworker Movement in Oregon. Eugene: U of Oregon Department of Anthropology, 2001. Takaki, Ronald. A Different Mirror: A History of Multicultural America. Boston: Little, 1993. Yang, Sandy. "Man Sentenced to 61/2 Years in Border Crossing Operation that Left 14 Dead." Associated Press, April 4, 2003. LexisNexis. July 11, 2oo6 . Melanie Bailey Mills Miles of Trials The Life and Livelihood of the Long-Haul Trucker f you've got it, a trucker brought it. This is the mantra of many who drive trucks for a living and find themselves misunderstood, unappre- ciated, and maligned by the general public. While this can be said of all kinds of truckers, this chapter focuses on those who drive over the road for a living; the gear-crunching nomads who work away from home for weeks at a time, who may have to think for a minute when you ask how old their kids are, who fall asleep at night to the lullaby of a diesel engine, and who are often said to have diesel fuel running through their veins. Most of our consumer goods are brought to us by trucks, the price of which would skyrocket if subject to other forms of transportation. They influence and permeate our lives and lifestyles, yet relatively little formal research has been devoted to the men and women who drive those trucks. The nature of daily living in the job re- mains somewhat mysterious. In an effort to demystify the profession, I examine how drivers create occupational (vs. organizational) identifi- cation with their profession and rhetorical communities that provide support, meanings, and communicative norms for them. This analy- sis stems from a year of participant observation, correspondence, in- terviews with over three hundred drivers from 1984 to this writing, and historical research. Truckers, as an occupational community, are par- ticularly well suited to this sort of study since, in the course of their daily work, they are more likely to come in contact with other truckers than people from other companies. 127 2 WILLIAM DEGENARO for example that Aristotle and his fellow thinkers saw leisure and comfort as keys to the good life. To be privileged not only meant comfort, it meant possessing the potential to be morally upright (59). Dominant ideology of the time dictated that physical labor detracted from the ability to be virtuous. The logic went like this: If members of the banausic class-manual laborers-used their hands, they prob- ably did not use their minds. Balme suggests that Aristotle and his contemporar- ies viewed contemplation as arete, a greatness or perfection. They looked upon hard work, though necessary, as reprehensible "both on moral grounds (banausic crafts deform both body and soul) and on practical grounds (manual labor and trade do not allow the leisure necessary for taking part in politics)" (141). As in the Judeo-Christian tradition, work represented punishment for Atheni- ans. In the Genesis story, of course, God punishes Adam with labor. Similarly, in Hesiod, the gods punish Prometheus for stealing fire by making humankind work (Balme 142). Wood and Wood suggest that the banausic class lacked the divine birth (the elite claimed to be descended from the gods) necessary to lead Athens. In Class Ideology and Ancient Political Theory, Wood and Wood write, "An impor- tant component of the ideology shared by the Socratics with many aristocrats was a deep-rooted hatred of democracy" (3). The polis placed an increasing amount of emphasis on civic values instead of kinship values, and this frightened well-born Athenians (25). In short, the democracy encouraged involvement in civic affairs regardless of identity and birth; civic participation was a goal worth striving for. The oligarchy (which notable rhetoricians like Isocrates and Plato supported), on the other hand, had as its telos, or end goal, the good life (Leyden 19). In the polis, Athenians likely considered work, though less than virtuous, to be a techne, a prac- tical and useful art. Aristotle, it seems, disagreed. On Rhetoric, often the starting point for explorations of rhetorical theory, is comprised of lecture notes from Aristotle's tenure at the Lyceum. Aristotle taught students to take advantage of the "worst impulses" of the masses (Berlin 63). He asserted that pathetic appeals, though base, are effective rhetorical tools for per- suading the nonspecialized and uneducated. Further, his criteria for judging an orator's character include good birth. He proliferated the conventional wisdom of his era that said that members of the banausic class were destroying their own souls by neglecting their minds with physical labor. The common individual, ac- cording to Aristotle, is wicked (Wood and Wood 215). Not all those of good birth are virtuous, but in order to be virtuous one need be well-born. Good birth, as Aristotle explains in On Rhetoric, means that both parents are citizens and distin- guished by wealth (220). 128 MELANIE BAILEY MILLS While there has been much study of organizational cultures using commu- nication theories, there has been less attention paid to occupational cultures. An occupational community has been defined by Van Maanen and Barley as "a group of people who consider themselves to be engaged in the same sort of work; whose identity is drawn from the work; who share with one another a set of val- ues, norms, and perspectives that apply to but extend beyond organizational matters; and whose social relationships meld work and pleasure" (287). Berger maintains there is utility in examining work through this larger occupational lens instead of the organizational perspective, especially as we try to understand the social nature of workgroups. The organizational perspective accentuates the meaning of work for others (i.e., what is the role of this work/job in the organi- zational system?), while the occupational perspective concentrates on the mean- ing of work for those who do it (i.e., what moves individuals to be in this line of work?). Both provide interesting but markedly different frames for the experi- ence of work. Trucking also represents "dirty" work, a job whose stigma would seemingly threaten the ability of occupational members to construct an esteem-enhancing social identity. Ashforth has found, however, that dirty work instead fosters the development of strong workgroup cultures. There seems to be a strong occupa- tional identification for members of dirty occupations, a sense of togetherness against the stigma of their work in an occupational class system. They achieve symbolic convergence. Symbolic Convergence Theory Culture as a rhetorical concept means the sum ways of living, organizing, and communing for a group of human beings that is conveyed to newcomers and outsiders by verbal and nonverbal communication (Bormann, "Symbolic Con- vergence" 99). Pacanowsky and O'Donnell-Trujillo describe culture as, at least in part, reality as it is constructed by "particular jokes, stories, songs, myths, polite exchanges, and so forth ... that which gives substance to what would otherwise be insensate behavior" (123). To study culture, first you need to ask: What are the key communication activities, the unfolding of which are occasions when sense- making is accomplished? Then you need to ask: What sense have members made of their experiences? Bormann answers the first of these questions via symbolic convergence theory (SCT), illustrating how the sharing of group experiences pro- vides the "key communication episodes that create a common social reality and MILES OF TRIALS 129 accomplish sense-making for the participants" ("Symbolic Convergence" too). To address the second question, Tompkins suggests that we can gain explanatory power by tapping the subjective meanings of organizational (or occupational) members. In other words, ask them. The researcher's main task in doing this kind of analysis is to find evidence that symbolic convergence is taking place. SCT, as articulated by Bormann and others, has several parts, all of which may be applied to trucking culture (see Borman "Symbolic Convergence" and Force as well as Cragan and Shields for extended explanations of SCT). The first part deals with the natural human tendency to attribute meaning to what peo- ple say and do. When a number of people develop portions of their private sym- bolic worlds that overlap from symbolic convergence, they share a common con- sciousness and have a basis for interacting together to create community, discuss common experiences, and achieve mutual understandings. The occupation and accompanying lifestyle of the truck driver provide the basis for symbolic conver- gence. Another component of SCT involves people sharing group fantasies-narra- tives with dramatic imagery, wordplay, stories, humor, gestures, and so forth. A person dramatizes a message somehow, and others become caught up in it to the point of participation in the drama (responding with laughter, agreement, elabo- ration, etc.). When members share a fantasy, they achieve symbolic convergence in the development of similar attitudes and emotional responses; they have in- terpreted some aspect of their experience in the same way. When I began this study, a question I posed to truck stop personnel was, "do you know any driv- ers who tell stories?" The response was overwhelmingly, "do you know any that don't?" The truck stop, the "yard" (home base), and the CB radio are examples of places where truckers meet to tell stories (or fantasies). Storytelling plays a major part in socialization to trucking (see McKee, McTavish, Ouellet, Stern, Steven- son, Will, Wise and DiSalvatore, as well as countless blogs). When a number of people share group fantasies, they may come to an inte- grated rhetorical vision, which is a combination of fantasies that gives the par- ticipant a broader view of the group, its relationship to the external world, and their place in the scheme of things. While Bormann first cited rhetorical visions in religious, social, and political movements and campaigns, he acknowledges the same phenomenon in organizational communication ("Symbolic Conver- gence" loo). I suggest that, especially in the case of truckers, this idea may be ex- tended even further to include occupations. Bormann (Force 8) uses the term "rhetorical community" to describe people 130 MELANIE BAILEY MILLS who share a common symbolic ground and may be counted upon to respond to messages consistently according to their rhetorical visions. Even though these groups may experience conflict and disagreement, they do have a basis for nego- tiation, compromise, cooperation, and coordination of effort in their rhetorical visions. It is my contention that truckers compose such a community. Historical Background Transportation plays a vital role in U.S. history. In a sense, the history of trucking begins with the mythic spirit of stagecoach drivers and wagon masters. The logbook that today's trucker must keep and the old cattleman's diary both describe a journey across hostile territory. The term "riding shotgun" is still used by truckers today to refer to the co-driver, and there is still danger of hijackers on the roads in the new millennium. Many cowboy metaphors exist in the language of today's truckers. One driver I rode with frequently spoke to his truck like a faithful steed, saying "Whoa there, big truck" as he slowed her down. The men who once rode across the country by wagon soon took to the rails as technology gave us the steam engine. The brute strength of the train was awe- some in its speed and raw power. Hobos grew in numbers, attracted to the lure of the rail. As a young man, my father hitched across the country and reported sto- ries of a community of travelers using the rails in the 1940s. Although he did not ride the trains, he remembers eating beans with those who did. One of the largest hobo centers in the country was located in Mattoon, Illinois, just ten miles from where I sit at my laptop. Tramps who lived in the hobo jungles adopted monikers that were as descriptive as they were colorful. A "blinky" was a bum with one eye. A "hay bag" was a female bum. A "jungle buzzard" was the dregs of bum society. Their proper names were not used and often good as forgotten. Stern suggests that the CB handles of the truckers today may be a reflection of the identification system of their distant cousins of the rails. The rail system and the auto industry grew together, but cars were only for personal use and trains were limited by the tracks they had to follow. There was a need for something bigger and more powerful than the passenger car with more mobility than the train. While the truck seemed like a great idea, the first ones were not very well received. They were failures in terms of both speed and en- durance, not to mention creature comforts. It was not an easy life. Windshield wipers had not yet been invented; headlights were encased in fragile glass globes that would explode easily when hit by a stray rock or clump of dirt. Further, there were no sleeper cabs as we see them today. The trucker would sometimes sleep MILES OF TRIALS 131 on top of the truck, in a hammock under the trailer, or on the ground. As truck- ing companies grew in the 1920s, seat cushions replaced boards, and doors re- placed curtains as standard equipment. Hardships, however, continued for the trucker. In the early 1930s there were not yet truck stops or other places to bunk or shower. News of the best places to stop for sleeping or eating were passed on by word of mouth, along with tall tales of truckers' exploits. Since there were not yet CBs, these gathering places hosted the rare opportunity to socialize and talk with other drivers. After a long day on the road, the conversation had to be interesting to keep drivers' attention; this is often given as the reason for the proliferation of exaggeration in the storytelling of the drivers, even today. A boom came for the truckers during the Depression, ironically, when the diesel engine was developed. As the trucks became more complicated, so did life for the drivers. With the increasing economic power of the industry came gov- ernmental regulations. Safety commissions were formed, and the Motor Car- rier Act (1935) was enacted to control interstate transport, governed by the newly formed Interstate Commerce Commission. Truckers were now required to have official permission to operate in a state and cross state lines. There was much confusion about who could drive what, and strikes and shutdowns resulted. The government tried to limit the truckers' freedom to move, which is an essential part of their identity, and they fought back with an unexpected vengeance. The industry continued to grow into the 1940s. Humphrey Bogart portrayed a trucker in the film They Drive by Night, which brought the driver to the public eye as a professional with a unique style. The trucker's image began to change in the 1950s. Instead of Bogart, Mario Lanza played a singing trucker in That Mid- night Kiss. A trucker's accessories began to include a chain-drive wallet that at- tached to the belt along with the big buckle inscribed with his name or the name of his truck. Leather suits were replaced by blue jeans and Eisenhower jackets. The use of amphetamines ("West Coast turnarounds," "black mollies," "speed," or "bennies") increased, and was represented by Chuck Conners in the film Death in Small Doses. Truck stops appeared at record speeds to accommodate the demand of the growing field. Drivers no longer had to search out diners with large enough park- ing spaces to fit them. They had to keep pace with tourists who had discovered that "truckers know all the good places to eat" (although I question the validity of this notion having been on the road myself now for nearly twenty years study- ing drivers). Drivers organized as their numbers increased, forming groups like the Amer- 132 MELANIE BAILEY MILLS ican Trucking Association. The teamsters' union provided muscle behind the voice of the various organizations. The movie F.I.S. T with Sylvester Stallone de- picts some early union "negotiations." At the same time trucking magazines be- gan to surface (e.g., Overdrive, American Trucker, and Road King). The trucker had become a common carrier and according to Stern, by 1975 the gross revenue of trucking carried by the country's 21 million drivers had reached nearly 23 billion dollars a year. Drivers who drove for a love of the road had to learn to conform to increasing restrictions or give it up. Gypsy drivers, without permits or author- ity, faced stiff penalties (and still do) if they were caught. Deregulation during the Carter administration effectively removed entry and rate restrictions, encourag- ing competition in the trucking industry. From the truckers' view, this allowed "any damn fool that wanted to" to drive a truck, and initiated sharp competition for payloads (American Trucking Association). Gas prices were shooting up and owner-operators were struggling to survive. Some scholars speculate that union leaders at the time were not fully aware of the implications of deregulation (Hir- sch 302). Lowering the speed limit forced many drivers to haul longer hours to meet deadlines. Many will report that it is impossible to do their jobs without break- ing some sort of law. In fact, a good number of truckers spend a great deal of time dreaming up ways to get around the law. Department of Transportation (DOT) rules state that a driver may only drive eleven hours at a time, and, tired or not, must rest for ten hours (this law is in transition at this writing, allowing more hours on the road while also requiring more down time). If the number of miles between loads is greater than those allowed given the speed limit within legal time constraints, one of the laws is going to be broken, if not both. Some- times log books, where the driver details every stop, all conditions encountered, marking where he stopped and for how long, are even called "fairy tales." Most of the drivers I met kept more than one log book; one for the law, and one "real" one for their records, stating that it was "impossible" to keep an honest record. There is also much complaining about different speed limits for different vehi- cles on the same road. The truckers' argument is that it is not safe to have two different speed limits on the same stretch of road. Such differentiation also re- quires a more careful eye on the speedometer because it is no longer safe to go with the flow of traffic. Truckers see this as another trap for them; another in- stance where they are singled out and "picked on" by law agencies. Truckers cast themselves as heroes of the working class against big bad no-common-sense gov- ernment representatives. It is a universal theme that has long roots in the history MILES OF TRIALS 133 of trucking (for elaborations of this history, see Abrams and Abrams, Broehl, Ka- rolevitz, McKee, and Stern). The Citizen's Band (CB) radio has been one of the contributing factors to the trucker's ability to get around the law. Truckers alerting each other in advance about the presence of the Highway Patrol (Smokey Bear) or regulatory officials in weigh stations (chicken coops) has cost authorities much revenue (see Official CB Slang Dictionary and Fensch as examples of CB dictionaries). If, for no appar- ent reason, a group of trucks are on the shoulder of the road "passing time," you can be pretty confident they have been apprised of an official presence ahead. A weigh station may be a major threat to a driver. For example, if the truck is pass- ing through a snow or ice storm, the official will not wait for the extra pounds to melt off before determining the weight of the cargo. This can result in a hefty fine. Each violation drives this expense higher. The relationship between the truckers and the law since the advent of the CB radio is dramatized in the movie Convoy starring Kris Kristofferson as a rebel with a noble cause. This film contributed to the CB craze of the 1970s, in which all kinds of"4 wheelers" had "ears on" to play king of the road and "ride with the big boys." To the relief of most truckers, this fad declined in the 198os and they got their airwaves back. Trucking has come a long way since its inception. A fully equipped, forty-ton eighteen-wheeler costing over $100,ooo is a far cry from its early ancestors. The driver, usually mortgaged to his ears, sometimes drives all day and all night just to keep ahead. For the owner-operator, the "white collar salary" he is purported to draw goes right back into the truck, making the take-home pay much more mod- est. Logbooks, mileage records, fuel tickets, and other paperwork can dull the ex- hilaration of just plain driving. Some give up. Some persist, not allowing the law makers and enforcement officers to get them down. This grit is part of the trucker mystique-a mystique created and perpetuated by the drivers themselves. The Trucker The most commonly held stereotype of the American trucker is that of an overbearing, pill-popping, road hogging, womanizing speed demon. Laypeople often fail to see the ordinariness of the job, past the stereotypes to the day-in and day-out labor involved in the truck driver's occupation. Instead it may appear to outsiders that drivers have it made, traveling to places they might only go on va- cation, making their own decisions without anyone over their shoulder. Others have perceptions of truckers that are modern-day twists on classic archetypes. 134 MELANIE BAILEY MILLS The following categories are derived from research by James Blake and supple- mented by examples from my own investigation. Knight of the Highway This is the Good Samaritan image of the trucker rendering aid to people in trouble (damsels in distress, as it were). There are a number of variations on this theme in country music. For example, in "The Ballad of Jim Blynn" we are told the story of a long-haul driver, Jim Blynn, who rescues another driver from flam- ing wreckage, gets in his truck, and leaves without further ado. The news spreads from truck stop to truck stop, and as he pulls into one of these stops a little girl comes up to thank him, saying "You saved my daddy's life." This is all the reward he needs. The TV series B. j and the Bear had a trucker using his rig to do good deeds and foil the bad guys for the sheer satisfaction of a job done right. While these are fictional accounts, they do reflect real experiences. The let- ter columns of trucking magazines regularly feature examples of aid being ren- dered, frequently at a high cost (time). Unfortunately, there may be a decline of this kind of behavior because it has become more risky for the driver. Hijackings have become more common and a lady in distress is often a ploy to stop the un- suspecting trucker. Several country songs also reflect this development ("I Sure Like Your Truck," "The Hijacker," "Shiny Red Automobile"). Brute Monster In marked contrast to the trucker as white knight is the image of the trucker as brute monster. Carried away by the power of his rig, the driver physically as- saults other motorists (running them off the road, or worse). The Stephen King film Maximum Overdrive capitalizes on this image. People are held captive in a truck stop by killer trucks that have mysteriously come to life. The driver has become the truck, and the truck has become a monster, combining childhood nightmares with modern technology in characteristic Stephen King fashion. In this image, fantasy and reality are mixed. Anyone who has looked in the rear- view mirror of their car to see a truck closing in on them will report some sense of anxiety, particularly if it has teeth attached as decoration to the grill. This im- age serves the important purpose of providing truckers with a negative example, defining norms by telling them how not to behave. Behavior like this prompted a regular feature in Owner-Operator magazine entitled, "What Did You Do to Trucking Today?" chastising brute monster drivers for sullying the reputations of all truckers. MILES OF TRIALS 135 While on the road, I heard truckers talk about wanting to drive certain four- wheelers off the road, although in my experience it was no more than talk. More often than not, it was because the driver of the car had done something to in- fringe upon the safety of the truck (like pulling in front of them, or stopping quickly). These are legitimate concerns because, as I heard over and over again when asking about this image, you can't stop a truck on a dime. Sailor of the Highway This third image, the romantic adventurer, combines the ideas of independ- ence and control. In a very real way, the trucker is the captain of his own ship (rig). Consistent also with this image is the notion of the sailor of the highway having a girl in every port (city). A trucker's wife told me that she knew her hus- band was not faithful to her, but that it "went along with the job." However, I also heard from many drivers who said, essentially, "who has the time or energy?" I got similar responses when I inquired about drivers with multiple families (wives). It would appear to be the exception rather than the rule. One man, talk- ing about "cattin' around," told me that he figured guys either "got the energy to do it or talk about it, not both." Asphalt Cowboy This image is one of the most prevalent in popular culture. To the poetic pub- lic searching for heroes, he is the rebirth of the disappearing American cowboy. He rides all day on the concrete range, and knows his resting place at night will be next to his trusty steed (sleeper cab). This image is developed by analogy to Old West cowboys, not only in terms of clothing, but also in terms of vehicle-animal equations and behaviors. Not only is his tractor his "horse," but his trailer load of freight is his "doggies." He sits, wearing a big hat, in the "saddle" and runs along that "asphalt trail." The cowboy theme often surfaces in the look and lan- guage on the road. This letter from trucker Ken Beardon to Overdrive describes the asphalt cowboy: "He is the modern day person of the pioneer spirit. In the tradition of American heroes, he is something of a loner, with his own code and culture" (77). King of the Road The fifth image is one that finds itself articulated (airbrushed) on the side of more than one tractor rig, and that is "King of the Road." There is something about being the biggest vehicle on the road that is powerful. I think that is why 136 MELANIE BAILEY MILLS we are so enamored with SUVs. Many of the drivers I spoke with referred to the sense of power and harmony they felt with the road. One trucker told me: "I re- ally enjoy being out on top of my own little world in my big rig. It's a hard life, but a good life. Out there, listenin' to my wheels hummin' down the road, lookin' down on everybody else-I really am king of the road." Professional/Small Businessman I am combining Blake's last two images because they are not currently as dis- tinct as they might once have been. It is increasingly important for both com- pany drivers and owner-operators to be involved in the business end of truck- ing. While the previous images find themselves in songs, magazine columns, truck stop talk, and jokes, the trucker as professional is the image presented in the majority of feature articles in trucking magazines, trade journals, and driving schools. The driver, despite other images, is performing a job, and is thus a work- ing professional. This involves occupational expertise not only in driving itself, but also in loading, maintenance, record keeping, cleanliness and neatness, and sometimes sales. Other indications are the installation of fax machines at truck stops and higher incidence of computers and cell phones in rigs. Most truckers, regardless of the images portrayed in popular culture, would likely describe themselves as hard-working, underpaid, hauler-loader-bookkeeper- mechanics who are just trying to make an honest (by their definition) living. Many truckers will report that they were born with diesel fuel in their veins. It is not un- usual to find an entire family engaged in over-the-road hauling. In rural America, the transition from field tractor to highway tractor is not a difficult or uncommon one. There also seems to be a good deal of mobility from the coal mine to trucking as well (according to interviews in a truck stop in West Virginia). Veterans' benefits are also cited as helpful for starting a career in trucking (school, loans for trucks, etc.). Categorizing reasons for trucking is easier than stereotyping a "typical" trucker. Freedom, independence, and control are the most frequently cited reasons for tak- ing to the road. The identities of the truckers are another story. While I heard "I only had an eighth-grade education," frequently, I was struck by the number of college graduates on the road. Perhaps the eighth-grade education came up so of- ten (for about 25 percent of the drivers I interviewed) because they feel that formal education breeds ignorance. A great deal of store is set by "common sense," so that those with a college education are often tested to ensure that their book learning did not erase the good sense God gave them. MILES OF TRIALS 137 Although it is still very much a male-dominated occupation, a good number of women now enter the profession for the same reasons their male counterparts do. Technological advances make it easier for women to physically do the work (e.g., lifting devices). The fate of women truckers is greatly influenced by male sponsorship, support, and protection (Lembright and Riemer 457). In 1950 be- ing a female trucker was curious enough to land airtime on What's My Line? She is still a curiosity in many truck stops. While it is difficult to estimate the number of women in trucking, there is evidence that their force is increasing and being recognized (e.g., separate showers added to truck stops); however, the industry maintains a strong male orientation. When coming upon another trucker on the road or as you pull into the truck stop, one of the first things other drivers notice is what you are hauling. Some- times it is not necessary to even see the load. Pig, bull, or chicken haulers have a distinctive odor that sometimes even a shower cannot shake. The same is true for leather, paper, and some types of produce. I remember being around a load of onions ("funions") and having my friends notice (and remark about it) when I returned home, although I, by that time, was no longer aware of the odor. The nature of the load, origin, and destination are all criteria by which the trucker judges his peers. Sometimes it is hard to get a straight answer from a driver about what exactly is loaded on the truck. To do so might make the driver vulner- able to hijacking if the load is valuable. Another reason for nondisclosure is that the load may be boring, so the driver may liven conversation by saying the load is "donut holes" or "fly's wings." Jokes and puns about loads are common on the radio, especially at night when the driver might be more prone to chatter. One conversation that comes to mind was initiated by a driver who said he was haul- ing toilet seats ("honest to Pete, I really am!"), which led to an array of puns ("bet he's flushed" or "full of shit") that were entertaining as well as good natured. The Road The Federal Motor Carrier Safety Regulations, as overviewed by Barrett, outlines tests the driver must pass in order to determine he has control of and can safely operate the truck. These include an objective written exam, a medi- cal exam, and a road test. The driver must demonstrate a working knowledge of pre-trip inspections, operating skills, freight handling, rules and regulations, and routes. These categories of evaluation also provide the fodder for his stories, his boasts, his songs, and his folklore (Eff 5). WHAT ARE WORKING-CLASS RHETORICS? 3 As such, Aristotle empowers the elite in the pages of On Rhetoric. In terms of the ethical appeal to the credibility and trustworthiness of the rhetor, Aris- totle on one hand claims an audience should judge ethos by the rhetor's words. Yet when he gives us the criteria, they are largely based on "qualities derived from birth, wealth, and extensive education-that is, from experiences prior to the rhetorical situation" (Berlin 62-63). Even Aristotle's description of individ- ual virtues largely employs an elitist criteria, such as ability to manage riches. Berlin writes, "the ethical proof requires membership in a privileged social class" (63, emphasis mine). When he turns to the pathetic appeal, the same bias exists. Though Aristotle explains that the use of pathos is base, the rhetor must use pa- thos since the nonspecialized audience is "deficient" and can't follow a complex, logical argument (62). Aristotle explains that the end goal of deliberative rhetoric is skopos, or "hap- piness and its parts" (57). He goes on to include in his definition of happiness "abundance of possession." This definition is part of Aristotle's discussion of de- liberative rhetoric, oratory concerned with political decision making. If the goal is a materialistic happiness, the implication seems to be that it is virtuous to use the political process to increase monetary possessions. Again, Aristotle's audi- ence in this text is the elite young citizens of Athens. He essentially tells them that wealth is the telos of political rhetoric, a necessary constituent of happiness, the "one goal" of their communication with the masses. Of course Aristotle discusses the constituents of happiness in some detail. Another part of happiness is good birth, the "legitimacy" of bloodlines-so the masses don't have the potential for happiness anyway, a convenient justification for their manipulation (58). Aristotle's discussion of wealth as a constituent of happiness deserves to be quoted at length: The parts of wealth are abundance of cash, land, possession of tracts distinguished by number and size and beauty and also possession of implements and slaves and cattle dis- tinguished by number and beauty; and all these things should be privately owned and se- curely held and freely employed and useful. Things that are productive are more useful, but things used for enjoyment are being freely employed; and by productive I mean what produces incomes, by enjoyable that from which there is no gain worth mentioning be- yond the use of it. The definition of securely held is that which is possessed in such a place in such a way that use of it lies with the owner; and whether things are privately owned or not depends on who has the right of alienation, and by alienation I mean gift and sale. All in all, wealth consists more in use than in possession; for the actualization of the potenti- alities of such things and their use is wealth. (59) 138 MELANIE BAILEY MILLS Initiating novice drivers is fun for the more seasoned truckers. It is com- mon, for example, to fill the new driver with wild stories of the most dangerous runs, one of which happens to be the one he is embarking on. Other rites include switching the airlines on his truck so that he cannot release his brakes, or un- hooking the fifth wheel so that the tractor and trailer separate when he pulls out of the terminal. These are embarrassing, yet playful, games new drivers (or rid- ers) are subject to as they are initiated into the trucking world. The trucker develops a special relationship with his truck; he usually re- fers to the truck as "she," and often tells stories using "we" and "us." The truck can soothe the driver with the purring lullaby of her engine, excite him with her strength and power, or anger him when she is uncooperative. What is it about the truck that makes it become so human? One driver I interviewed put it this way: "The truck has a soul. It can be a devil or an angel or just a trusted compan- ion on the long haul. A truck gone wild can be a twisted nightmare, hurling you headlong into the center rail with a front-wheel blowout, or it can be as gentle as a mother's love, rocking you to sleep in its softly padded belly." A majority of truckers believe that troopers lie in wait for them, eager to search their trucks for drugs or guns, or to catch them going three miles over the speed limit. They believe that the "county mountie" treats them with a special, stored-up meanness reserved especially for truckers. One time when I was on the road and our "chickens were a little heavy," we took an exit before the weigh sta- tion in order to avoid it. A state highway patrolman radioed us that we had to stop, but we replied that we were hopping off to visit our favorite sub shop, and proceeded to do so. He tired of waiting while we leisurely enjoyed our lunch, and eventually left us alone. In this case, knowing a specific restaurant's name made the story more convincing, and "he can't tell us we can't stop to eat, now, can he?" A discussion of life on the road would be incomplete without mention of the truckers' relationships with four-wheelers. Truckers hate those four-wheelers that impinge upon their safety, as mentioned previously. However, as much as drivers complain about them, cars are also a source of interest and entertain- ment. Truckers may talk on the radio for miles about what is going on in cars. This is particularly true if there is anything sexual involved (although nose pick- ing is right up there too). Some are elevated to legend status. I heard more than once around highway 270 in Columbus, Ohio, about this "lady who drives a Mer- cedes out here at night with her dome light on and nothin' else, if you know what I mean." MILES OF TRIALS 139 Drivers discuss accidents very matter-of-factly. Fortunately, not all of them are tragic and some become fun stories (often about messy clean-ups-ball bear- ings, chickens, etc.). The road is where the driver always returns, despite its drawbacks and dangers, to begin another workday. Truck Stop When freed from the rigors of the long haul, laid over in small-town U.S.A., waiting for a return load home, the trucker will take advantage of any available so- cial life, often in the truck stop. Each one has its own character and conveniences. A deluxe model will have live entertainment, modern motel units, multiple fuel lines, electronic scales, a twenty-four-hour restaurant, a convenience mart, bank- ing services, truck brokers, tire sales and service, a laundry, a pool, individual showers, hair stylists, a chiropractor, movies, and a paved, lighted lot with secu- rity. At the other end of the spectrum are the mom-and-pop type stops where the d6cor, and hopefully the food, is homemade and if the driver stays overnight, it is in the truck. Magazines and many Web pages have regular write-in features that rate truck stops according to reports from drivers about the things mentioned al- ready and possible information about the "door bangin' business" from the "lot lizards" (prostitutes). At whatever kind of truck stop the driver pulls into for a break, there are several things you can count on. Since most drivers are paid by the mile, time off the road is time off the "feedbag." They will take care of busi- ness, multitasking all the way. Drivers adapt to "shifts" that work for them (driv- ing at night, during the day, all at once, in pieces, etc.). When they stop to rest, it is often a social time to "get together and lie to each other." There is little point in wasting time with boring stories. Some drivers I spoke to elevated storytelling to an art form, warming up to a favorite tale, clearly enjoying the responses of a new audience as the "performance" progressed. The story must be marginally believable, and at least entertaining, to be acceptable. Otherwise, the story and the teller were dismissed as "full of shit." When I began to collect these stories, I asked a waitress what truck drivers discuss when they gathered in a lounge or restaurant, or even on the lot, talking and/or laughing. She replied, "You can bet they're talking about my ass, your ass, or how fast them trucks can go." It would seem that she was right. Major themes that appear in truckers' stories are the truck, women, the trip, the law, the profession, and the life (on and off the road, a trucker is a trucker). Some- times truckers who have been "chasin' each other" in a convoy will stop together 140 MELANIE BAILEY MILLS to eat or even to lay over for a weekend. This is a fun time to exchange stories. Boasts and brags usually come after about the third cup of coffee, and a good many truckers will excuse themselves from the table at this point with a remark like: "After you've been truckin' as long as I have, you've heard it all-you boys have fun pullin' each others' legs and impressin' Sweet Pea here." My CB handle was Sweet Pea and I often encountered significant exaggeration and flat-out lies as a function of (mostly) truckers bragging about their work, and (sometimes) men strutting their stuff. I learned that it is impossible ("a total crock of shit") to drive across the country in two days ("she's not as stupid as you look"). The CB Like the truck stop, the CB radio is a place for conversation among drivers. The CB language particular to truckers is an indication of symbolic convergence. You have to be a member, or strongly affiliated, to understand and participate in the conversational exchange. One result of the introduction of the CB to the trucking community is that it has all but eliminated the silent communication, the hand and light signals to indicate occupational information that preceded the radio (for more on "old-fashioned" signals, see McKee; Stern). Though most conversations on the radio are cryptic and brief, they serve both a functional purpose (checking road conditions, "bear" reports, getting directions) and a so- cial one (breaking up the trip, talking to stay awake, staying in touch with friends either on the road or on base radios along the road). Some drivers pine for the "old days" before the "chatterbox," when talk among drivers was more meaning- ful (vs. "foul mouthed"). These drivers may not keep their radios on, preferring to listen to music, and only use them when they need them or recognize another driver (and want to "give him a shout"). Truckers often decorate their trucks in conspicuous manners in order to be recognized by their friends. There is an art to talking over the CB. Very early in my research, an anony- mous driver helped me with radio road manners. I had asked for a smokey re- port from westbound traffic (as I was eastbound). I got my reply and thanked the driver for it. He waited, and then responded, "Now you're supposed to tell me what it looks like behind you. That's the way it works. I tell you, you tell me, I say 'have a safe ride,' and you wish me the same. Got it? If you're gonna use the radio, make sure you mind your manners, four?" I complied. One of the ways of determining rule behavior is observing sanctions for violations and also repairs (Shiminoff 94). Fortunately, my reprimand, in this case, was gentle. MILES OF TRIALS 141 Truckers in Rhetorical Community Truckers form and identify with an occupational community through a va- riety of communicative forms, including stories, jokes, and rituals. Sharing "war" stories in the truck stop, complete with heroes and villains (us vs. them) illustrates a shared perspective about how things should be interpreted when it comes to the performance of the truck-driving occupation. It is through these experiences that truckers learn what meanings to attach to common experi- ences. The CB and truck stop are prime examples of places where truckers meet to share stories (or fantasies), often in a specialized language unique to truck- ers. Many of these stories have elements described by SCT: interchangeable he- roes and villains, depending on whose rhetorical vision is framing the drama. For example, many tales revolve around getting past the law. Depending on who is interpreting the story, the clever trucker may be the hero or the conniving vil- lain (according to fellow truckers or police officers). To come to such conclusions requires that the members identify a collective self. Bormann shows that fanta- sies that distinguish who "we" are may take the form of "we are not" dramas. Once these boundaries are established through the sharing of fantasies (creating a differentiation between insiders and outsiders), the members create guidelines (usually implicitly) for terminating rituals to force members out and initiating rituals for recruits. When asked how this happens, one driver responded, "They know when they've fucked up (are discourteous in traffic or have otherwise given the profession a bad name) and sooner or later the rest of us do too. Nobody as- sociates with them-nobody wants anything to do with them. They're danger- ous." Shunning is one method of communicating disassociation from the group. Initiating rituals take the form of good-natured jokes, the weathering of which gives recruits membership status. This examination of the trucking profession illustrates how drivers have a basis, through the experience of their jobs, to per- form in rhetorical community. A trucker I know sent me a bumper sticker that reads "Without trucks we'd all be naked, hungry and homeless." To talk about trucking as a working-class occupation with statistics about production and accident rates does not tell the entire story. We need to also listen to the background road hum that tells tales of how the lives of the drivers intersect with our own. Their "dirty work" keeps us in the manner of life to which we have become accustomed, although we remain largely unconscious of the work that delivers such a life to us. Truckers form an occupational community that is a fixture on the landscape of our daily living. In a 142 MELANIE BAILEY MILLS very real way it is because of them that we are clothed, fed, and sheltered. Truck- ing is an integral part of our history, our spirit, our economy, and our future. WORKS CITED Abrams, Kathleen S., and Lawrence F. Abrams. The Big Rigs: Trucks, Truckers, and Trucking. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1981. American Trucking Association. The Case Against Deregulation. Washington, DC: American Truck- ing Association, 1972. Ashforth, Blake E., and Glen Kreiner. "'How Can You Do It?' Dirty Work and the Challenge of Constructing a Positive Identity." Academy of Management Review 24 (1999): 413-34. Barrett, Colin. Practical Handbook of Private Trucking. Washington, DC: Traffic Service Corpora- tion, 1983. Beardon, Ken. Letter. Overdrive: The Voice of the American Trucker 23 (1983): 77. Berger, Peter L. The Human Shape of Work. South Bend, IN: Gateway, 1964. B. J. and the Bear. Perf. Greg Evigan, Claude Akins. NBC. Feb. 1979-August 1981. Blake, James A. "Occupational Thrill, Mystique and the Truck Driver." Urban Life and Culture 3 (1974): 205-20. Bormann, Ernest G. The Force ofFantasy. 2nd ed. Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, 2001ool. -. "Symbolic Convergence: Organizational Communication and Culture." Communication and Organizations: An Interpretive Approach. Ed. Linda Putnam and Michael E. Pacanowsky. Beverly Hills: Sage, 1983. 99-122. Broehl, Wayne G. Trucks ... Trouble... and Triumph. New York: Prentice Hall, 1954. Convoy. Dir. Sam Peckinpah. Perf. Kris Kristofferson, Ali McGraw. Triumph, 1978. Cragan, John F., and Don C. Shields. Symbolic Theories in Applied Communication Research. Cresskill, NJ: Hampton, 1995. Death in Small Doses. Dir. Joseph M. Newman. Perf. Peter Graves, Mala Powers, and Chuck Con- nors. Allied Artists, 1957. Eff, Elaine. "Truckstop: The Research, Presentation, and Interpretation of Occupational Folk Cul- ture." Master's thesis, State University of New York College, 1978. Fensch, Thomas. Smokeys, Truckers, CB Radios, and You. Greenwich, CT: Fawcett Publications, 1976. FI.S. T Dir. Norman Jewison. Perf. Sylvester Stallone, Rod Steiger. MGM, 1979. Hirsch, Barry T. "Trucking Regulation, Unionization, and Labor Earnings."Journal ofHuman Re- sources 23 (1988): 296-319. Karolevitz, Robert F. This Was Trucking. Seattle: Superior, 1966. Lembright, Muriel Faltz, and Jeffrey W. Riemer. "Women Truckers' Problems and the Impact of Sponsorship." Work and Occupations 9 (1982): 457-74. Maximum Overdrive. Dir. Stephen King. Perf. Emilio Estevez, Pat Hingle. Anchor Bay, 1986. McKee, Melanie Bailey. A Cultural Study on the Lifestyle of Long Haul Truckers. Diss. Bowling Green SU, 1990. McTavish, Don. Big Rig: Comic Tales from a Long Haul Trucker. Edmonton, Alberta: Lone Pine, 2001. The Official CB Slang Dictionary Handbook. Wilmington, NC: Communication, 1976. Ouellet, Lawrence J. Pedal to the Metal: The Work Lives of Truckers. Philadelphia: Temple UP, 1994. Pacanowsky, Michael E., and Nick O'Donnell-Trujillo. "Organizational Communication as Cul- tural Performances." Communication Monographs 50 (1983): 126-47. MILES OF TRIALS 143 Shiminoff, Susan B. Communication Rules: Theory and Research. Beverly Hills: Sage, 1980. Stern, Jane. Trucker: A Portrait of the Last American Cowboy. New York: McGraw, 1975. Stevenson, Red. Old Truckers Never Die, TheyJust Take Another Pill. Self published, n.d. That Midnight Kiss. Dir. Norman Taurog. Perf. Mario Lanza, Kathryn Grayson. Warner, 1949. They Drive by Night. Dir. Raoul Walsh. Perf. George Raft, Humphrey Bogart. Warner, 1940. Tompkins, Philip K. "On the Desirability of an Interpretive Science of Organizational Communi- cation." Paper presented at the Speech Communication Association Annual Meeting, Wash- ington, DC. 1983. Van Maanen, John, and Stephen R. Barley. "Occupational Communities: Culture and Control in Organizations." Research in Organizational Behavior 6 (1984): 287-365. Will, Frederick. Big Rig Souls: Truckers in America's Heartland. West Bloomfield, MI: Altwerger and Mandel, 1992. Wise, Marc, and Bryan Di Salvatore. Truck Stop. Jackson: UP of Mississippi, 1995. Dale Cyphert Rhetoric on the Concrete Pour The Dance ofDecision Making t is no secret that the discourses of Western culture consistently define the "working class" as socially, politically, and morally inferior (Bern- stein; Bourdieu; Burke; Ehrenreich). A literate elite maintains its own social, political, and academic power by constructing alternative social practices as immature, immoral, uneducated, and criminal (Ar- onowitz and Giroux; Graff, Legacies; Graff, Labyrinths; Illich and Sand- ers; Street), absent any evidence that middle-class intellectual values are inherently superior to the more socially oriented values of the working class (Bloom 670). Working-class and minority families are required to emulate middle-class rhetorical practices to achieve the American dream, but simultaneously told to abandon the cultural practices that define their own communities (Collins; Cummins; Wick). A mythology of upward mobility promises that anyone can grow up to be president, but that "growth" from working class to ruling class requires an indi- vidual to abandon a cultural way of being in favor of the dominant rhe- torical culture of the Western public sphere. Meanwhile, rhetorical theorists have amply demonstrated that non- Western communities (Asante; Garrett; Kaplan), women (Belenky et al.; Foss and Griffin; Harding), and working-class communities (Gowen; Heath; Philipsen) effectively use alternative methods of rhetorical ac- tion. Those in power might be able to label other methods of commu- nity as "not rhetoric," but the labels do not negate the reality of the sub- ordinated rhetorical processes. Despite the disapproval of a dominant 144 RHETORIC ON THE CONCRETE POUR 145 culture, subculture communities define and maintain themselves as distinctive and viable rhetorical communities. The real difficulty is not in recognizing that the working class has rhetoric. An open minded, if inherently patronizing, acceptance of diversity is all it takes to acknowledge that any community will devise its own ways of reaching pub- lic decisions and acting collectively. The difficulty comes in trying to understand the rhetorical nature of a process that does not reflect the rhetorical norms of the academic elite. The only way to fully understand a community's method of achieving common ground and justifying communal action is to begin with the fundamental presumption that it is rhetorical. Then the question is no longer, "how is this group's rhetoric like or not like elite Western rhetoric?" but "what is the nature of this community's rhetoric?"1 This project seeks to observe the rhetorical practices of a working-class com- munity and to theorize their functionality. The goal is to set aside, as much as possible, Western and academic assumptions of what rhetoric ought to be and attempt to discern the actual rhetorical practices of the group. Rather than sim- ply noting that such a group does not create linguistically articulated, analyti- cal arguments to solve its problems "rhetorically" or that its members engage in barhopping instead of "rhetorical" civic behaviors, the objective is to discover the group's own rhetorical norms. That is, the project aims to discern the ways in which a viable working-class community goes about the fundamental process of making decisions and acting as a community. One group of workers, a concrete crew working in Omaha, was video- and audiotaped for a total of forty hours during a month of shadowing one mem- ber of the crew virtually around the clock. As an academically trained rhetorical scholar, my first impulse had been to document rhetorically "significant" events such as political talk, assertive attempts at persuasion, or problem-solving dis- cussions. Finding such events relatively hard to locate, I realized that these work- ers dismissed such talk, typically a management activity, as a silly waste of time and energy. A group of "real men" who had a problem to solve would not be sit- ting in an office discussing possible solutions; they'd be outside dealing with the situation. In order to understand the rhetorical behaviors of this working-class group, I would have to first determine its actual methods for collectively deter- mining an effective and appropriate course of action in a group situation. 146 DALE CYPHERT Rhetorical Norms of the Working Class What my video camera ultimately captured were the typical discourse prac- tices of rural nonliterate and non-Western cultures: collectivist social relation- ships (Ezrahi; Hofstede; Triandis), global epistemologies (Berry; Horton; Scrib- ner and Cole), and contextualized discursive norms (Hall; Liu; Triandis). While these cultural practices are well documented, they are not typically framed as rhe- torical. When their rhetoricity is assumed, however, this dance of concrete work can be seen to demonstrate three key characteristics of a working-class commu- nity: it is an accommodative rhetorical culture in which a wide distribution of knowl- edge and implicit techniques of meaning-sharing are used to guide the community's collective action. The Accommodative Purpose ofa Working- Class Rhetoric Rather than making proactive attempts to "solve" problems and create a bet- ter world, these workers accept the environment as a given. Working-class "fa- talism" is denigrated as a dysfunctional failure to conform to the assertive, goal- oriented rhetorical norms of the dominant culture, but the activities of this group illustrate the advantages of accommodating a dynamic and potentially danger- ous environment. Uncertainty and imprecision are accepted in the construction industry. Workers must be able to modify tasks to fit the requirements of each lo- cal site, the unpredictability of the weather, and a complicated production proc- ess that involves the coordination of multiple trades (Applebaum). Despite the rigorous planning of the architects and engineers, adaptation to the constantly changing environment can be seen as the main task of construc- tion workers. The workers' method for dealing collectively with environmental change exhibits a problem-solving pattern that involves three sometimes over- lapping stages: they identify and simultaneously initiate alternative paths, they identify barriers and assess alternatives until they find resolution, and they nar- rate a rationale for their decision for inclusion in the communal knowledge ar- chive. I observed each of these stages in the verbal and nonverbal exchange of the concrete pour. Alternative Paths to a Solution Rain will mar a freshly finished concrete sur- face, and if too much water settles on the surface, large holes can become struc- tural concerns. The promise of much rain sometimes warrants rescheduling a pour. Generally, the workers move ahead if ground conditions are acceptable RHETORIC ON THE CONCRETE POUR 147 and it is not raining. They spread sheets of plastic over the finished surface to protect it from rain marks and puddles of standing water. This crew works in the Midwest, where thunderstorms are expected but unpredictable. Jay, owner and supervisor, carries rolls of plastic on the truck, and when rain appears the crew moves to protect a new pour with little discussion. One sunny day the crew is scheduled to pour a horse barn's floor and ap- proach. The pour begins under blue skies, but within the hour the wind has picked up and a thunderclap or two have been heard. Jobsite chitchat has thus far centered on horse stories: who had them as kids, what each did as chores, ob- servations on the configuration of stalls. Dave comments nonchalantly that the morning weather report predicted "a 70 percent chance for sunshine," but it is an observation that initiates the group's response to the increasingly problem- atic weather with nothing more dramatic than a change in the topic of conversa- tion. Now the workers tell a few weather stories. Billy observes cloud formations. Dave and Brad exchange stories of what they did the last time work was called off for weather. The actual occurrence of rain remains indeterminate, but everyone in the group is now aware that the environment might require accommodation if the group is to accomplish its goals. The group has begun to tap into a key com- ponent of expert groups: "transactive memory" that keeps each member up-to- date on who knows what (Bower). The first rain drops are noted by Billy: "I felt that." Dave looks toward the sky briefly, but there is no break in the action. Jay has noted Billy's cue and with- out looking up from his troweling, he calls out, "one guy, go get some plastic off." The response so far is routine. Dan judges his own task to be most expendable and assigns himself to go to the truck to cut a piece of plastic large enough to fit the door at one end of the barn. The rest finish the floor. The situation is more problematic at the other end of the barn where the crew has yet to pour the ap- proach that will remain open to the weather. It has begun raining in earnest by the time that surface is finished, and the crew hangs a plastic tent from the top of the door across the concrete. This leaves the personnel door approach uncov- ered, however, under heavy rain. Everyone becomes involved now in finding a solution. A large piece of ply- wood, smaller pieces of plastic, duct tape, and a number of boards are availa- ble, and each crew member independently initiates a solution. They do not dis- cuss their alternatives; each simply picks up the potentially useful items closest to where he stands, and they all scramble to the door. The first to arrive begins to position plastic, but the plywood arrives next and offers more surface against the 4 WILLIAM DEGENARO Aristotle praises the joys of private ownership, including the ownership of slaves, as well as anything that produces income. Not only does Aristotle empower the elite to strive for wealth as arete, he also stresses the importance of elite identity as a means to ethos construction. He ex- plains in a somewhat vague manner that an orator must "be a certain kind of per- son" and be perceived as such (120). He goes on to explicate the effects that good birth, power, and wealth have on one's rhetorical character (169-72). Aristotle admits that good birth is largely accidental and sometimes "degenerates into rather demented forms of character" but stresses it is a necessary component for strong ethos. Aristotle has a less glowing description of how wealth influences ethos, noting that the wealthy can become "insolent and arrogant" (170). The Effect ofAristotle's Legacy on Rhetoric The scope of rhetoric has too often consisted of elites concerned more with theorizing and less with doing, more concerned with Lyceum students than with the banausic classes. This limited and limiting scope is particularly ironic, given that rhetoric is a living and breathing practice that takes place in real social con- texts. Those interested in understanding both the practices and contexts of rhe- torical acts in ancient and contemporary milieus and all points in between need a livelier dialectic with the so-called rhetorical tradition. Historian of rhetoric Thomas P. Miller calls for "a more dynamic relationship" with a multiplicity of traditions: "Instead of just the rhetorical tradition, we need to study the rhetoric of traditions-the ways that political parties, ethnic groups, social movements, and other discourse communities constitute and maintain the shared values and assumptions that authorize discourse. If we adopt this more broadly engaged ap- proach, we can begin to make the discursive practices of marginalized traditions a central part of the history of rhetoric, and the history of rhetoric will then be- come more central to our interest in rhetoric as a social praxis" (26). Miller argues that looking beyond the "fictional" rhetorical tradition at a broader range of social movements will allow scholars of rhetoric to build local- ized knowledge about an array of cultural experiences. Instead of just studying good men speaking well, Miller urges his readers to locate archives that rheto- ricians can utilize to craft social histories and critical narratives of "suppressed traditions" (29). Further, Miller writes, understanding the complicated roles that rhetoric plays within local cultures can facilitate an understanding of how lan- guage authorizes and is authorized by dominant cultural values. 148 DALE CYPHERT rain. The plastic is allowed to drop to the ground as its handler steadies the more promising alternative. The plywood seems like a good solution, but something must be done to seal the joint where it leans against the building. Dave and Dan hold the wood in place while Jay positions it from inside the personnel door and Chris reaches over Jay to put a nail through the edge of the plastic hanging from the door into the plywood. Throughout the process, the men position and repo- sition the plywood and plastic, allowing the rainwater to drain properly. As the group reacts to the rain, ideas are proposed but not used, and ma- terials are gathered that are not exploited. The group relies on synchronous in- teraction to gain the benefits of "accidental" information sharing (Weick). Be- cause each member takes responsibility for the materials immediately available, the community as a whole maintains global attention to all options, allowing the maximum input in terms of potential resources. No idea is verbally rejected, so all ideas are protected until the group is satisfied that an option is not needed. Continuous Cost-Benefit Adjustments A global epistemology valuing the un- differentiated breadth of holistic perception is an apparent norm in this group, seen in the group's undifferentiated action with respect to all available ideas and resources. Not all solutions will be necessary, nor will all solutions work equally well to solve a problem. Possible solutions are not discussed and discarded ac- cording to any kind of analytical framework, but implemented simultaneously. Ideas stay in play until resource limitations winnow out the least-fit in a proc- ess of continuous, real-time evaluation toward a "satisficing" solution (Simon). Another pour the following day further illustrates the process of continuous cost-benefit adjustments, which allow continuous accommodation to changing surroundings. Once again, anticipation of the problem begins with observa- tions of weather conditions. During Dave's drive to work, he provides a running commentary on observed conditions: estimates of how much rain had fallen the night before at various spots, comparisons of this morning's weather conditions to yesterday's, the appearance of clouds and estimates of probable rainfall at to- day's jobsite. As on the previous day, threatening clouds, windy conditions, and occasional rolls of thunder warn the group that trouble is brewing. This job involves a triple driveway, porch, steps, and walkway, which would require a particularly large sheet of plastic for protection. As the job nears its end, the men washing tools are also setting aside lumber, rocks, and whatever else looks useful for holding down plastic. This process takes little time or energy; on a driveway pour the last step is always to set lumber scraps across the end of the RHETORIC ON THE CONCRETE POUR 149 approach to prevent anyone from driving on the new surface. Similarly, plastic is pulled from the truck with little extra effort as the crew waits for Chris to perform the final surface finish. On this afternoon, however, the weather takes breaks. The rain seems imminent, then the clouds brighten and the crew can hope for a re- prieve. As the job winds down, each shift in the weather speeds or slows progress on the protection effort. When dark clouds or a thunderclap remind the group of possible danger, the area is scanned for items of use and to note spots that might pose difficulty. Environmental cues function as a continuously updated set of evaluative criteria. There is no presumption that a fixed set of external standards can guide the group's action. Instead, any danger that might occur or resource that might be available at one moment can be gone the next. Any justification for action in the immediate context can easily change or disappear completely as the environment changes. The utility of a flexible, contextualized understanding is apparent here; the criteria relevant at the beginning of a discussion might not be relevant several minutes later as the weather conditions change. When the community is faced with a need to act, there are multiple, redun- dant solutions begun; no decision is "made" except in the sense that individual actions begin to coalesce into a concerted effort. The search for input is not ex- plicit, and the problem-solving technique can look like the workers are avoiding a decision or simply letting circumstances decide. There is no explicit, proactive evaluation of criteria to make a decision; instead the group engages in a continu- ous evaluation of the changing environment and generates a flexible response. Telling the Stories of Success and Failure The final step in the work group's problem-solving method is to add the event to the communal memory. As with most routine trouble, the reaction to weather is mundane, and there will be few explicit comments made immediately. On the other hand, anything striking will become the subject of conversation over the next few days, as the crew shares per- ceptions and re-narrates its understanding of the world. The swapping of stories is a well-documented event in construction crews (Applebaum) and other high- risk/high-reliability organizations more generally (Shaiken; Weick and Roberts). The rhetorical event is not merely the immediate choice in a given situation; the community's new knowledge is solidified in the subsequent narrative. Potential solutions for future troubles are recorded and distributed in the schema of "war stories." On this crew, the events of one day's weather are added to the commu- nal memory, to be used as observational cues, templates for future action, and cautionary tales that integrate knowledge across the community. 150 DALE CYPHERT The Distribution ofKnowledge among Workers A second characteristic of this group's communal decision-making is the de- gree to which knowledge is shared among all community members. Every mem- ber is expected to pay attention to environmental factors, gathering and protect- ing as much detail as possible and making it available for the group's decision. All perceptions are deemed inherently valuable, and information is held by the group for as long as possible. In a rhetoric that draws on information that is stored in the experiences, perceptions, and interpretations of several minds, decisions reflect a constantly varying mix of resources on the jobsite.2 Rather than wait for the articulated problem solving of a few eloquent leaders, the work group maintains rapid, consistent, and mutually comprehensible interactions to produce an immediately reliable group response to environmental demands. In this rhetoric of distributed decision making, each individual maintains responsi- bility for a sphere of expertise even as specific functions are shifted in response to environmental change. A Sphere offob Responsibility A mark of effective work groups is their job-related division of labor (Bruner); in a dynamically changing job environment, that divi- sion is communicated on a continuous basis. One typical day begins with only three men present; they begin to work quickly but without discussion. As owner and most experienced member of the crew, Jay jumps on the Bobcat3 to begin pre- paring the dirt for the pour-a crucial job in terms of the final job quality. Dave, a carpenter by trade, had taken the job on the concrete crew when a shoulder in- jury limited his ability to reach above his head. He has few concrete skills, but is acknowledged as "the form guy," and begins picking out lumber for this day's job. Billy, hired for his ability to "run a wheelbarrow," will not be doing that job until the pour begins, so he is left to unloading and staging the equipment that will be needed to lay rebar and pour concrete. Dave asks one question of Jay to determine a detail of the forming required, but there is no other conversation among these three men until they begin stak- ing the floor. Once Billy is satisfied that everything is in place, he locates a rake and joins Dave in leveling dirt at the foundation of the garage where Jay's Bobcat cannot reach. The sharing of job tasks is an endlessly fluid dance to meet imme- diate needs. Nevertheless, the basic responsibility for a particular area stays with the man, as here, where Billy has taken on the initial responsibility of unloading all the necessary tools and materials for the job. Later, when Dave and Billy are staking, Dave asks, "Bring any long stakes?" Billy's only response is a laugh as he RHETORIC ON THE CONCRETE POUR 151 continues raking, but when they have finished the immediate task, Billy heads for the truck to rectify the deficiency. Dave goes back to the porch-forming job that will similarly remain his responsibility throughout the day. In this crew, an ex- pectation of membership is that no one tells another what to do, explicitly ques- tions his expertise, or encroaches on his realm of responsibility, but each man nevertheless remains responsible for his own contribution to the overall job. Coordinating a Variable Duty Roster The dynamics of the shared decision mak- ing is seen more explicitly on a large job several days later. The crew never articu- lates the pour as a "problem" to be solved, but the group's primary responsibility is to use its available expertise in concert to get the job done in the most effective way. On this day, the first step in creating an effective solution involves position- ing workers. The crew spent the previous day forming the job and today it will fill the space with nearly thirty yards of concrete from two trucks. A pour gener- ally requires two workers to "rod" the concrete, and at least one to "puddle" the cement into place behind the rodders, who kneel at either end of a two-by-four, pulling it across the forms to level the "mud." One person runs the chute, pour- ing concrete from the truck into the forms. Occasionally a cement truck driver might run the chute for a shorthanded crew, but it is a job typically handled by the least-skilled member of the cement crew. On jobs where the truck is unable to reach the forms, at least one other person will be needed to wheelbarrow the cement into position. One worker will begin floating the concrete surface as soon as a section is rodded, and finishing of the concrete surface and edges marks the end of a pour. The division of labor into discrete job categories might appear to be a straight- forward allocation of skills, but the crew is actually engaged in a more compli- cated distribution of tacit expertise (Engestr6m). The crew consistently allocates the work of a pour to maintain the most competent available person at each po- sition. Duties are shifted depending on the demands of the pour, but the proc- ess is virtually without discussion. This pour begins with Jay on the chute, direct- ing concrete into a pile for Billy, Dave, and Dan to puddle. Chris and Holly begin to finish the edges that will butt up to the garage floor and exterior walls. Brad stands aside until there is room in the small section where they have started, then begins to smooth the top corner on his side of the driveway with a mag. The crew includes only three finishers, Jay, Chris, and Holly, who is too small to handle the twelve-pound bull-float across a large pour and generally does only edge finishing. Jay is not finishing today, however, because the positioning of the chute is crucial on this hot day. His supervising responsibility for strategic deci- 152 DALE CYPHERT sions includes determining the order of the pour. Today he has decided to pour in three sections, and by staggering them, will attempt to keep the quickly dry- ing cement in the shade as long as possible. The chute, normally the least expert position, becomes a tool for him to direct the rest of the crew to proceed in an unusual pattern. He never verbalizes his intent to pour into the shaded areas in a second and third section before the first section is even rodded, but in taking the chute position he cues the crew that there is something unusual going on. They understand the implicit indication of his intent without difficulty, and for the rest of the pour the crew chases the shade without discussion. At each stage in the pour, workers shift quickly to new positions, but there is never any vocalized discussion of who should perform a given job, or what will be done in a position.4 The organization of the work maximizes the crew's overall talent, with the most senior person available performing each task. On this pour, the initial responsibilities are first shifted when the rodding begins and Holly, no longer needed on finishing, cleans the form for the rodders. Jay, noting Holly to be engaged in the most expendable job, directs her attention toward an undeter- mined event at the street. She does not, however, find herself to be the most qual- ified person to handle the situation, and steps across to Dave, takes his puddling rake, and points him toward the task. The repositioning dance goes on similarly for the rest of the afternoon. Work- ers move out of the way or hand off equipment, seeming to know before a shift is made that it is required. When they settle into position they will have maxi- mized the team's effectiveness with the most immediately efficient distribution of skills. The "best" finisher does not necessarily finish, as here, when both Jay and Chris allow Holly and Brad to finish the preliminary edges. This is a job for which Holly and Brad are fully qualified, and Jay's and Chris's talents are not wasted do- ing tasks that can be done as well by another. Instead, the more senior finishers take on jobs that cannot be done as well by anyone else currently on the job. Later, when Jay is needed to float the surface, he moves Dave into his own position at the chute and Holly moves in to take over Dave's puddling duties once again. Without discussion, the workers hand off tasks along an implicit path of expertise that var- ies with the day's crew, the requirements of the job, the skill of the cement truck driver, and the weather. Implicit Communication Techniques on theJobsite The use of language is foundational to the Western problem-solving process, and critical thinking is often defined in terms of articulated analysis. Here, ver- RHETORIC ON THE CONCRETE POUR 153 bal discourse is inherently disruptive when it singles out only a portion of infor- mation, expertise, or task of the complex jobsite activity. In this work group, talk is avoided. The need to articulate a command or an explanation is perceived as a sign of dysfunction, occurring when individuals are untrained or incompetent with respect to the needs or expectations of the group. Ideally, explicit communi- cation is made unnecessary by the creation of a collective memory, which learns to predict the idiosyncratic behaviors of individuals and develops a rhythm of habitual behavior. Individual worker autonomy insures that any actor is able to initiate a decision without discussion, but that autonomy is protected by secure group boundaries and the group's consensus, communicated in the rhythms of physical work. Protecting Worker Autonomy In the high-risk context of many manual work environments, immediacy of action is as important as its consistency. In a com- munity that survives on its ability to take immediate action, decision making that is passed up and down a hierarchical chain of command is not viable, nor is there any value in the prolonged debates of democratic discussion. Instead, each person must be trusted to take immediate, irrevocable action, and each per- son must trust that any action taken will be accepted and rewarded. Rhetorical norms must guarantee that each man will make a rapid, independent response to environmental and situational cues, regardless of any verbalized plan or insti- tutional sanction. The result is an implicit form of communal decision making that is grounded in the actions rather than the words of a public. This work group is never ob- served to articulate a choice. Instead it lets "circumstances" or "chance" decide the outcome of a decision-making process or, when the necessity arises, defers to the "outside" voice of a boss. This practice is not an abdication of rhetorical proc- esses, however, but a rhetorical process that protects and encourages autono- mous decision making. The work group's communication does not conform well to the Western model of rhetoric, which puts a premium on agonistic displays to identity the "best" solution. Instead, the resources of each individual's knowl- edge are protected in a problem-solving process of constantly shifting directions that capitalizes on whatever resources are immediately at hand. The result is indeed unsystematic, but this is not a "trial and error" that comes of unsophisticated brute force of one worker. Instead, the group per- forms a dance around a problematic situation. No individual solution, step, or contribution is ever rejected, nor is one person's contribution ever delegated to 154 DALE CYPHERT another for completion. Each resource is autonomous. When a worker is called away from the group, the problem-solving path changes to maximize the use of the remaining areas of expertise. No one person is "in charge" of the problem- solving process. Instead, each person's autonomy is preserved in the refusal to plan ahead. The security of knowing that each man has the authority to act im- mediately in response to any contingency is more important to this group than the security of foreknowledge or public approval. At the jobsite, the reliance on autonomous action can be seen as the optimal process for when information is incomplete or unavailable. Dave, for example, who must form the job, has been told only that the concrete will be "ten feet off the door, across and down, then four feet across to the doorway." Dave checks one fact, "Right against the building?" and he is off to build a form that is respon- sive to the owner's wishes but functional in the material environment. Even Jay, the owner and foreman, is seldom given more than a general outline of where the architect or developer has called for concrete. It is up to his crew to determine the details. Further, there is little second-guessing of decisions on a concrete job. A worker's decision is, after all, permanent in a material way. Any change would cost the crew time and money, and the crew is being paid, after all, to make those decisions. A crew that refuses to act on the grounds that complete information is unavailable would be unable to function in this industry. The men will occasionally comment on a decision that has been made. Dave, for instance, critiques a sidewalk form with gentle sarcasm, "that's definitely got enough curve," but judges it, "okay." Changes would have necessitated tearing out and redoing his, Billy's, and Dan's previous half hour of work, and the dis- cussion is for the purpose of refining the collective memory store, not to redo the work or to question one person's ability to make a responsible decision. In a job context where each individual must be counted on to take immediate action, respond flexibly to the environment, and take responsibility for moving proac- tively within the organic rhythm of the crew, the risk of overt criticism is simply too great. Linguistic conventions abound on the jobsite to protect an individual from any hint that his decisions are not valued. Workers are asked whether a certain action is a good idea, never told to take it: "Why don't ya go down and take a look," Jay asks Dave. Billy marks his own territory by asking a leading question: "There ain't no sense in staking all the way across then, right?" In response, Dave allows Billy to retain responsibility for the task by answering with only a state- ment of the goal: "Stake it somewhere in between there and where it's going to RHETORIC ON THE CONCRETE POUR 155 come out so it ain't got no sag right there." Now and then a direct command is made, but that lapse can lead to accusations of "screaming" or "yelling." A cru- cial balance of cohesiveness and flexible response is accomplished by willingness to defer, without discussion or conflict, to the well-established areas of expertise and responsibility carried collectively by the group. Much of each man's auton- omy on the job flows from presumptions that every man's unique store of in- formation is vital and that the job itself will change along with any change in the composition of the group. There is no scripted role that an anonymous, de- contextualized "individual" can play. Instead, a solution evolves as unique, au- thentic people disappear or return to the public sphere. Each man's contribution is an integral part of the solution-not in a socially polite attempt to validate each others' self-esteem, but with the authenticity of a problem-solving process and resultant solution that will be materially different when different people are present. Maiainining the Group Boundary Autonomy is protected in linguistic ways, but rests even more firmly on the community's confidence that group members can be reliably trusted to make good decisions in their own spheres of expertise and experience. Harmonious social relationships and long-term association are predictors of success on a jobsite where tasks require highly interrelated cogni- tive or physical behaviors (Applebaum; Dyer). Previous studies of groups that cope effectively with "nonroutine" events (or perhaps more accurately, with "routine trouble") find them to be thoroughly social with a dense web of inter- relationships, less reliance on the talents of single individuals, and a strong col- lective memory of specific, material applications (Dyer; Engestr6m; Middleton; Shaiken; Suchman; Weick and Roberts). A failed attempt of a potential member to join the concrete crew offers additional insight. In a three-day series of events, the team tests an individual's rhetorical competence and ultimately rejects his bid to participate as an autonomous citizen of the group. The teenage son of Holly's girlfriend was hired with the intention of teach- ing him to be a permanent part of the crew. Within only two days, the rest of the crew was expressing displeasure over the suitability of "the Kid" who seemed unable to participate in even the most basic laborer duties because "the wheel- barrow gets in his way." A person without a responsibility, without a realm of autonomous action, is not someone who can be trusted to perform the dance of decision making in this group. The Kid repeatedly fails to accept the continuing responsibility for a function that has been given to him early in the day, and the 156 DALE CYPHERT rest of the men perceive that he is simply unable or unwilling to perform as part of a functional, decision-making group. The group's preferred methods of communication are physical, while the Kid seems well-socialized in the highly verbal expectations of a school environment. He asks questions, waits attentively for the next directive, and tries to clarify the instructions before proceeding. Because he does not act immediately on his own, however, the others judge the Kid as not "willing to work" or simply "not the type" to work in an industry where "it gets hectic" and a worker has to "know what to do." The Kid further expects supervision and training to include explicit vocalization that is unfamiliar and difficult for many of these workers. When he helps Dave build a form, for example, he never moves until Dave tells him specif- ically to do or stop doing a task. Even directing the Kid in the simple task of plac- ing extra dirt and a wheelbarrow requires more articulated decision making from Dave than he typically employs in a whole day of concrete work: "Uhm, see, just dump it off the side. Down over here in the hole is better. [He must stop working to watch as the Kid performs this much of the task.] Okay, just back it back up by the doorway. Put it inside the patio, 'cause then it'll be out of the way." In an at- mosphere where small decisions such as this are made and implemented within seconds and without conscious attention, the need to spend nearly a minute ex- plaining and supervising is cumbersome and frustrating for Dave. Further, the prediction of what would be "in the way" or "out of the way" during the pour re- quires nothing more than attention to the position of the concrete forms in rela- tion to the street. The Kid is asking for the time-consuming articulation of some- thing he "should have known" and he is further judged unfit for this work. Both discourse patterns and nonverbal behaviors brand the Kid as unaccept- able for group membership. Overt, meta-communicative problem-solving dis- course is not part of this community's accepted practice and the Kid's need for explicit communication brands him as incompetent. Within this community, the need for explicit instruction itself connotes a functional inability to exist as part of the group; the social and epistemological presumptions of the group rely on the use of holistic, implicit communication. The Rhythms of Work On the jobsite, the problem-solving process reflects a re- liance on social responsiveness, global attention to everyone else's behavior, and a nearly complete absence of explicit discussion of the process. In physical work under extreme conditions, common in working-class labor and construction work in particular (Applebaum), the advantage of a "collective mind" that is able RHETORIC ON THE CONCRETE POUR 157 to respond quickly and consistently becomes apparent. The work of a concrete crew requires the coordinated work of several people and does not call for inde- pendent decision making, analytical reasoning, or long discussions of possible action, but instead for the quick implementation of highly coordinated behav- iors. The dance of seven workers pouring a wide, sloping three-car driveway on a blazing, ninety-five degree day illustrates the use of physical cues to drive the decision-making process, the implicit coordination of individual responses to produce a community response, and, most significantly, the danger signals com- municated when the unspeakable is articulated. Decision making is virtually continuous here, but the crew's behavior does not exhibit articulated decision parameters, the careful definition of problems, or discussion among the crew re- garding any of the proposed or selected solutions. Instead, problem solving is facilitated in activities that discredit the individual "minds" and independent "thoughts" of Western rhetoric in favor of behaviors that develop and support a collective mind. The crew engages in a complicated dance of mutual awareness and immedi- ate physical response to synchronize each member's immediate areas of respon- sibility. Each worker is making a series of decisions, each of which affects those around him or her. The others, in turn, make their own decisions based on the new configuration of the fluidly changing environment. At any given moment, the worker on the chute is deciding whether and where to pour; using the speed of the rodders and the dimensions of the pour to calculate the direction of the flow, the chute angle needed, and whether or not the truck needs to be reposi- tioned; judging the consistency of the mud to decide whether mixing or addi- tional water is needed; and communicating any or all of this information to the truck driver, wheelbarrowers, and puddlers as needed. The rodders use their lumber to level the concrete, but are simultaneously developing a slope, blending to a previous pull, watching for holes or high spots, and trying to find a line to which they can conveniently pull. In addition, they work at opposite ends of a six- or seven-foot rod. A smooth surface requires that they pull together in a continuous rhythmic movement, but each man is also judging the quality of his own end. The decision to pull again, or to call the sur- face done and step back into the next section must be a mutual one, but it is based on information that each man has independently. The puddlers behind them, meanwhile, must be continuously aware of the rodders' progress. Either too much or too little concrete under the rod will create a spot that will then have WHAT ARE WORKING-CLASS RHETORICS? 5 New and Alternative Rhetorics One instance of the broadening of the rhetorical canon has been the move- ment toward "new rhetorics," especially in the two collections Defining the New Rhetorics and Professing the New Rhetorics: A Sourcebook. In both collections, editors Theresa Enos and Stuart Brown elucidate the transformation of rhetoric from ex- isting, at best, as a humanistic study of figures of speech and, at worst, a pejorative term for manipulation to rhetoric's "honorific" status as a social-contextual field of study "that concerns inquiry and the making of knowledge, and the communica- tion of that inquiry" (Professing ix). The new rhetorics movement implies a social turn, signaling widespread acceptance that language does not exist in a vacuum but rather in real, material contexts. Instead of using formalistic and logocentric methods such as neo-Aristotelian rhetorical analysis that approach texts and ar- tifacts as static objects with fixed meanings, new rhetorics consider the dynamic interplay between text and context. Instead of glossing over context as a means to better understand the exalted text, rhetoricians seek to enhance understand- ing of both text and context. Yet the new rhetorics still conservatively adhere to a kind of "good man speaking well" ideology. Not only are the respective tables of contents in Enos and Brown composed largely of the familiar Western-patriarchal voices, the writers largely reflect elite backgrounds and scopes of study, primarily dominant thinkers discussing theoretical concepts (a notable exception is the in- clusion of Paulo Freire's and Donald Macedo's critique of illiteracy in the United States). If the "new rhetorics" movement might be credited with defining and facili- tating rhetoric's social turn, the "alternative rhetorics" movement has more ex- plicitly-and with a more acute foregrounding of politics and ideology-sought to broaden the scope of the rhetorical tradition. Laura Gray-Rosendale and Sib- ylle Gruber, editors of the important anthology Alternative Rhetorics: Challenges to the Rhetorical Tradition, write, "Alternative Rhetorics is intended to make sure that we continue exploring new territories, territories that were considered neg- ligible, unimportant, or nonexistent not too long ago" (3). Their collection delib- erately positions the scholarship contained therein as "alternative" in the sense that there is an attempt to "disrupt and challenge the hierarchical nature of some traditional rhetorical studies while recognizing that such challenges are tempo- rary and open to co-optation" (4). Contributors consider how race and ethnicity, gender and sexuality, and new technologies are creating alternative sites for re- searching and teaching rhetorical praxis. The rich contributions contained in A- 158 DALE CYPHERT to be reworked. It is the puddler's job to decide whether to add additional mud, pull some back, or throw a bit over the rod to fill a low spot, which the rodder might have already seen or might look for based on the puddler's cueing toss. Anthropologists have argued that even in highly verbal environments, "most behavior is ordered in ways about which we as observers or participants are sys- tematically inarticulate" (McDermott, Gospodinoff and Aron 377). In this highly physical environment, where timely and efficient action is the highest goal, good communication about the desirable behavior is implicit and nearly invisible. The physical communication of this crew is foundational to its work. These workers could not hand off their responsibilities to each other if they did not know and respect each other's expertise. Their individual information and expertise must be communicated in some way, but without time for words, they depend instead on the fact that they are all conversant in a discourse of implicit physicality. They pay attention to movements, gestures, moods, and meanings, even as they avoid explicit comments on any of them. The collectivist social norms that are typical of the working class suggest that its rhetorical norms will value and build the effective decision making of a func- tional group rather than an individual mind. Research in high-risk and high- complexity workplaces has found that a group as a whole can do "more cogni- tive work than could be done by any individual alone" (Hutchins and Klausen 20) when it relies on the implicit, nonverbal exchange of information to create a "seamless joint performance" (31). An important characteristic of work organi- zation in harsh, physical working conditions is the need for "immediate on-the- spot response to changing situations ... delays in understanding and carrying out orders cannot be tolerated" (Dyer 78). The nonconscious decision-making process is not merely "automaticity" in the sort of rote airheadedness that clas- sical cognitive research places in opposition to consciously attended processes. Rather, it is a dance that requires physical attentiveness to the surroundings and to others in order to carry out a complex process. Dave has described the phe- nomenon as a matter offeeling smart when physical activity is smoothly efficient andfeeling stupid when injury or fatigue prevents the completion of tasks in a flu- ent manner. In a group situation, the physical location of each actor determines (or is deter- mined by) the need for his expertise. In addition, each man's expertise is embed- ded in the physical activity of his own contribution. There is no talk about what each participant is doing, but the actions are so well coordinated that tools are passed and parts adjusted in a seamless flow of activity. The result is a sort of physi- cal poem in which "steps" are learned like the formulaic lines at the oral poet's dis- RHETORIC ON THE CONCRETE POUR 159 posal (Parry). These are the basic skills the men possess. The problem-solving art, though, is in the coordinated use of those familiar steps in an arrangement that is responsive to the context, the ever-changing requirements of the unfolding event, and the contingent effects of the environment. Dancing ability depends on prac- ticed knowledge of how to perform each step, but is equally contingent on a tuned sensitivity to the movements of the partner and the sound of the music. Each man has his expertise; he knows his own steps and he brings them back to the commu- nal problem when his tuned sensitivity to the group and environment cues a con- tribution. Social ties and physical synchrony create a problem-solving web that en- sures the group will act immediately, flexibly, and always in concert. The result is a public sphere in which verbal communication is a signal that something has gone wrong with the community's preferred rhetorical dynamic. Verbal communication is used when someone has missed a cue or bungled a step: "Watch out," as Dan is standing where Dave wants to position the chute; "All right," as Chris realizes he needs to do an additional bit of patching against the floated edge and then, "Let's go," to cue Brad that their rhythm can begin again. Most of the time, there is no conversation beyond the occasional, "Yo!" to cue the truck driver or, "Again," to synchronize the rodders' pulls. An individual describes his work as acceptable by noting, "No one can say anything to me" about it. A "good pour" involves all seven workers moving fluently through a series of interconnected steps to reach their collective goal. They step around each other without pause, reach for items before they are presented, signal to the truck driver based on the positions of workers twenty feet away. In contrast, a job with too much talk is invariably cause for complaint. Whether the problem is blamed on having too many people on the job, a bad driver, or too many unreasonable or unexpected change orders, the visible evidence of a problem is always that the workers have been required to talk to each other. The dance is no fun when the participants must agree in advance about each step. Further, the working class's well-documented resistance to promotion to super- visory roles can be framed as a rejection of some key middle-upper class presump- tions about a public sphere. These men not only devalue the use of language to make decisions, they find the highly articulated rhetoric of the dominant political/ social world to be an unpleasant, even indecent way of being. When Billy scolds himself for "doin' something I shouldn't have been doin'... thinkin'," he is not in- dicating that he was in error or out of his element. Rather his tone is disgusted: he should not have been pushed out of the public sphere of common decision making into the undoable and disconnected realm of explicit, analytical thought. Weick and Roberts make the argument that the organic, implicit group is 16o DALE CYPHERT "smarter" than its analytical, mechanistic counterpart because it has the capac- ity to reconfigure itself temporarily to engage in "incremental decision making" (376-77), but that does not guarantee that members of such an organization will find the shift pleasant or "smart." Just as an assertive, highly verbal rhetorical culture tolerates intuition, passion, and the ineffable as the messy but necessary price for creativity, the physical rhetoric of the working class accepts conscious, articulated decision making as the ugly necessity that highlights the proper sphere of communal action. A Public Sphere of Collective Action The dominance of a strongly assertive Western rhetoric of articulated ration- ality has been enforced by maintaining social, epistemological, and discursive de- fenses against the women, lower classes, and barbarians who threaten disorder. The working class has been represented by the literate elite as an uneducated, dysfunctional, or criminal element that has not yet achieved competence within the dominant culture's norms. This concrete crew is clearly using, however, a ro- bust set of rhetorical practices that allow it to reach collective decisions and take collective action in the environment of a physically challenging workplace. In the context of the jobsite, where changing weather, physical noise and distance, and rapidly drying concrete disallow the use of "measured" discussion, a rhetoric of coordinated physical responses is clearly advantageous. The working-class community's reliance on implicit knowledge and interac- tion, which accommodates speedy and flexible responses to a dynamic environ- ment, is not a violation or rejection of universal rhetorical norms, but an alter- native that is more suitable for the high-risk, highly complex, and time-sensitive environment of manual work. The rhetoric might "violate" the norms derived by Western academics, but this group's ways of coming to collective decisions and implementing communal action are no less rhetorical and no less effective. NOTES 1. I refer to a community's rules for taking action as a community as its rhetorical norms, which can be described holistically as a rhetorical culture. Rhetoric not only describes the com- munal decision-making practices of a group, but simultaneously implies the cultural norms that define which practices the group deems suitable for public decision making-that is, what shall be defined as rhetorical. This usage is counter to the recommendation, most notably of Ed Schiappa, that the term "rhetoric" ought to be reserved exclusively for that form of public dis- course that was named by Plato. While the argument is a reasonable one, we are thereby left with- RHETORIC ON THE CONCRETE POUR 161 out a suitable word to describe the more general processes of communal decision making as they occur across cultures. 2. During the four weeks of observation, a total of seven individuals comprised the crew, but there was no day on which all were present. Reported reasons for their absences included person- al or family medical issues, court dates or jail time, hangovers and oversleeping. Inconsistent at- tendance is common in the construction trades, and any functional crew must be in a position to negotiate the day's job with whoever is actually on the site. 3. This skid loader (usually called a "skip loader" on the jobsite) was not, in fact, a Bobcat, manufactured by the Melroe, Company. It was a Mustang 940, a product ofMustang Manufacturing. I use the term in its generic sense, in accordance with jobsite use, but capitalized to indicate its trademarked status. 4. The implicit nature of these decisions is highlighted by the unusual need for verbal instruc- tions when there is sufficient concrete poured to begin floating. Jay must begin running the float; running the chute is now a secondary job for him. Because the strategic placement of concrete is still an issue, however, he calls out his strategy for the pour to Dave, who has replaced him at the truck. 5. 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These costs of workplace injury increase every year and include more than dol- lars and cents. The National Safety Council also reported 4,900 unin- tentional work-related deaths and 3,700,000 disabling injuries in 2oo2 (48). Despite modern advances in occupational technology and in legis- lated regulation of occupational demands, risk still pervades the work- place. Workplace risk poses the greatest threat to blue-collar profession- als. In fact, exposure to risk could be thought of as a cultural marker that contributes to the construction of working-class ethos. The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics noted in 2003 that seven of the top ten pro- fessions reporting the most days away from work due to nonfatal occu- pational injuries were blue-collar professions.' That is not to say risks are not inherent across the categorical range of professions, especially considering the increased risk of tuberculosis to medical workers and homeless shelter assistants during the 199os (Field 95). Still, as Gegax, Gerking, and Schulze report, the cost of safety for white-collar work- 164 WORKPLACE RISK COMMUNICATION 165 ers and nonunionized employees is almost nonexistent compared to the cost of safety for blue-collar workers (595). For example, coal miners and construction workers often find long-term dis- ability insurance far more expensive than for workers in many other occupations (Braus 35). Likewise, chemicals and particles such as benzene, asbestos, and lead can induce greater risks of, respectively, leukemia, asbestosis, and destruction of reproductive capabilities (Beauchamp and Bowie 180). The comparatively greater risk confronting blue-collar workers includes not only cumulative effect but also catastrophic occurrence. Gegax, Gerking, and Schulze further report that cata- strophic risks for white-collar and nonunion workers are comparatively absent (595). Catastrophic risk for blue-collar employees is certainly apparent; Mazzola notes that personnel working on offshore platform installations face exposure to toxic, flammable gasses released from pipelines ruptured by dropped loads during crane activities (327). Certainly, working-class individuals and working- class communities regularly face potential physical harm and, in effect, financial harm across a broad range of frequency and magnitude. This prevalence of work- place risk, however, is not so apparent to employers, particularly when the pos- ited risks are cumulative. Consequently, the degree of risk assessed relative to specific workplace envi- ronments rarely achieves consensus, at least not without extensive negotiation. Burstyn and Kromhout's conclusion that road construction workers are exposed to risks from coal-tar materials, engine-exhaust fumes, and emissions from bi- tumen materials (653) is qualified by recognition that risks vary according to project, task, and most importantly, individual (662). A large quantity of data does not equate with consensus, either. Dawson and Alexeef, for example, draw upon the California Environmental Protection Agency's (Cal/EPA) multistage cohort study of carcinogenic effect that analyzed the age, employment, and mor- tality of fifty-six thousand railroad workers over twenty-two years (1). To explain, the presumed risk of lung cancer for workers exposed to diesel exhaust has been challenged for failing to establish the connection between exhaust exposure and lung cancer as one of "causality" (16). Yet another risk issue open for debate is the influence ofjob strain on cardiovascular disease in relation to individual vari- ables such as alcohol consumption, body mass, smoking habits, and level of ed- ucation (Landsbergis et al. too). As conclusions drawn through risk analysis are typically speculative, risk communication does not lack for rival hypotheses. The rival hypotheses contrasting the risk assessed by employers and employ- ees call attention to the centrality of risk communication in workplace culture. 166 LEW CACCIA Risk communication is most generally defined as the exchange of information and perspectives relating to risk issues.2 Risk communication has also been more specifically defined as providing "laypeople with the information they need to make informed, independent judgments about risks to health, safety, and the en- vironment" (Morgan et al. 4). As the ultimate purpose of risk communication is usually persuasion, risk communication can be examined as rhetorical activity. Rowan offers a rhetorical model for risk communication studies that assumes, "Risk communication situations are like all communication situations: they in- clude sources, receivers, messages, channels, and contexts" (402). Here's how Rowan's rhetorical model might be graphically represented: receivers channels sources This representation allows for the potential two-way flow of communication be- tween receivers and sources, as mediated by channels. The diagonal waves repre- sent the many layers of context, which are often difficult to identify and describe. Rowan's rhetorical model further assumes risk communication situations "are distinct only in their topic" and that these topics that are often controver- sial and technically difficult to understand. Therefore, risk communication is typically complicated by "feelings of suspicion, confusion, ignorance, disagree- ment, and apathy" (402). Focusing on risk communication situations at the level of channel, literate practices are central to rhetorical activity. In other words, if we are to define rhetoric as the use of language to influence the thoughts and ac- tions of one's audience, then we will find that literate practices in the workplace are being used to influence, even manipulate, perceptions of risk. Literate Practice and Workplace Rhetoric Workplace studies of written communication have identified literate prac- tices or, in some cases, the ascription of literate practices, as an agent of strati- fication between blue-collar workers and white-collar employees. Studying the interaction of text, genre, and political contexts within a large agricultural manu- facturing corporation, Winsor observes that the literate practices of blue-collar technicians were not perceived by managers to be as intense as the literate prac- tices of white-collar engineers. Noting that the technicians supplemented work WORKPLACE RISK COMMUNICATION 167 orders with other kinds of writing such as "service manuals, standard instruction sheets, marks on the parts, drawings, and even Polaroid photos" (174), Winsor ob- serves that the supplementary texts were confined to the technicians' work spaces while the work orders evolved into organizational record. Once the work orders are fulfilled, Winsor explains, "much of the knowledge-generating work that is unique to the technicians vanishes, and only the engineer's planning seems to remain" (176). Thus, "The social systems in which blue-collar workers function may be one of the factors that leads to their being considered less literate than are white-collar workers, because opportunities for and definitions of literacy reflect the work of the dominant group" (181). Because the work orders and the supple- mentary texts integrate the work of the technicians and engineers in the build- ing and testing of agricultural equipment, the stratified ascription of literate prac- tice observed by Winsor is not easily identified as a problem. Given the lack of obvious consequence, the stratification may thus be viewed as occurring at the level of the covert, but studies of workplace literacy also reveal stratification at the level of the overt. Examining workplace interactions contextualized by insti- tutional, social, and cultural practices, Hull observes that manufacturers in a Sili- con Valley electronics factory were inhibited in their ability to read and follow directions for labeling assembled circuit boards largely because of restricted ac- cess to global knowledge about the organization's manufacturing process. Given the obvious consequences of this restricted knowledge, Hull suggests employers "might do well to rethink their notions of workers' literate abilities and their un- derstanding of what workers need to know" ("What's in a Label?" 4o6). The po- tential reach of Hull's suggestion cannot be underestimated as yet other studies of literate practice in the workplace note stratification that occurs before the work- day even begins. Witnessing pre-employment stratification while observing the literate prac- tices of two working-class communities in the Piedmont Carolinas, Roadville and Trackton, Heath reports that applications for potential mill employees are filled out not by the applicants but by the personnel manager during the interview process (233). In reference to the post-hiring stage, Heath further notes that, be- yond space-labeling signs and bulletin board announcements, the mills offer "no need or direct incentive" for employees to "read and write more than they already do" (234). Bureaucratic literate practice is also observed by Kathryn Jones, who found that farmers in Wales were required to complete "animal movement forms" before selling their cattle at auction. These forms, according to the Ministry of Ag- riculture Fisheries and Food (MAFF), were required to help centralize agricultural 6 WILLIAM DEGENARO ternative Rhetorics challenge elitism by looking at alternative sources but eschew social class by neglecting working-class voices. Toward Working-Class Rhetorics My intention is to continue the essential intellectual work begun by the new and alternative rhetorics movements by foregrounding working-class conscious- ness in the context of rhetorical scholarship. Working-class rhetorics appropriate the histories of rhetorics for a social and political program; that is, confronting the elitism that has characterized educational, political, and civic institutions through- out the Western tradition. Working-class rhetorics explicate the class struggle as it exists in rhetorical texts, paying attention to what rhetors say regarding social class and attempting to situate the discourse of those rhetors in their contempo- rary contexts. In order to serve a transformative function, working-class rhetor- ics move beyond simply the close reading and contextualizing of canonical texts. Rather, inspired by the discursive activity of labor unions, for example, working- class rhetorics agitate and antagonize the static words on the pages of rhetorical texts and suggest contemporary scholars invent their own class-conscious read- ings of such texts. Working-class rhetorics try to understand open-admissions students at our colleges and universities. Working-class rhetorics analyze the me- dia and popular culture and consider how notions of class are circulated in the culture. Working-class rhetorics deconstruct literacy centers and workplaces, con- sidering the intersections of language, ideology, and social action. Most of all, per- haps, working-class rhetorics possess a certain consciousness-an awareness that class (and, by extension, class division and class conflict) exists. New Directions oflnquiry I hope this text will move rhetorical inquiry in new directions and empower more class-conscious scholars to theorize the intersections of rhetoric and so- cial class, to pursue historical-archival research in working-class settings, to con- duct ethnographic studies of working-class communities, to focus critical eyes on popular culture phenomena germane to working-class life, to conduct work- place studies, and to critique both academic and everyday institutions with class- conscious vigor. The chapters in this volume represent diverse methods and methodologies, just as the authors represent diverse disciplinary identities. The common bond, 168 LEW CACCIA production and marketing in the European Union (Jones 71). Suggesting docu- mented records and preserved information as "one dimension of surveillance and control," Jones contextualizes this bureaucratic management: "Historically, the practices of collecting, recording, and storing data about individuals have been almost exclusively mediated by written texts" (72). In addition to Heath's and Jones's examples of literate practices imposed toward authoritative ends, further inquiry reveals that literate practices increasingly complicate union activity. Studying the impact of sharply rising literacy standards, Deborah Brandt draws from an interview with Dwayne Lowery. As a water meter reader for a mu- nicipal utility department, Lowery began active union participation during the early 1970s and is now retired. After a training experience that included helping to organize sanitation workers in the West, Lowery was hired as a field staff rep- resentative for a union local near his state capital (53). During the early 1970s, as Brandt explains, "the union was growing in strength and influence, reflecting in part the exponential expansion in information workers and service providers within all branches of government" (53). According to Lowery, union representa- tives were, for a time, far more capable in the ways of negotiation than were em- ployer representatives. "'They were part-time people,"' Lowery explains, "'And they didn't know how to calculate. We got things in contracts that didn't cost them much at the time but were going to cost them a ton down the road"' (53). This competitive advantage at the bargaining table, however, was short- lived. "'Pretty soon,"' Lowery recalls, "'ninety percent of the people I was dealing with across the table were attorneys"' (54). This specialized upgrade of employer representatives forced changes in literate activity from both sides of the negoti- ating table, changes that Lowery believes to have severely reduced the power of workers. As Brandt explains: "[AIll activity became rendered in writing: the ex- hibit, the brief, the transcript, the letter, the appeal. Because briefs took longer to write, the wheels of justice took longer to turn. Delays in grievance hearings became routine, as lawyers and union reps alike asked hearing judges for exten- sions on their briefs. Things went, in Lowery's words, "'from quick, competent justice to expensive and long-term justice"' (54). In turn, unions started employing college graduates with heightened liter- acy credentials to negotiate on their behalf. Today, the demand for heightened literacy credentials continues to intensify. While working on a version of this chapter, I met a local prison guard named "Rupert."' Rupert had applied to a law school, and I asked him if he was hoping to become a lawyer. "No," he replied. Rupert then explained that he would like to work as a representative for prison employees-and felt he would need a legal background to keep up with the com- WORKPLACE RISK COMMUNICATION 169 plexities of communicating at the negotiating table. Both Dwayne and Rupert are confronted with a more specialized, "'legalistic' form of literacy" that results in an ongoing struggle for political dominance between employers and employ- ees (55). This ongoing struggle continues in the negotiation of both the assess- ment and management of workplace risk. Workplace Risk Assessment and Authorship One reach of literate practice in workplace risk communication is the ca- nonical power afforded to some risk documents. An example of canonized risk documents would be the series of statistical tables titled "Tenure with Current Employer of Wage and Salary Workers by Age, Sex, and Selected Age" periodi- cally published by the U.S. Department of Labor (Burmaster 205). Despite the absence of covariates beyond "gender, industry, and occupation" (205) as well as the lack of supplementary longitudinal studies, the tables are reviewed and cited by risk assessors who weigh occupational tenure when evaluating employee risk exposures (223). The consistent review and citation of subsequent editions of the tenure tables by risk assessors may be examples of the "institutionalized" and "authoritative" processes that Goody associates with "canonization," which he defines as "a highly generalized process that informs the whole of human cul- ture, involving the creation of custom and the invention of tradition" (119). From where does the authority and institutionalization of the tenure tables stem? Could the source be the fundamental physical properties of the written docu- ment? In other words, perhaps the verbatim transferability of written text and the rigid fixity of publication reinforce the prominence of the tenure tables. While the physical qualities of written text may help ascribe the power of a written tradition that spans multiple editions of tenure tables (Burmaster 205), the physical qualities do not offer complete explanation. After all, most educated people do not accept stories from the National Enquirer or its counterparts as truth despite the fact that the magazines also share the qualities of transferability and fixity. Thus, the review and citation of the tenure tables by risk assessors may be additionally motivated by an ethos composed of "exterior authority" (Amossy 3). Drawing from Bourdieu's skeptical view of the intrinsic power of language, Amossy clarifies, "discourse cannot be authoritative unless it is pronounced by the person legitimated to pronounce it in a legitimate situation, hence before legit- imate receivers" (3). This clarification is consistent with Rowan's rhetorical model of risk communication in which the communicative channel (i.e., Amossy's "dis- course") must appropriately interact with sources ("the person legitimated") and 170 LEW CACCIA receivers ("legitimate receivers") while successfully negotiating many layers of context (the "legitimate situation"). If we identify the Department of Labor as a plural person, perhaps the rhetorical power of the tenure tables can be ascribed to a perceived ethos of trust and credibility associated with a federal institution that has created the tenure tables for specific audiences and purposes. Documents assessing risk are constructed by more than explicitly written content. In other words, risk assessment is as much constructed by what is not included in a text. To this effect, literature reviews may provide the biggest gaps between inclusion and exclusion. The Occupational Safety and Health Asso- ciation (OSHA), for example, allegedly cited "fewer than loo of approximately 6,000 studies on ergonomics" in a document that argues for the existence of "a causal relationship between workplace risk factors and Repetitive Stress Inju- ries (RSIs)" ("Industry Challenges" 23). The issue of selection augments the role of authorship as the citations were criticized by industry-sponsored analysts as having been selected to support OSHA's position (23). To explain, critics took exception to the fact that over half of the citations did not include jobsite field research, and that only 65 percent of the citations considered possible nonoc- cupational causes of repetitive stress injuries (23). As advocates for and against an issue typically dispute each other's data-or else we would not have "argu- mentative" texts-the percentages used may not be as one-sided as claimed by critics. However, the criticism still underscores the importance of considering a text's methodological inclusion and exclusion of content. The criticism addition- ally highlights the importance of considering a text's degree of predisposition to- ward the interests of authorship and toward the interests of audience. Recogni- tion of omitted content further helps advocates on each side of a workplace risk issue remain cognizant of the rhetorical framework within which literate practice is embedded. Workplace Risk Assessment and Autonomous Practice Applying literate practice in risk assessment on a more autonomous level, Bell and Crumpton present a "fuzzy linguistic model" designed to assess the risk of carpal tunnel syndrome (CTS) in occupational settings, a risk they describe as "developing in epidemic proportions within our society" (759). Their linguistic model is designed to assess CTS through the use of questionnaires without direct contact with assessed employees. The use of the questionnaires for the predic- tion of CTS would be a literate practice that aligns more closely with what Brian Street describes as an "autonomous model of literacy," which represents liter- WORKPLACE RISK COMMUNICATION 171 acy as disconnected from social and material contexts (76). Given the contextual disconnectedness, why are autonomous models of risk assessment attempted? According to Street, proponents of the autonomous model argue that literacy "'facilitates' logic, rationality, objectivity, and rational thinking" (76). Bell and Crumpton justify their autonomous model as providing "a quantitative method for analysing vague and imprecise information while still permitting a sound ap- proach to problem evaluation" (760). The quantitative method offered by Bell and Crumpton was developed through a rigorous methodology. Specifically, Bell and Crumpton produced a "fuzzy linguistic model" by con- ducting a literature search, traditional interview analysis, and concept map- ping interview techniques to identify and classify risk factors (760-61). Bell and Crumpton's methodology also included an Analytic Hierarchy Process (AHP) in which experts ranked three categories of risk (task-related, personal, and organi- zational) and risk factors within each category.4 The experts then quantified the risk factors on a scale of 1-5, with 1 being minimal risk and 5 being very strong risk (761). Subsequently, seventeen participants ages twenty-four to seventy-two had their hands evaluated and diagnosed by an orthopedic hand surgeon as hav- ing or not having CTS (765-66). Questionnaires were then distributed to each participant and used to collect information on the three categories of risk and the six risk factors within each category, and the questionnaire responses were entered into Bell and Crumpton's linguistic model (766). Bell and Crumpton assert that the predictions of CTS based on the linguistic model are more accurate than predictions based on the carpal compression test, Phalen's test, vibrometry testing, or electroneurometry testing (767). They cau- tion, however, that more research involving larger and more varied study groups is needed. Nevertheless, the researchers believe that their study suggests the lin- guistic model could accurately "provide a prediction of CTS risk without the need to have direct contact with the [assessed] individual thus suggesting more objec- tivity" (768). Bell and Crumpton further argue, "The other techniques require personal contact with the [assessed] individual while the model has the ability to provide an output through an analysis of written and/or historical data" (768). These are questionable assertions that suggest Bell and Crumpton do not demon- strate an adequate understanding of the limits of literate practice. Recalling that the accuracy of the linguistic model was determined by comparing questionnaire responses to the findings from the orthopedic hand surgeon's evaluations and di- agnoses, can a linguistic model autonomously predict workplace risk without in some way eliminating employee-physician interaction as a point of reference? We might also query the ability of the questionnaires to help facilitate the 172 LEW CACCIA posited autonomy of the linguistic model by asking: How will the apparently uni- form questionnaires accommodate the different dialects and other various race, gender, and geographical contexts in which different respondents are embedded, differences further complicated by the evolutionary nature of language? Perhaps the potential autonomy of Bell and Crumpton's linguistic model would be more evident if Bell and Crumpton appended a copy of the questionnaire with their journal article. Workplace Risk Assessment across Temporal and Spatial Dimensions The negotiation of past, present, and future complicates both workplace risk assessment and workplace risk management. In response to arguments in favor of discounting the anticipated costs and budget allotments for future injury compen- sation, Price suggests that "cost-benefit analysis" is "invariably based on past ex- perience" (839); compensated injuries are based on present suffering rather than possible future suffering (840). Considering the importance of legal precedents and of case-by-case patient histories that can span across decades, it is easy to rec- ognize how past experience can be represented as indicative of present suffering. Literate practice plays a specific role in preserving past history and in connect- ing past history to that of the present, especially given the fallibility of verbatim memory. Price contends that discounting budgetary allotments for the compen- sation of future injuries is not advisable except when the "time period in which in- juries can happen is strictly limited" (846). This is an example of how texts might be contrasted with utterance. As Goody argues: "One feature of a text, as distinct from an utterance, is that people can return to it for support of particular atti- tudes or practices .... In such cases the text is in effect modifying the ideology or culture rather than the other way around" (lo). This recurrence of texts also demonstrates how literate practices further serve to link ideas and events distin- guished by the boundaries of time. The Workplace Risk Assessment and Control (WRAC) technique used by Liberty International Risk Services in Australia is a comprehensive plan of risk assessment and risk management that links ideas and events across not only temporal boundaries but also spatial boundaries, as the WRAC technique is ap- plied within multiple worksites. Literate practices are again inherent as the three phases of the WRAC technique are defined by a series of print documents. The first document is a "scoping document" that might include the assessment objec- WORKPLACE RISK COMMUNICATION 173 tive, the estimated time to conduct the assessment, permissible risk probability and consequence, and the predicted result of the WRAC project (Mansdorf 93). The construction of the scoping document is based largely on the development of two subcategories of documents: a list of recommended risk-reducing actions and a set of tables defining acceptable risk in terms of predicted probabilities and consequences (93). After becoming acquainted with the scoping document, the assessment team constructs a chart that ranks different hazard controls accord- ing to priority (96). The management reviews the prioritized charts and then composes an "action plan" to mitigate risks by the "most cost-effective" means (96). The WRAC technique was developed in both software and paper versions. The preponderance of literate practice in the WRAC process raises questions as to the true functions of the risk assessment and risk management procedures. First, the documents central to the WRAC are used in authoritative, institutional- ized ways that suggest a canonistic ethos. One of the most central documents is the "'five-by-five' risk ranking matrix" that ranks twenty-five probability-consequence combinations, with one being the highest-level risk and twenty-five being the lowest-level risk (93-94). Scores of sixteen to twenty-five are usually considered acceptable risk. Here are the categories-along with their respective alphabetical and numeric coding-of probabilities and consequences: Probabilities Consequences A Common or repeating occurrence 1 Fatality or permanent disability B Known to occur or has happened 2 Serious lost time, injury, or illness C Could occur 3 Moderate lost time, injury, or illness D Not likely to occur 4 Minor lost time, injury, or illness E Practically impossible 5 No lost time Source: Mandsdorf 93 Here is the tabular illustration of the "'five-by-five' risk-ranking matrix": Probabilities A B C D E 1 1 2 4 7 11 2 3 5 8 12 16 Consequences 3 6 9 13 17 20 4 10 14 18 21 23 5 15 19 22 24 25 Source: Mandsdorf 94 174 LEW CACCIA Used as a rule of thumb, the risk-ranking matrix can take on the role of canon. Subjectivity, however, is evident: employees or other people who are more op- posed to magnitude than frequency would not agree that a risk where fatality or permanent disability could occur (Ci on the chart) is more acceptable than a commonly occurring risk of serious lost time to injury or illness (A2 on the chart). Both of these ranked probability-consequence combinations are well within the range of unacceptable risk. However, if we examine the established borderline of acceptable and unacceptable risk-in other words, the line drawn between the fifteenth and sixteenth ranked combinations-not everybody would concur that a serious injury that is practically impossible (E2 on the chart) is more acceptable than a common occurrence that results in no lost time (As on the chart). Some risk assessors might be troubled by the fact that a serious injury that is practi- cally impossible is still possible. The subjectivity of the ranking is also evident as the matrix must be adapted to the unique characteristics across different indus- tries and even across worksites within each industry. In addition to the subjective qualities of the risk-ranking matrix developed by managers and engineers, the use of the matrix may additionally be inacces- sible to many blue-collar employees. Recent workplace studies by Winsor, Hull, Heath, Jones, and Brandt, among others, show that blue-collar employees are often not encouraged to engage in literate practices and are often not encour- aged to gain global knowledge about their employing organizations. These gaps of interclass interaction and the lack of employee accounts in the WRAC process further suggest that the matrix functions more as a form of workplace surveil- lance and control, perhaps to maintain the commercial interests of those who use this form of risk assessment and risk management. Workplace Risk Assessment and Probabilistic Technology Literate practice as rhetorical tool can sometimes serve in the development and testing of theory. Certainly, literate practices can help inform the engineering of risk management. Responding to the aforementioned threat of ruptured pipelines on offshore platform installations, Mazzola speculates that certain drop points and certain safety valve locations may lead to fewer accidents (328). This speculation is consistent with Norros's view of technology as "socially constructed" and "influ- enced by the choices of its users" (159). The significance of viewing technology as socially constructed is the sense of empowerment, the sense of human agency, that enable Mazzola and other researchers to explore solutions for mitigating risk. WORKPLACE RISK COMMUNICATION 175 Accordingly, Mazzola offers a probabilistic methodology that assesses risk through an algorithm performed by a computer program that weighs a variety of drop points and safety valve locations (336). On one level, the algorithm could not be performed without the literate practice of data preservation. On another level, the interdisciplinary considerations of physics, calculus, and computer sci- ence could not be applied without the recursive manipulation of literate prac- tice. Further embellishing the power of the written word, the recursive manip- ulation made possible by preserved data in turn allows risk assessors to aspire to a higher level "handling of difficulties" that "define the world of the possible" (Norros 160). In this case, Mazzola suggests the most risk-aversive approach- ing routes to platforms and the most risk-aversive safety valve positions by ex- tracting the routes and the positions from the world of the hypothetical. Mazzo- la's study can further be considered as part of what Norros describes as a larger trend "in the field of industrial safety," the "study of systems' functions from the point of view of their deviations" (161). As the deviations include many that are hypothetical, the study of system functions include literate practices that lend themselves to not only practical ends but theoretical means. Complications and Consequences of Workplace Risk Communication Certainly, workplace risk communication continues to be of legitimate, grow- ing concern. For evidence, one might recall the growing costs of workers' com- pensation, or take note of the fact that "half of this [twentieth] century's worst in- dustrial accidents (those killing more than 50 people) have occurred since 1977" (Rowan 391). Further, as organized labor continues to wield less power, working- class populations may be more attuned to the material realities of injuries in the workplace. Norros helps account for the growing reality of risk by placing the is- sue of cause-effect within the context of modern exponential technological pro- gression: "The more complex the system is, and the more flexibly it is expected to function in future use, the more difficult it is to predict and specify during de- sign" (159). Undoubtedly-and unfortunately-consequence often emerges as our most accessible tool for learning. The increased interest with risk issues is further underscored by the grow- ing concern with how compensation expenses can be limited. Atkinson lists nine recommendations to stem compensation costs, five pre-incident strategies and four post-incident strategies (49).1 Likewise, interdisciplinary panels have dis- 176 LEW CACCIA cussed the complications of the Workers' Compensation System (Wyman and Cats-Baril 145). Responses to the rising costs of compensation also include the increased articulation of rival hypotheses, such as the role of age in occupational injuries (Mitchell 8) and that susceptibility to airborne particles is as much if not more a variation based on individual constitution then it is a correlation relating to given occupations (Hattis et al. 585). Segments of blue-collar workers, however, fail to recognize the unity of their concerns. As Creighton and Hodson explain, "when technical workers do rebel, it is frequently not in solidarity with the working class, but against being treated as proletarians" (85). Complicating issues of authorship and ethos, craft techni- cians often make "attempts to regain middle-class status rather than [serve] as precursors to a leadership role in a new unified working class movement" (85). Indeed, risk communication becomes less accessible when those perceiving the risk are confused in their identity. This confusion ultimately undermines the ability for blue-collar workers to develop unified working-class tropes through which they can improve the conditions of their culture. Still, blue-collar workers will find support from scholars who offer several ar- guments against stratified literate practices. Gee, Hull, and Lankshear (as quoted in Pitt) argue that "'old' capitalist" work environments are giving way to a need to hire employees who can continually and flexibly "cope with change and new knowledge" in their occupation (Pitt 115). Recognizing current trends of staff re- ductions, extended workdays, decreased oversight, and ongoing technological change, Gee suggests that employees should expect to "collaboratively and in- teractively design and redesign their work process with a full knowledge of and overlap with each others' functions" (186). Hull argues point-blank: "Contrary to popular opinion, workers don't just need the 'basics'"; this argument recog- nizes the breadth and depth of ways workers must employ reading and writing processes to carry out occupational tasks ("Changing Work, Changing Literacy?" 204). Collectively, such arguments draw attention to how literate practices can serve as agents of integration, especially if employers are serious about progress- ing toward a global economy. Whether empowering employers or employees, the literate practices of work- place risk communication are at some level persuasive and thus rhetorical. Hence, when examining risk communication as an issue of literacy, we might frame the examination within Rowan's rhetorical model. Specifically, by considering writ- ten communication as a form of channel, we can consider literate practice as a deeper course through which competing concerns are navigated. WORKPLACE RISK COMMUNICATION 177 NOTES 1. The profession that reports the most days away from work due to nonfatal occupational injury is truck drivers. The remaining nine occupations, in order of rank beginning with the most days away from work, are nursing aides, nonconstruction laborers, construction laborers, janitors and cleaners, carpenters, assemblers, cooks, stock handlers and baggers, and registered nurses. 2. Examples of risk communication applicable to and abstracted from the workplace include mission statements of nuclear waste facilities, instructions for safe operating procedures at man- ufacturing plants, the surgeon general's warning on a pack of cigarettes, insurance policies, vital statistics, newspaper editorials debating the consequences of overseas military intervention, and the World Health Organization's (WHO) travel advisory concerning severe acute respiratory syndrome. 3. I am using a pseudonym to protect the privacy and professional well-being of the prison guard. 4. Specifically, the task-related risk factors are: awkward-joint posture, repetition, hand tool use, force, and task duration. The personal risk factors are: previous cumulative trauma disorders (CTDs), hobbies and habits, diabetes, thyroid problems, age, and arthritis. The organizational risk factors are: equipment, production rate/layout, ergonomics program, peer influence, train- ing, CTD level, awareness. 5. Briefly, the pre-incident strategies include: screening before hiring, careful selection of insurers, forming interdisciplinary workers' compensation teams, safety programs, and the use of wellness programs. Post-incident strategies include: proper treatment and diagnosing causality, allowing doctors to determine return to work, touching base with the injured, alternative work for injured employees. WORKS CITED Amossy, Ruth. "Ethos at the Crossroads of Disciplines: Rhetoric, Pragmatics, Sociology." Poetics Today 22 (2001): 1-23. Atkinson, William. "Nine Steps to Control Workers' Compensation Costs." Electrical World 213 (1999): 49. Barton, David, Mary Hamilton, and Roz Ivani', eds. Situated Literacies: Reading and Writing in Context. New York: Routledge, 2000. Beauchamp, Tom L., and Norman E. Bowie, eds. Ethical Theory and Business. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1993. Bell, Pamela McCauley, and Lesia Crumpton. "A Fuzzy Linguistic Model for the Prediction of Car- pal Tunnel Syndrome Risks in an Occupational Environment." IBM Journal of Research and Development 44 (2000): 759-69. Brandt, Deborah. Literacy in American Lives. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2001ool. Braus, Patricia. "Everyday Fears." American Demographics 16 (1994): 32-37. Burmaster, David. E. "Distributions of Total Job Tenure for Men and Women in Selected Indus- tries and Occupations in the United States, February 1996." Risk Analysis 20 (2000): 205-24. Burstyn, Igor, and Hans Kromhout. "Are the Members of a Paving Crew Uniformly Exposed to Bi- tumen Fume, Organic Vapor, and Benzo(a)pyrene?" Risk Analysis 20 (2000): 653-63. Creighton, Sean, and Randy Hodson. "Whose Side Are They On? Technical Workers and Man- WHAT ARE WORKING-CLASS RHETORICS? 7 I believe, is a working-class consciousness: an acknowledgment that class mat- ters and that working-class cultures and traditions can teach rhetoricians about language, discourse, and society. The first section, Toward a Working-Class Rhe- torical Tradition, contains contributions to ongoing disruptions of the homog- enous, fictional (to borrow Tom Miller's term) history of rhetoric. James Catano considers how various voices contribute to the "civic rhetoric" of heritage tourism sites. Judith Hoover and Anne Mattina examine the discursive strategies of gar- ment workers and miners, respectively, during periods of upheaval. Melissa Fi- esta turns to Jane Addams in order to theorize the complex role of commonplaces within working-class rhetorics. Finally, Anthony Esposito deconstructs memory and working-class identity by analyzing a steel museum in a de-industrialized Midwestern city. In Rhetorics of the Workplace, contributors continue looking toward non- traditional sites of academic inquiry: workplaces. Emily Plec enacts an activ- ist methodology as she considers how migrant farmworkers articulate material concerns such as economic justice and self-determination. Melanie Bailey Mills sketches the identity of the long-haul trucker by combining personal narrative, field research, and critiques of representations in popular culture. Dale Cyphert illuminates various "speech events" culled from her study of a concrete crew. Lew Caccia and Kristen Lucas provide new theoretical possibilities-risk communi- cation and problematized providing and protecting, respectively-for under- standing the rhetorics of the workplaces. Finally, in Rhetorical Critiques of Working-Class Pop Culture, contributors come to grips with a diverse set of popular representations of working-class life and culture. Catherine Chaput turns to reality television as an example of how the culture industries feminize popular understandings of working-class iden- tity. Kermit Campbell uses a scholarly exploration of Hip-hop to complicate the intersection of African American identity and working-class identity. Kathleen LeBesco claims that fatness is one of the key markers of working-class identity, arguing that Roseanne and Anna Nicole Smith embody challenges to our no- tions of citizenship and success. Lastly, Steve Martin analyzes a series of comic books published by the Congress of Industrial Organizations, looking at how the themes in the comics countered dominant cultural mythology. All of these contributors have a sharp eye on the practical uses of rhetori- cal analysis. While they direct our gaze toward fresh, even surprising sites of in- quiry, they also teach us why this inquiry is important. They demonstrate the value of locating archives and worksites and communities and textual represen- 178 LEW CACCIA agement Ideology." Between Craft and Science: Technical Work in U.S. Settings. Ed. Stephen R. Barley and Julian E. Orr. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1997. 82-loo00. Dawson, Stanley V., and George V. Alexeef. "Multi-stage Model Estimates of Lung Cancer Risk from Exposure to Diesel Exhaust, Based on a U.S. Railroad Worker Cohort." Risk Analysis 21 (2001): 1-18. Field, Marilyn J., ed. Tuberculosis in the Workplace. Washington, DC: National Academy Press, 2001. Gee, James Paul. "The New Literacy Studies: From 'Socially Situated' to the Work of the Social." Barton, Hamilton, and Ivani' 180-96. Gegax, Douglas, Shelby Gerking, and William Schulze. "Perceived Risk and the Marginal Value of Safety." Review ofEconomics and Statistics 73 (1991): 589-96. Goody, Jack. The Power of the Written Tradition. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2000. Hattis, Dale, et al. "Human Interindividual Variability in Susceptibility to Airborne Particles." Risk Analysis 21(2001): 585-99. Heath, Shirley Brice. Ways with Words: Language, Life, and Work in Communities and Classrooms. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1983. Hull, Glynda. "What's in a Label? Complicating Notions of the Skills-Poor Worker." Written Com- munication 16 (1999): 379-411. Hull, Glynda, et al. "Changing Work, Changing Literacy? A Study of Skill Requirements and De- velopment in a Traditional and Restructured Workplace." Berkeley: National Center for Re- search in Vocational Education and the National Center for the Study of Writing and Liter- acy, 1996. "Industry Challenges OSHA's Ergo Science." Occupational Hazards 58 (1996): 23-25. Jones, Kathryn. "Becoming Just Another Alphanumeric Code: Farmers' Encounters with the Lit- eracy and Discourse Practices of Agricultural Bureaucracy at the Livestock Auction." Barton, Hamilton, and Ivanic 70-90. Landsbergis, Paul A., et al. "Job Strain, Hypertension, and Cardiovascular Disease: Empirical Evidence, Methodological Issues, and Recommendations for Further Research." Organiza- tional Risk Factors for Job Stress. Ed. Steven Sauter and Lawrence R. Murphy. Washington, DC: American Psychological Association, 1995. 97-112. Mansdorf, Zack. "Risk Assessment: Focusing on the Operator." Occupational Hazards 59 (1997): 93-98. Mazzola, Allessandro. "A Probabilistic Methodology for the Assessment of Safety from Dropped Loads in Offshore Engineering." Risk Analysis 20 (2000): 327-37. Mitchell, Olivia. "The Relation of Age to Workplace Injuries." Monthly Labor Review 111 (1988): 8-13. Morgan, M. Granger, et al. Risk Communication: A Mental Models Approach. Cambridge: Cam- bridge UP, 2002. National Safety Council. Injury Facts, 2003 Edition. Itasca, IL: National Safety Council, 2003. Norros, Leena. "System Disturbances as Springboard for Development of Operators' Expertise." Cognition and Communication at Work. Ed. Yrji Engestr6m and David Middleton. Cam- bridge: Cambridge UP, 1996. 159-76. Pitt, Kathy. "Family Literacy: A Pedagogy for the Future?" Situated Literacies: Reading and Writing in Context. Barton, Hamilton, and Ivani' lo8-24. Price, Colin. "Discounting Compensation for Injuries." Risk Analysis 20 (2000): 839-49. Rowan, Katherine. "The Technical and Democratic Approaches to Risk Situations: Their Appeal, Limitations, and Rhetorical Alternative." Argumentation 11 (1994): 391-409. WORKPLACE RISK COMMUNICATION 179 "Rupert." Personal conversation. May 15, 2003. Street, Brian. V. Social Literacies: Critical Approaches to Literacy in Development, Ethnography, and Education. New York: Longman, 1995. UAW Local 2209. "General Motors Reduces Worker Injuries to Lowest for Carmakers." UAWLo- cal 2209 Home Page. November 11, 2003 . U.S. Department of Labor: Bureau of Labor Statistics. "Ten occupations with the largest number of cases." Case and Demographic Characteristics for Work-Related Injuries and Illnesses Involving Days awayfrom Work. 2001. November 20, 2003 . Winsor, Dorothy. "Ordering Work: Blue-collar Literacy and the Political Nature of Genre." Writ- ten Communication 17 (2000): 155-84. Wyman, Edwin, and William L. Cats-Baril. "Working It Out: Recommendations from a Multidis- ciplinary National Consensus Panel on Medical Problems in Workers' Compensation." Jour- nal of Occupational Medicine 36 (1994): 144-54. Kristen Lucas Problematized Providing and Protecting The Occupational Narrative of the Working Class n the summer of 2001, the House of Representatives held a special hearing to con- front the problems associated with "making ends meet." Speakers at the hearing addressed some of the most pressing issues, includ- ing health care, children living in poverty, and the long-term conse- quences of substandard income. They voiced concern regarding the dif- ficulties faced by many Americans as they struggle to provide a living for themselves and their families. The hearing was not a discussion of welfare and unemployment, however. The citizens for whom the speak- ers expressed concern were employed members of the working class. The daunting challenges of making ends meet can have serious im- plications for members of the working class, particularly in terms of dignity. The ability to provide is tied inextricably to personal dignity; threats to the ability to make ends meet are threats to dignity. For ex- ample, Riggs explains that, by and large, society imposes a mandate upon men that they fulfill the role of "breadwinner" by providing for their families financially (567). Due to societal pressures, the inability to fulfill breadwinner duties can have serious impacts on masculine identity for men (Buzzanell and Turner). Ongoing threats can dam- age self-esteem. In an examination of what constitutes a living wage, Glickman quotes a McDonald's worker who wanted a raise in the fed- eral minimum wage to ten dollars per hour. He explained, "A man can't have any self-respect for less than that" (xii). It is important to note that men are not alone. Women, too, take the role of providing 180 PROBLEMATIZED PROVIDING AND PROTECTING 181 seriously, particularly when they have sole responsibility for those duties. In the United States, 12.9 million households are run by single mothers (Simmons and O'Neill 2). Within African American communities, women often assume a cen- tral role of providing and protecting. Fine and Wies explain that a "roof over our heads and food in our stomachs" (162) is frequently a mantra of African Ameri- can women, regardless of their marital status. The material conditions of the working class that lead to difficulty in mak- ing ends meet (low wages, limited benefits, job instability) certainly are cause for concern. However, disregarding, discounting, or denying the struggle itself- whether in scholarship, policy debates, or daily discourse-is just as damaging. Zweig explains: "When society fails to acknowledge the existence and experience of working people it robs them of an articulate sense of themselves and their place in society. We know from the vibrancy of other identity movements that to silence and leave nameless a central aspect of a person's identity is to strip them of a measure of power over their lives. A full, realistic self-identity is a basic re- quirement for human dignity" (61). In this chapter, I give voice to and name a central aspect of membership in the working class in an effort to bolster a sense of dignity among its members. I argue that providing and protecting, particularly problematized providing and protecting, is a fundamental principle of working-class identity and organizing. As such, it surfaces in everyday rhetoric. Problematized Providing and Protecting The combined ideals of providing and protecting have a long history in the United States. During the colonial period, society held men responsible for pro- tecting their families from physical danger. Later, following the Industrial Rev- olution, providing financial resources became paramount (Pleck and Pleck 35- 39). In contemporary times, Townsend explains that men consider providing to be their most important role as fathers (53). Protecting children from physical and moral dangers is also important. Some means of protection include moving to "good" neighborhoods and sending children to "good" schools, which require financial investment. The fact that the protecting role often is fulfilled through providing demonstrates that the two are intertwined. Although the dual-ideal may be widely accepted-and imposed upon both men and women-Townsend contends that the ability to provide and protect differs between people according to social position (50). 182 KRISTEN LUCAS Despite the "taboo" nature of social class analysis in public discourse (Per- rucci and Wysong 44) and the dearth of attention paid to issues of materiality and class in rhetorical scholarship (Cloud 271), class remains a significant social marker that has associated with it distinct material conditions, namely, chal- lenges to members' ability to provide and protect. However, class-based strug- gles associated with providing and protecting seem to have become exclusively associated with and relegated to historical accounts of immigrant labor. Simply put, providing and protecting is something that is largely unacknowledged in contemporary times; struggles to provide and protect are considered to be ex- ceptions rather than the rules. Furthermore, general improvement in standards of living combined with widespread belief in a "classless society" have reinforced the ideology of meritocracy. Meritocracy is marked by a belief that success is due exclusively to hard work. Consequently, anyone who is unsuccessful is believed to have failed due to his or her lack of hard work. The thought that an individual is unable or struggling to provide and protect has become something of a private shame and personal deficiency that must be borne in silence instead of a mate- rial condition shared by an entire class. Within the middle class, providing and protecting is largely backgrounded in collective consciousness. That is, many Americans have become so assured in the adequacy and stability of their financial means that providing and protecting is no longer the sole-or even a mindful-concern. The assumption of provid- ing and protecting has enabled many employees to focus on fulfillment, intel- lectual stimulation, challenge, variety, social status, and accumulation of enough material wealth to provide luxuries beyond the bare necessities. Yet the luxury of assumed providing and protecting is not available to everyone, especially the working class. Working-class employees earn substantially less income and are less likely to receive employer-provided benefits like medical insurance or sick pay than their middle- and upper-class counterparts (Labor Force; Mishel, Bern- stein, and Schmitt 280-81). Furthermore, the working class is more prone to job outplacement due to mechanization, whether that is assembly-line robotics or bookkeeping computer software; more at risk for industry instability or elimi- nation as a result of foreign competition; more vulnerable to strikes and layoffs; and more likely to live paycheck-to-paycheck, carrying a heavy debt burden (Per- rucci and Wysong 27). Although not explicitly identified as such, the problems associated with pro- viding and protecting have undergirded recent scholarship on the working class. For example, Ehrenreich reported her experiences of taking a series of low-wage PROBLEMATIZED PROVIDING AND PROTECTING 183 jobs: waitress, nursing home dietary aide, hotel maid, house cleaner, and retail clerk. Her goal was to investigate if it was possible to "get by" in a low-wage job. After three earnest but failed attempts, Ehrenreich concluded that she simply could not get by, even though she typically worked more than one job and had to provide only for herself. Similarly, Newman conducted a two-year ethnogra- phy of three hundred people who either worked in a Harlem fast-food restau- rant or unsuccessfully sought work at the restaurant. Contrary to the popular stereotypes of "welfare queens" and "drug kings," most of the poor in Harlem wanted to work. However, in doing so, they exchanged one insufficient means of providing (i.e., welfare) for another (i.e., low-wage work). Even when work- ers pooled their earnings with resources from other members of the household, providing for the bare essentials remained a significant challenge. Moreover, low wages, combined with the high rents of New York City, forced workers to live in unsafe neighborhoods and increased the risks associated with everyday life (e.g., drugs, gangs, theft). In contrast to studying the working poor, Lamont examined blue-collar workers' discourses regarding the meaning of their work. She claimed that white and black men create ethics around which they construct their identities in such a way as to find dignity in their lives. Although there are some differences be- tween white and black men, common among them is a dedication to "providing for and protecting the family." Unlike their middle- and upper-class white-collar counterparts, whose family priorities are building college education funds and ensuring that their children became self-actualized adults, working-class men's conception of providing is one of "being able to keep necessity at bay, put food on the table, and maintain 'a roof over [our] heads"' (30). Identifying the chal- lenges of providing and protecting faced by the working class is in no way meant to diminish or disparage their abilities. On the contrary, many working-class people provide and protect quite well. Countless working-class families lead lives that are materially indistinguishable from middle-class families: they live in nice homes in decent neighborhoods, drive newer vehicles, go on family vacations, and send their sons and daughters to college. However, what makes them differ- ent from their middle-class counterparts is that they cannot-or in some cases do not-assume the ability to sustain this lifestyle to be stable. Regardless of their current financial means, for the working class, providing and protecting is never far from consciousness. Instead, they experience problematized providing and protecting. Problematized providing and protecting is a material reality characterized 184 KRISTEN LUCAS by the difficulties faced in having insufficient or unstable means for providing for and protecting one's self and family. The sources of problematized providing and protecting come from insufficient wages or lack of benefits, the instability of em- ployment in the industry or of the industry itself; or from the perception of insuf- ficient wages or unstable employment. Challenges to providing and protecting are ubiquitous in the lives of the working class and, consequently, are at the core of their daily discourses and occupational narratives. Miners' Occupational Narratives as Everyday Rhetoric Richardson maintains that people make sense of their lives through narrative and, as such, narrative is the best way to understand human experience (133). Par- ticularly among the working class, narrative is an important source of everyday rhetoric. Whereas members of the working class have access to other outlets- books, journals, corporate communications, radio, and television stations-their access is as consumers, not producers, of the content. In contrast, they are the creators and broadcasters of their own narratives, regardless of how limited their audiences may be. Therefore, rather than turning to (mis)representations of the working class in others' rhetoric, if we are to gain a rich, accurate understand- ing of the lived experiences and worldview of the working class, it is necessary to listen to workers' own voices and understand their accounts from their perspec- tives. I conducted a series of interviews in the spring of 2002 with retired under- ground iron ore miners from Michigan's upper peninsula. The thirteen partic- ipants ranged in age from forty-seven to eighty-six and their collective mining career spanned from 1938 until 2002. In total, I listened to and recorded more than seventeen hours of stories told by these miners. I isolated and transcribed discrete stories guided by Brown's criteria: sense of temporality, story gram- mar, relevance for membership, and ring of truth (165). I then performed an in- ductive thematic analysis to identify the primary themes in the miners' stories. Themes had to exhibit: recurrence, "same thread of meaning, even though dif- ferent wording indicated such a meaning"; repetition, "repetition of key words, phrases, or sentences"; and forcefulness, "vocal inflection, volume, or dramatic pauses which serve to stress and subordinate some utterances" (Owen 275). I contextualized the miners' stories with archival research, not to refute the truth of the men's stories, but instead to provide more detail regarding the material conditions in which their narrativized accounts were embedded.' PROBLEMATIZED PROVIDING AND PROTECTING 185 On the surface, the dramatic stories that follow paint vivid pictures of strong work ethics, deplorable working conditions, bloody accidents, and embittered la- bor struggles. The details of the stories raise important issues pertaining to organi- zational injustice and working-class meanings of work.2 Upon closer examination, these stories are all variations of the same tale, one of problematized providing and protecting. The narratives, which are different in their details, function in im- portant ways. On a microlevel, problematized providing and protecting is the cen- tral issue around which individuals form their identities and make individual de- cisions. On a macrolevel, it explains organizing patterns and collective decisions. The miners' stories and their functions are detailed below. I'm Just Trying to Feed My Family Ernie R. is a retired labor leader who was instrumental in the efforts that were eventually successful in unionizing the mines. The local union hall now bears his name. However, before he was drawn into a career with the United Steelworkers, he followed in the footsteps of his father and grandfather by working as an un- derground contract miner. Looking back on the years he spent working under- ground, Ernie R. told the following story about two coworkers whose determina- tion and never-give-up attitude made them heroes in his eyes: I can tell you another story about two Italians: John and Angelo. They worked next to us and they had hit a real hard seam of iron ore, called blue steel. It was blue and hard. And they were adjoining contract and we used to eat in the traveling road in between. So my dad and I-it was about 11, 11:30-so we were going to go over there. And they were drill- ing. So we were going to tell them to come and eat. And they were drilling and you could tell from the sound of the machine that they were in some hard ground. And it looked like a fog coming out of that machine. That mist. That oily. And their headlamp was just bouncing like a laser. You could tell they were vibrating. And we went there. And John, John was about six-foot-two, six-three and he had muscles that he even didn't know he had. And Angelo was shorter, but he was just as firm and chunky. And John put that ma- chine off and threw his hat on the ground. "Dio Cane!" [Italian for "God is a dog."] ... He looked up like that [glaring up at the ceiling and shaking his fist], he said, "Why you make this goddamned ground so hard?" he said. "I'm just trying to feed my family!" Angelo just shook his head. So we went to eat. And they were wringing wet. Pushing like that. Well, took ten, fifteen minutes to eat and we went back and you could hear them go drill- ing again. Then about 3:30 when we start going down the ladders to go down, you know, the holes were, you know, being detonated. And you always counted the holes. If you had twenty-six, twenty-eight holes, you tried to count to twenty-eight so you could tell the on- coming shift that they all went. That there are no missing. And John was counting, "One, two, three-." 186 KRISTEN LUCAS The miners' job was to extract ore from the ground by advancing "drifts," horizontal passages dug off of the main tunnel. Their task was achieved by com- pleting "rounds," a drilling-blasting-digging-setting routine. Each round required a pair of miners to drill twenty-one to twenty-eight 41/2-foot deep holes into the breast of the ore body and fill each hole with six to eight sticks of dynamite. The miners would then wire the dynamite, place blasting caps on each hole, and hook the explosives to a primer wire. When the preparation was complete, the miners would evacuate the immediate area to seek shelter from the blast twenty to thirty yards away and detonate the area. After the explosion, they would shovel the ore into mine cars and put up a timber or steel "set." A set consisted of two nine-foot legs placed on the sides of the blast opening to hold back the crumbling walls and a six-foot long cap that was placed on top of the legs to support the weight of the ceiling. In exchange for their labor, miners were paid an hourly base rate, called "company count." However, in order "to make money" beyond their humble base rate, miners had to exceed that quota of one round per eight-hour shift. Complet- ing one round (or more) per day was a challenge in and of itself, but when miners hit "blue steel," as did John and Angelo, it was even more daunting. Described as "diamond hard" and "hard, featureless, foreboding" (Etelamaki 41), blue steel was the term used by miners to refer to a mass of iron ore that had no seams or layers. Without the "cracks" found in other ores, it was difficult, if not impos- sible, to start drilling. Their jackhammer-like drills bounced across the smooth surface instead of drilling into the ore body. To further complicate the proc- ess, driving a drift required miners to drill forward (i.e., into a "wall") not down (i.e., into the "floor"). Not only were miners unable to use their body weight and force of gravity to assist them, they also had to support the weight of the seventy- pound machine, often drilling at levels above their shoulders, as the vibration of the drills caused muscles to fatigue quickly and arms to go numb. The vivid details that Ernie R. relays make plain the strong work ethic held by John and Angelo. His story also speaks to a reverence for toughness and beat- ing the odds. By the end of their shift, John and Angelo had persevered against the blue steel and had drilled and blasted all twenty-some holes, as evidenced by their counting of each successive detonation: "one, two, three-." However, what makes this a story of problematized providing and protecting is the motivation behind their actions. John and Angelo were not trying to prove they were better miners than other men, nor were they trying to impress a boss; rather, they were motivated by their need to provide for their families. Although his comment is PROBLEMATIZED PROVIDING AND PROTECTING 187 buried in the unfolding action, John shouts in exasperation, "I'm just trying to feed my family!" John and Angelo knew that if they were not able to finish the round they not only would be unable to work ahead, they would be unable to meet their quota. By the end of the pay period, they needed to complete more than the minimum number of rounds in order to earn enough money to provide for their families. Their base pay simply was not enough to make ends meet. In a similar context, Burawoy conducted an ethnography of a manufacturing organization in which he asked "why do workers work as hard as they do?" He discovered that the workers turned work into a game they called "making out." The goal of their game was to maximize incentive pay by exceeding quotas, while at the same time keeping production low enough that they would not hit a point of diminishing returns or risk having the quota adjusted to a higher level. From a Marxist perspective, making out directly contributed to the obscuring and se- curing of surplus value for the owners by transforming extra work into a form of play. Although John and Angelo did not attach a game moniker to their work, they, too, were making out. In order to earn their base pay, all they had to do was complete an average of one round per shift. Yet, they would not settle for a one-round average. Unquestionably, John and Angelo were operating in the best interests of the mine owners. Their additional labor reaped the company far more financial remuneration than they claimed for their own. Certainly, it can be claimed that John and Angelo, as well as all the other miners who strived to com- plete extra rounds, were falling prey to the hegemonic control of the company. However, in his analysis, Burawoy backgrounds workers' material reality be- yond the shop floor. He focuses on the surplus value generated for the company, but ignores the financial obligations of the workers. Admittedly, making out can be problematic if quotas are set at unrealistic levels such that the workers are not compensated fairly or workers are placed in harm's way to meet their quo- tas. However, when embedded within the socioeconomic context of the work- ers' lives outside of the jobsite, making out, working harder than others, or skip- ping lunch breaks simply may be necessary. Therefore, it is necessary to consider employees' full decision-making context before evaluating the quality of their decisions. I Don't Have a Dime in My Pocket Whereas problematized providing and protecting dictated how John and An- gelo responded in their day-to-day duties, it also guided decision making in more pivotal work choices. In an unrecorded interview, Jim, a seventy-one-year-old re- 8 WILLIAM DEGENARO tations pertinent to an understanding of the marker "working class." Rhetori- cians can expose scholarly audiences to working-class voices-voices that have much to say about literacy, culture, identity, equality, and democracy. In short, class-conscious rhetorical scholarship can allow working-class voices to partici- pate in important conversations. Furthermore, this "new" and "alternative" form of inquiry can shape the field in broad, bold ways. This potentiality for change is the subject of the concluding essay of this collection, in which Julie Lindquist, a leading scholar in ethnographic research methods, considers how working-class consciousness can lead the field(s) of rhetoric to new and exciting uses of meth- odologies derived from the social sciences. WORKS CITED Aristotle. On Rhetoric: A Theory of Civic Discourse. Trans. George Kennedy. New York and Oxford: Oxford UP, 1991. Balme, Maurice. "Attitudes to Work and Leisure in Ancient Greece." Greece & Rome 31 (1984): 140-52. Berlin, James. "Aristotle's Rhetoric in Context: Interpreting Historically." A Rhetoric of Doing: Es- says on Written Discourse in Honor ofJames Kinneavy. Ed. Stephen Witte, Neil Nakadate, and Roger Cherry. Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, 1992. 55-64. Enos, Theresa, and Stuart Brown, eds. Defining the New Rhetorics. Newbury Park, CA: Sage, 1992. -. Professing the New Rhetorics: A Sourcebook. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1994. Gray-Rosendale, Laura, and Sibylle Gruber, eds. Alternative Rhetorics: Challenges to the Rhetorical Tradition. Albany: State U of New York P, 2001ool. Leyden, W. von. Aristotle on Equality and Justice. London: Macmillan, 1985. Miller, Thomas P. "Reinventing Rhetorical Traditions." Learningfrom the Histories ofRhetoric: Es- says in Honor of Winifred Bryan Horner. Ed. Theresa Enos. Carbondale: Southern Illinois UP, 1993. 26-41. Wood, Ellen, and Neal Wood. Class Ideology and Ancient Political Theory: Socrates, Plato, and Aris- totle in Social Context. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1978. 188 KRISTEN LUCAS tiree, who as a young teenager lied about his age so that he could start working in the mines, told the story of how he responded to a major layoff he experienced as a relatively young man. In the late 1950s, miners across the region were out of work and hungry. Men with as many as seventeen years of seniority were los- ing their jobs in a layoff that lasted several years. As did many of his peers, Jim left his wife and child at home and headed west to find work. These journeys had brought miners to the copper mines of the Western Upper Peninsula of Michi- gan, the molybdenum mines of Colorado, the gold mines of California, and, last on everyone's list, the uranium mines of New Mexico. Uranium mines were no- torious for hazardous working conditions, particularly the health risks associ- ated with working in cramped, unventilated, radioactive underground mines. These mines proved so difficult to staff that an unprecedented incentive was of- fered-a lengthy paid vacation-after completing six months of work. The vaca- tion served as a recruiting tool and gave the workers time to cleanse their bodies and ready themselves for another stint. Jim recalled in vivid detail the day he arrived in New Mexico. After standing in line at the office, he and twelve other men were met by one of the bosses who gave them a glimpse into what work in the uranium mine would be like: "One of three things is going to happen to you," the boss explained. These things, which the boss presented with blunt pessimism, included diarrhea, permanent steril- ity, and cancer. Yet Jim continued through the employment process filling out paperwork and passing the company physical. By that afternoon, only Jim and one other man boarded the elevator that lowered them into the wet, radioactive bowels of the mine. When he stepped off the elevator, the boss turned around to see the other man still standing on the elevator shaking his head, refusing to get off. "What about you?" the boss asked Jim. Jim stared him in the eye and with steely resolve replied, "I gotta stay. I don't have a dime in my pocket. Show me where to go." Like John and Angelo, whose wages were insufficient to fulfill their need to provide and protect, Jim was experiencing the effects of an even wider-scale in- sufficiency. Industry-wide slowdowns were eliminating hundreds of jobs and there was simply not enough work available in the local community to absorb the losses and sustain unemployed workers. As such, with far fewer options available-in the local community and across the country as unemployed min- ers hungrily filled vacancies-miners became more willing to place themselves at risk for the few jobs that remained. Thomas contends that blue-collar careers dif- fer from white-collar careers in that they are characterized by constrained choice PROBLEMATIZED PROVIDING AND PROTECTING 189 (355-57). Constrained choice materializes itself in fewer advancement opportu- nities, less freedom to choose how to enact work, and-especially salient during periods of mass layoff-fewer employment options. However, constrained choice does not mean no choice, nor does it mean passivity. Clearly, Jim had several op- portunities to turn around and walk away from the uranium mine. He made the long journey to the mine during which he could have turned around at any time (and during which he presumably passed other places of potential employment), listened to and remembered in detail the boss's warnings about the health risks, and was asked again at the job site if he wanted to leave. Although he was given chances to go, he chose to stay. Jim held an instrumental attitude toward work, which Thomas claims is a common way that workers make sense of their lack of choice (369). For Jim, work was a means of providing for and protecting his fam- ily, a responsibility that was undoubtedly threatened as evidenced by his com- ment, "I don't have a dime in my pocket." When providing and protecting can be taken for granted, workers can value other ideals such as fulfillment, enjoyable work responsibilities, and advance- ment opportunities. In comparison, however, in a situation of problematized providing and protecting, working to earn an adequate income is paramount. Therefore, even basics such as personal safety and comfort are relegated to posi- tions of secondary importance. It is not that Jim wanted to work in the uranium mine or that he did not understand the risks portrayed by the boss. Rather, it was that he needed to work and the uranium mine provided a viable option-per- haps the only viable option at the time for an unemployed miner. Fortunately, by the time Jim finished his first stint, his wife had called to let him know that his hometown iron ore mines were hiring again. Jim used his paid vacation from the uranium company to finance his 1,8oo-mile trip back to his family. Although not as dramatic as Jim's story, working-class people in contempo- rary times are shouldering serious occupational hazards on the job. Zoller's re- search in an automotive manufacturing organization revealed that employees communicatively constructed norms and identities that socialized workers who had been injured on the job to let their injuries go unreported. A culture of blam- ing victims, combined with workers' desire not to be labeled as a whiner or a bad worker, created a culture that perpetuated health and safety risks, rather than one that pressed for workplace improvements. Like other literature on working- class organizations, Zoller largely dismisses conditions of workers' material re- ality. One employee explained, "but then I'm thinking I'm getting paid twice as much as at my other job ... there's nowhere else you're going to find that kind of 19o KRISTEN LUCAS money in this town, so I guess I accept that." Instead of positioning the worker's comment as evidence of a local economy characterized by problematized pro- viding and protecting, Zoller explains the remark as being representative of the employees' need to differentiate themselves from low-wage fast-food workers in town. She says, "employees were expected to trade their bodies for high pay and good benefits" and, when placing the comment in a politicized context, claims, "the bargain of physical health for money can be criticized for failing to contest the notion that a choice between the two must be made at all" (131). Regrettably, if the automotive plant truly is workers' only option for stable work, and there- fore their sole means for providing and protecting (a fast-food job would not raise a family above the poverty line), then, for some, a choice needs to be made. Trading long-term health risks for the relief of immediate threats to the ability to provide and protect frequently is the alternative chosen by the working class. It's Just a Way ofLife Not only do miners face health risks, they also risk serious injury. Debilitating and fatal accidents are commonplace. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics (Industry at a Glance), miners experience twenty-four thousand work-related non- fatal injuries and illnesses each year (four per one hundred miners). Additionally, workers in the mining industry experience the highest rate of death in any occu- pation. In 1999, twenty-three of every one hundred thousand miners were killed on the job (Labor Force 46). As shocking as these statistics are, they pale in com- parison to the risks associated with mining even a generation ago. Miners have long understood that "you can always mine safer, but you can never mine safely." William, a seventy-nine-year-old retiree who became a miner when he replaced the man on whose legs he placed tourniquets following an on-the-job accident, re- counted the following story about another gruesome accident which he helped to clean up: Well, me and my partner [were] mining in one drift and this other crew were in here and they were charging up. And, uh, I don't know what happened, but anyway there was a heck of an explosion. They had about two boxes of powder by their feet, anyway. And, uh, there was two drifts. They were twenty-five, thirty feet apart. And, uh, this one they had already mined. They had drilled all the holes. And they had a scraperman in there. That's all he'd done, just scrape that dirt. So he was here and [they] were here mining and they were charging these long holes. And whatever happened, I don't know, but what I think it was was the scraperman here had to blast. And, uh, he went and told these guys. They said, "go ahead, it won't bother us." And he set off his charge and it set off all these holes. PROBLEMATIZED PROVIDING AND PROTECTING 191 So me and my partner went in there after that. And all we did was pick up pieces of them guys. Yeah, we were afternoon shift that day. We were the first ones in there. When we started to walk in there, there was pieces of their belt and there was a pair of glasses. So we got in there and all there was was a pile of dirt. We had to stay overtime then and find the pieces. We didn't find much. Backbone against one set. And then, uh, a hand up on a set. That's about the worst, I guess. [long pause] Interesting. [Interviewer: Interesting? It sounds kind ofdangerous, too. ] Oh yeah, I suppose. It's just a way of life, that's all. The way of life to which William referred was one frequently marred by trag- edy. Although accidents were common, it still did not make them easy; it only conditioned the miners to realize that accidents were endurable. Ernie B., a fifty- seven-year-old retired miner, vocal union supporter, and survivor of a near-fatal mining accident himself, assisted with the cleanup of the same incident: And the guys underground that got blasted, they were, uh, um, they were like Jell-O. And you couldn't see 'em. You put your hand down there and you go through parts of their body with your hand, digging for 'em. [Interviewer: How did people respond after someone was killed?] The mining company themselves used to launch investigations into why it happened, how it happened, and what they could do to prevent it in the future. But um, as far as the men, [they] went on. You just went on with your daily work because the work had to get done. William's and Ernie B.'s responses were markedly similar, despite the fact that at the time of the accident, William was an "old-timer" with only a couple of years to go before retirement, while Ernie B. was the new kid on the block with only a few years on the job. Yet both of them accepted the fatal accident as a way of life and naturalized the danger associated with working in the mines. Whereas Ernie R.'s and Jim's stories were explicit regarding insufficient wages and the in- stability of employment and of the mining industry itself, William's and Ernie B.'s stories are much more implicit in their treatment of problematized provid- ing and protecting. Outsiders may be overwhelmed by the gory details of their stories and the matter-of-fact way they present them. Some may question their rationales for staying in the mines. However, the material conditions that sur- rounded the community were marked by limited employment options. Both men felt compelled to stay at the mines in order to provide for their families. What resulted was the development of incredible resilience. Resilience has received recent attention in organizational literature. For ex- ample, Coutu writes about people who are able to snap back when confronted 192 KRISTEN LUCAS with life's hardships. Truly resilient people, she argues, possess three unique qualities that allow them to survive when others cannot: they have a staunch ac- ceptance of reality, the ability to improvise under pressure, and a deeply held be- lief that life is meaningful. Coutu's three characteristics of resilience are evident in the miners' stories and work histories. First, they face the reality of their dan- gerous worksite on a daily basis. By the time most miners retire, they are wit- ness to someone-whether a partner, friend, or relative-being seriously injured or killed on the job. An acceptance of this grisly reality keeps them alert, and their mindful focus on their work prevents many potential accidents. Second, the miners are in a state of constant preparation for surviving if disaster should strike. This preparation allows them to exercise "ritualized ingenuity" when the situation calls for action, whether that is preventing or enduring tragic ac- cidents. Third, and most important in regard to providing and protecting, they find meaning in life beyond the drifts of the mine. For many of the miners, this meaning comes from their roles outside of work as spouses, parents, and friends. When tragedy strikes, they can pull themselves up by their bootstraps and focus their attention on the instrumental value of their work, for example, providing food, clothes, and decent homes for their families. Following the 2002 Somerset, Pennsylvania, incident in which nine coal miners were trapped in a flooded underground mine for seventy-seven hours, Lubrano interviewed workers from another mine regarding their responses and their reasons for mining. He attests to their resilience and their desire to provide and protect when he says, "miners think of the mortgage and their children's ed- ucation, the hook on their belts the numbered metal badge that will identify their bodies should disaster strike." One of the miners interviewed was even more ex- plicit. In response to an accident in which the roof of the coal mine collapsed on him, he shares: "I vowed I'd never go back down. But I couldn't find anything else, and I had to. It's that payday... But I guarantee you my 9-year-old son will never come down here" (16A). And We'llBoth Starve Together On an individual level, problematized providing and protecting functions as an underlying decision premise; the facts and values that enter into the decision- making process (Simon 23-24). The decisions made by the miners-how hard to work, how many health risks to expose themselves to, and how to respond after a crisis-might, on the surface or from another class ethic, make little or no sense. PROBLEMATIZED PROVIDING AND PROTECTING 193 That is, from an outsider's perspective that takes for granted the ability to provide and protect, the choices ofJohn, Angelo, Jim, William, and Ernie B. seem almost incomprehensible. Unquestionably, they placed themselves in danger on a daily basis. However, evaluating those decisions within a context that fully acknowl- edges their material reality reframes their decisions as logical and appropriate. Their stories collectively explain microlevel functions of occupational narra- tives in terms of working-class identity and individual behavior. Moreover, occu- pational narratives can serve macrolevel functions of working-class organizing. Ernie R. told a story of a local business owner who supported the miners during the lo4-day strike for union representation in 1946: Frank had a little grocery store. And in '46, there, Jack Stone,3 the superintendent, the general superintendent and manager, he called a meeting of the [local] business pro- fessional people. And the strike had been going on for [a long time]. He told them, he said, "the strike will end tomorrow. [pause-then whispering] If you guys just cut out the credit. Don't, don't give them no credit." For clothes, or for, you know for food, eh. In other words, freeze them back to work. And they said that Frank got up. And Frank got perfect broken English. And he got up and he called him Mr. Stocky [mocking Jack Stone's name]. He said, "Mr. Stocky, how, how often you big shots come in my store?" Stone couldn't answer that, 'cause everybody knew he never came in there. And Frank said, "I'll tell you one thing, Stocky, if Frank got one loaf of bread on the shelf, Frank and his family is gonna eat half of it. The other half is going to go to the miners on credit and we'll both starve together." In 1946, at the time of Frank's encounter, industries across the United States were adjusting production levels for a civilian economy, resulting in shutdowns, reduced working hours, and loss of take-home pay for workers (Paquette 1). As a result, a wave of strikes erupted across the country. From meat packing to min- ing, textiles, and assembly lines, more than 1.7 million blue-collar workers went on strike for better working conditions and compensation. The demand among the miners was an 18 1/2-cent per hour raise and recognition of the United Steel Workers as their collective bargaining unit. The requests and, more importantly, the strike itself were contested by the mining company and affiliated steel organ- izations. Company officials who were fighting adamantly against unionization had resorted to asking merchants to "freeze out"4 the miners. By not allowing miners to purchase on credit such necessities as food and clothes, they were hop- ing that the miners' resolve would break and they would go back to work with- out their demands being met by the company. When a company representative made this malicious request at a meeting of town merchants, Frank dramatically rejected their proposal. 194 KRISTEN LUCAS Although Frank is neither a miner nor a member of the working class, it is clear that this is a narrative about the challenges faced by miners in providing and protecting. Not only did Frank refuse to acquiesce to the company's demand, he demonstrated his willingness to endure hardship alongside the miners. Par- ticularly salient is Frank's statement, "and we'll both starve together." Frank ac- knowledged and accepted as his own the risks faced by the miners: hunger and blackballing. He protected the unionization movement by endangering his own ability to provide for his family by not yielding to the company's order. Providing and protecting is a principal source of motivation for labor move- ments in general and union organizing in particular. Historically, almost all un- ion demands are for further reassurances for providing and protecting. Health and safety improvements help to prevent injuries and illnesses that would leave people unable to work; collective bargaining power and formal grievance proce- dures prevent people from being arbitrarily terminated or disciplined; increased wages allow workers to earn a living wage or more; health insurance provides some protection from skyrocketing healthcare costs; death and disability insur- ance covers workers' ability to provide and protect should they become unable to work again. However, providing and protecting is also a significant tension among organi- zational members during labor movements. Unions work toward long-term guar- antees that can create an employment environment and compensation package that will allow members to be more confident in their ability to provide and pro- tect. Yet, pursuit of long-term guarantees often competes with short-term abili- ties. For example, in the mining community that was the focus of this study, it took a lo4-day strike and more than three months without a paycheck to get the United Steelworkers Union and its local bargaining units officially recognized by the mining company in 1946 (Paquette 1). Since that time, the miners have staged more than a dozen strikes, totaling more than four hundred strike days. Yet for every benefit that is gained from the strike, the striking workers rarely, if ever, recuperate their individual losses. One miner said of his lost wages, "You never made that back." As such, when short-term needs vie against long-term benefits-especially when workers believe that the wages are "good enough"- internal struggles can be very heated and threaten to divide the union and its members. However, the sacrifices that individuals make in hopes of getting long- term assurances, assurances from which they may never directly benefit, speak to the importance of problematized providing and protecting. PROBLEMATIZED PROVIDING AND PROTECTING 195 Moving from Cultural to Collective Narrative As Cloud attests, much research in rhetoric assumes a classless society and ig- nores the material reality of class inequality (271). Existing scholarship has tended to background or render invisible the material problems faced in providing and protecting in the working-class world. The literature that does address working- class issues largely focuses on perpetuation of class distinctions and impermeabil- ity of class boundaries (see, e.g., Willis). Perrucci and Wysong argue that mem- bers of the upper class (among whom they distinguish between the "super class" and "credentialed class") use their power and resources to preserve the economic, political, and cultural status quo (47). That is, through the upper class's control of the media and of political and public discourse, class analysis is marginalized, si- lenced, and sometimes distorted in order for those in power to maintain their po- sition of privilege. Although Perrucci and Wysong affirm that common class in- terests "have the potential to unite all members of the new working class in effort to promote changes that would reduce [inequality]" (33), they offer little hope and even fewer concrete suggestions as to how this can be accomplished. The material realities and everyday rhetorics experienced and expressed by a small group of working-class men serve to address some of the apparent gaps in the literature. Furthermore, through occupational narratives, working-class men and women can take action in the pursuit of greater class equality and improve- ments in the conditions of their material realities. Richardson contends that narrative is sociologically significant in that it has the power to both reflect and transform the social order. Specifically, she identifies two types of narratives that have particular salience for groups of people: cultural narratives are stories that are shared within a culture that serve to support the social world and maintain the status quo (128) and collective narratives are stories that challenge the status quo by recasting the accounts of those who are marginalized or disenfranchised by the cultural story (129). Occupational narratives, such as the ones shared by the miners, can operate as both cultural and collective narratives. Occupational narratives can serve as cultural narratives by providing an op- portunity for all members of a group to gain a general understanding of shared meanings and their relationship with each other and to the world. This can occur in a number of ways, including crossing generational boundaries and socializing organizational newcomers. For example, parents and grandparents tell stories to younger generations even before children are old enough to enter the workforce, thereby preconditioning them in terms of life and work expectations. In this re- 196 KRISTEN LUCAS spect, occupational narratives are an instrument of organizational osmosis-the "seemingly effortless adoption of the ideas, values, and culture of an organiza- tion on the basis of preexisting socialization experiences" (Gibson and Papa 79). Additionally, as people join specific organizational cultures or workgroups, oc- cupational narratives told by "old-timers" can be used as a way to manage mean- ing, frame organizational activities in terms of organizational values, and bond members together by presenting points of shared identity (Brown 163). Richard- son explains the significance of cultural narratives: "Stories of one's 'people'-as chosen or enslaved, conquerors or victims-as well as stories about one's nation, social class, gender, race, or occupation affect morale, aspirations, and personal life chances. They are not 'simply' stories, but are narratives which have real con- sequences for the fates of individuals, communities, and nations" (127-28). Occupational narratives also can be harnessed as collective narratives in or- der to effect positive change for the working class as a whole. Whereas cultural narratives support the status quo, collective narratives challenge it by recasting the stories of those who are marginalized or disenfranchised. Richardson ex- plains that even though collective narratives are told about a category of people, individuals respond to them by thinking, "That is my story. I am not alone" (129, emphasis in original). As such, collective stories serve to overcome isolation and alienation of individuals in contemporary life, galvanize members, create a col- lective consciousness (even among people who are not organized), and provide for the possibility for social action on behalf of the collective. Victims can be re- framed as survivors, and individual shortcomings in a system of meritocracy can be refrained as systemic power imbalances. A working-class story (e.g., John and Angelo's "blue steel" story) may fo- cus on the sacrifices made to provide and protect and thus turn protagonists into cultural heroes for assuming those risks. In contrast, that same narrative refrained as a collective story could be an admonition of a company-imposed pay system that privileges production over safety and jeopardizes the physical well-being of its employees. Viewed in this way, the narrative serves to lift the stigma and shame attached to the struggle to make ends meet, and those who identify with the story can find a dignified space for collective action. Likewise, Jim's story of accepting occupational hazards can bring necessary attention to health and safety concerns as well as encourage economic development initia- tives in communities heavily hit by industry instability. William and Ernie B.'s story of cleaning up after a mining explosion can address the organizational in- justices and dangers endured by working-class people. The story of Frank's com- PROBLEMATIZED PROVIDING AND PROTECTING 197 mitment to the strike efforts emphasizes the hope and possibility of middle- and upper-class allies assisting with the fight to improve the material conditions of the working class, whether that be through developing local programs or lobby- ing for federal policies. On a microlevel, problematized providing and protecting is a guiding princi- ple around which individuals form their identities and make individual decisions, such as working harder than they may need to, exposing themselves to health risks, and enduring hardships and injustices. On a macrolevel, it explains the de- mands for which organizers push and the debates that divide workers. Identifi- cation of problematized providing and protecting makes explicit an important underlying process that is essential for understanding and critiquing the contem- porary workplace. Naming the tension enables otherwise hidden working-class experiences to be foregrounded in future research and sheds new light on extant scholarship and theory. As Cloud explains, "the concepts of materiality and class are still crucial for our critical, theoretical, and activist work" (274). Most importantly, this analysis points to the potential for narratives of prob- lematized providing and protecting to be used for collective action that can make significant, material changes on behalf of the working class. The congressional hearing held in 2001 was a start in placing problems of providing and protecting on the national agenda. However, a single day of members of the privileged class discussing concerns of the working class is not enough. Government representa- tives' political speeches must be bolstered by everyday collective narratives shared by working-class people who understand firsthand the day-to-day struggles of making ends meet. Even though membership in the working class is characterized by a lack of economic, political, and cultural power (Zweig), there undeniably is power in numbers. When the working class is able to listen to a well-told collective story of problematized providing and protecting and say "that is my story, I am not alone," once silenced masses may finally be able to join voices in a concerted call for action. In collective narrative lies the power to change material reality. NOTES 1. My archival research included microfilm archives of the local newspaper dating back to the early 19oos, vertical files on union movements and mining disasters, special collections pub- lished by the local newspaper, historical books, mining company publications, a published min- er's autobiography (Ronn), photographs, and video documentaries. I also conducted a two-hour interview with a local mining historian who detailed the evolution of mining and safety in the re- gion. Part I Toward a Working-Class Rhetorical Tradition 198 KRISTEN LUCAS 2. For additional treatments of these miners' narratives, see Lucas (organizational justice) and Lucas and Buzzanell (blue-collar meanings of work). 3. Jack Stone is a pseudonym to protect the identity of the superintendent. All other names are real and used with the miners' written permission. Furthermore, eleven of the thirteen partici- pants permitted donation of their interview tapes and transcripts to the Central Upper Peninsula and Northern Michigan University Archives for preservation. 4. In June 1895, 1,300 miners from the Marquette Range went on strike for improved safety conditions, better wages, and union recognition (LaFond). By September, as winter was drawing near, the company needed the miners back to work. If the ore did not get shipped before the close of the shipping season, the company would not be able to generate any revenue until the following spring. In desperation, the company resorted to "freezing out" the miners. Company representatives demanded that local merchants stop issuing credit to miners and took horses to company houses to stomp out gardens miners had planted to help feed their families through the strike period. These tactics left miners without the ability to provide for the most basic needs of themselves and their families. Immediately following the destruction, miners voted to return to work without a union. The term "freeze them back to work" stuck. WORKS CITED Brown, Mary H. "Defining Stories in Organizations: Characteristics and Functions." Communica- tion Yearbook 13. Ed. James A. Anderson. Newbury Park, CA: Sage, 1990. 162-90. Burawoy, Michael. Manufacturing Consent: Changes in the Labor Process Under Monopoly Capital- ism. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1979. Buzzanell, Patrice. M., and Lynn H. Turner. 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Learning to Labor: How Working Class Kids Get Working ClassJobs. New York: Colum- bia UP, 1977. Zoller, Heather M. "Health on the Line: Identity and Disciplinary Control in Employee Occupa- tional Health and Safety Discourse." Journal of Applied Communication Research 31 (2003): 118-39. Zweig, Michael. The Working Class Majority: America's Best Kept Secret. Ithaca: ILR, 2ooo. Part III Rhetorical Critiques of Working-Class Pop Culture Catherine Chaput The Rhetorics of Reality TV and the Feminization of Working-Class Identity All mass culture is fundamentally adaptation. -Theodor W. Adorno, The Culture Industry 1 he hype surrounding reality television has elicited several predictable de- bates. Scholars dispute the origins of the genre; viewers inquire into the truth-value of reality TV; and critics lament the loss of tel- evision standards, suggesting that TV has become too sensational, too voyeuristic, too exploitative. With so much attention on the reception of reality TV, it is easy to forget that reality TV performs its spectacle within an increasingly globalized landscape. Reality television employs a prestigious group of knowledge workers whose services characterize the global marketplace. Critics, lawyers, and psychiatrists, for instance, have been recruited to assess, prevent, or determine the damage done to the individual psyches of participants on reality TV. Potential participants are screened prior to casting decisions, therapists are on set to work with cast members, and lawyers are asked to litigate on behalf of disgruntled participants. This collection of professional damage-control workers clearly suggests a concern over reality television's responsibility to its participants. Not surprisingly, then, reality TV has been problematized at the level of the individual, as critics assert the exploitation of par- ticipants or criticize individual producers who overextend acceptable boundaries. More often than not, the question of ethics, of responsibil- ity, is asked at the level of the individual rather than the social-avoid- 203 204 CATHERINE CHAPUT ing issues of ideology, class, and culture. Indeed, few try to understand the larger "reality" to which the genre responds or consider the "reality" these programs constitute. While the omission of this larger sociopolitical and economic context might be understandable given the decontextualized nature of most entertain- ment television, this context cannot be removed from a discourse proclaiming to represent slices of reality, however thin and however contrived. Attempting to fill this void, I examine how reality TV appropriates indi- vidual working-class lives in order to reproduce them or, in Theodor Adorno's words, "adapt" them into a necessary, wholesome, and transhistorical compo- nent of contemporary global society (Culture Industry 67). In a comparative anal- ysis of two apparently different shows, PBS's Manor House and ABC's Extreme Makeover, I argue that whatever the many differences between these programs, they both construct the working classes within a rhetoric of hard work, respect- ability, and family values. Specifically, these shows valorize individual workers and feminize the working classes within heteronormative roles, effectively con- taining working-class identity within the public and private needs of contempo- rary global capitalism. My argument is double. I demonstrate that the political economic upheaval of contemporary globalization replays a similar transforma- tion that took place in the 1950s; I then contend that the 1950s values surround- ing the heteronormative family are being strategically recuperated and rearticu- lated with working-class communities vis-a-vis reality television programming in order to help these political and economic changes appear more acceptable. Produced by public television, Manor House explicitly attempts to teach viewers about classed society in early twentieth-century England. Laced with nostalgia for a more structured society, this series serves several other educa- tional functions. It argues that working-class labor in the pre-World War I era is a noble and lost art that deserves a respectable position in history's archive. It also assumes that contemporary society, unlike Edwardian society, is not rig- idly classed. Viewers, it implies, can learn something from this class system: that acquiescence to one's position in life to a great extent determines one's rewards. Not unrelated to this sentiment, Extreme Makeover-a show that recruits prima- rily working-class contestants for a six-week series of surgeries, physical training, and beauty tips-characterizes its participants as selfless members of society who have not had time to take care of themselves. Extreme Makeover constructs its working-class participants as morally upstanding because they occupy an un- selfish, almost altruistic, position within the heteronormative familial structure. Contestants deserve this makeover as a token of appreciation. Both television THE RHETORICS OF REALITY TV 205 programs use the lens of reality to adapt working-class identity within the gen- der and sexual politics publicly espoused by the 1950s, returning society to the values of the programming that first laid the seeds for contemporary reality tel- evision. A review of U.S. society in the 1950s reveals political, economic, and so- cial unrest reminiscent of contemporary society as well as a televisual solution that defines the heteronormative family as the seat of stability. Recuperating the 1950os Televisual Family in Twenty-First-Century Reality TV The 1950s was a decade of considerable contradictions-contradictions that repeat themselves in our own world. Unprecedented historical changes took place. The Cold War accelerated fear and antagonism, women became more ac- tive in the workforce, more members of the working class began obtaining higher education, and people of color challenged racial hierarchies. The volatility of these social and cultural spheres often overshadows the dramatic alterations tak- ing place in the productive sphere. According to Harry Braverman's Labor and Monopoly Capital, clerical work in the 1950s was adjusting to the Fordist method that factories had already adopted. Computers and automated devices rede- signed the office, eliminating many jobs and deskilling others. Consequently, Braverman writes, "the machine-pacing of work becomes increasingly available to office management as a weapon of control" (230). By the 1950s machines were able to set the pace of workers and record the amount of work performed by each data processor. Yet no matter how fast and how efficient an individual was, the office worker rarely moved beyond this mind-numbing job.' Clerical work re- cruited women to the workforce at the same time that it contained them within this properly subservient place. A special report issued by the American Man- agement Association in 1956 stated that its members "don't want people to take data-processing jobs as stepping stones to other jobs. [They] want permanent employees capable of doing good work and satisfied to stay and do it" (113). Jobs were opening up; but like today's workplace, there was little choice, mobility, or job security under this new regime of efficiency and surveillance. Indeed, histo- rian Eric Frederick Goldman argues that the changes in the 1950s were "more swift and sweeping than any previous generation of American had known" (484). As much as these changes redefined the national sphere, they affected interna- tional politics even more profoundly. Foreign policy needed to come to terms with the spread of communism and 206 CATHERINE CHAPUT the struggle to influence the direction of newly independent nation-states across the globe. Michael H. Hunt, historian of U.S. foreign policy, concludes: "the long-term strategy of development combined with the pressing requirements of containment to shape American policy toward the Third World" during the 1950s and after (164). The United States provided capital and corporate contracts to the so-called Third World as a means of developing their technological and productive spheres. The acceleration of capitalist development, it was believed, would help keep potential communist revolutions at bay. Cultural theorist Ray- mond Williams asserts that television was critical to this development. Because television could nationalize a culture-shape diverse people into a more or less unified group-it could help determine the values around which that culture so- lidified. For this reason, Williams contends that "In the whole non-communist world the determining factor in broadcasting development, since the 1950s, has been the expansion of the American communications system. This has to be un- derstood in two related stages: the formation, in the United States, of a complex military, political and industrial communications system; and then, in direct relation to this, the operation of this system to penetrate the broadcasting sys- tems of all other available states" (39). The production of broadcasting capabili- ties provided an economic boost, and the content of broadcast television helped unify diverse nation-states around consumer capitalism and against commu- nism. Against all the social, political, and economic turmoil that much of the world experienced in the 1950s, many of the dominant television images of the decade emphasized strong nuclear families, stable jobs, and a clear division of labor. Power, in this televisual world, was based on one's position within the family. Occasionally, on shows like I Love Lucy, a loveable housewife would try to work outside the home. The folly of that idea, however, would provide both laughs and a quick return to traditional roles. Reality TV, in its nascent form then, also ex- plored this traditional family. Game shows from the 1950s, such as Queen for a Day or Strike it Rich, searched for the most depressing stories of economic strug- gle in order to reward one working-class person-almost always a woman-for remaining strong amid hardships. Most of these struggles were related to her duties as a wife, mother, and daughter. Consequently, she won prizes that were equally gendered: refrigerators, washing machines, and roses (Brown 347-48). Similarly, documentaries, like Britain's The Family, took place in working-class neighborhoods and explored the inner workings and everyday experiences of family life. These families drew strength from a heteronormative structure even THE RHETORICS OF REALITY TV 207 when struggling with larger economic and social issues. British television pro- ducer Bernard Clark explains that the working classes were thought to be "nat- ural on camera-essentially less stuffy than the mannered middle-classes" (9). In some ways, then, television resolved the era's anxieties by broadcasting life- like comedies, game shows, and documentaries that all depicted the family as an enduring structure in a changing world. No doubt, the history of television remembers the 1950s as the decade that depicted a world ordered and strength- ened around the family. Blending these genres, many current reality programs show alternatives to this enshrined heteronormative family structure. Dating shows and daytime talk shows illustrate a spectrum of sexualities ranging from heterosexual monogamy to nonmonogamous and polyamorous relationships among heterosexual, ho- mosexual, bisexual, or transsexual participants. Reality television and its confes- sional format rely on the diversity of experiences to maintain viewer interest. Re- gardless of whether viewers identify with the participants or use them to reaffirm their position within the realms of normalcy, people enjoy viewing the range of sexualities and relationship practices disclosed. The struggle to enforce normal sexual practices plays itself out on other reality-based media where so-called "de- viant" practices are discussed, endorsed, or criticized by participants, experts, audience members, and home viewers.2 This discussion of identities and inti- mate sexual practices takes place, according to Patricia Joyner Priest's ground- breaking study of talk show participants, among "those with the least power in society who are seldom singled out for representation" (187). Priest believes that those with the least power in society may turn to the talk show circuit because they are more likely than others to find the media attention affirming of their sense of self-worth. Contrary to the talk show genre, reality television does not appear to prey on difference as much as it valorizes differences. Shows like MTV's The Real World or Bravo's Queer Eyefor the Straight Guy cast queer participants and advocate a queer aesthetic. Nonetheless, these differences are assigned static identifying mark- ers and often are used to support traditional heterosexual roles. The gay men on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, for instance, teach straight men how to be more appropriately heterosexual-how to dress, groom, design, and host their ways into women's hearts. Male insecurities, fears, and differences can all be solved by more normalized gender performances within a classed consumer aesthetic. This includes carefully decorating one's house, serving appropriate foods, and adorning one's body with the latest fashions. The problem, say cultural and me- 208 CATHERINE CHAPUT dia scholars like Jon Dovey and Kevin Glynn, is that while these individual dif- ferences provide entertainment for audiences, they are also used to redirect in- dividuals and their behaviors within the sphere of hegemonic practices. In other words, trends toward alternative sexual and gendered practices on reality-based television, whether talk shows, reality TV dramas, or reality TV contests, add fuel to the process of normalizing subjectivity within traditionally gendered and heterosexual practices. Reality-based television participates in a project to ensure hegemonic values by carving out a space for alterity only to engage such differ- ence in a process of normalization. These shows serve the same ideological function as their 1950s counterparts. Contemporary televisual imaging responds to the limitations of earlier TV, but is nonetheless trapped within a house of mirrors in which all television repro- duces programming that has come before it. In a move not unlike contemporary Baudrillardian theory, Adorno suggested, "with the liquidation of its opposition to empirical reality art assumes a parasitic character. Inasmuch as it now appears itself as reality, which is supposed to stand in for the reality out there, it tends to relate back to culture as its own object" (Culture Industry 65). Reality television references versions of reality but cannot, by the logic that has eliminated the bi- nary of empirical reality opposed to representations of that reality, access or even reference any ontology a priori. There are several conclusions that can be drawn from Adorno's insights and applied to the nontraditional sexual and familial rep- resentations that proliferate on reality TV shows. One might suggest that this tel- evision attempts to counter earlier idealized representations, or one might argue that it attempts to appeal to different audiences invented by the global market- place. One could even surmise that the plethora of gender and sexual practices depicted on reality TV serve as a foil against which to return to the normative, heterosexual family, clearing a space for several reality television shows that de- pict the 1950s family values so frequently discussed in the political rhetorics of both George H. W. Bush and George W. Bush. Like the 1950s, the contemporary workforce is changing, becoming more sat- urated with women, more internationalized, more flexible, and less secure. So- cial structures are changing: migration, travel, and integration precipitate the hy- bridization of culture while transnational corporations sell nearly homogenous products to niche markets across the globe. Repeating some of the same politi- cal economic struggles of the Cold War, the U.S. is now at the forefront of what Gaytri Spivak frequently labels "hot peace," Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri call the age of "Empire," and scholars of all stripes have called the era of globali- THE RHETORICS OF REALITY TV 209 zation. Although the political and economic transitions of globalization have been studied from many perspectives and through various disciplinary lenses, there are at least a handful of critical points that continually reoccur. Many peo- ple are concerned with changes in the workplace-increased use of overseas la- bor, decreased job security, increased hours, and decreased pay (Moody). Critics also fear the growing strength of transnational corporations and their alliance with supranational organizations like the World Bank, the World Trade Organi- zation, and the International Monetary Fund (Anderson; Khor). Another focus has been the accelerated speed with which people, goods, and ideas move across great distances and transgress national bounders (Harvey; Jameson; Sassen). All three of these characteristics are aided by the use of digital technologies, which enable communication between family members who travel for work, corpora- tions that monitor consumer behavior, and venture capitalists who calculate pre- cise financial flows down to the microsecond (Tabb 167-68). Digital technologies have globalized communication in the same way that the ability to record and broadcast materials nationalized culture in the 1950s. The sweeping changes of each decade have helped mediate the heteronorma- tive family as the grounding center within an otherwise rapidly changing world. Of course, reality television shows that focus on or invoke the family and heter- osexual marriage-The Family, The Osbournes, Joe Millionaire, The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, For Love or Money, Who Wants to Marry My Dad?-symbolically work out complicated social, political, and economic ruptures. But such resolutions do not easily transfer to a content and passive viewing public. Neither the partici- pants nor their audiences are so naive as to think they are not being exploited and manipulated (Priest; Ang). Cognizant of television's explicit and implicit manipu- lations, viewers nonetheless tune in for entertainment, escape, and identification. For instance, the focus on the heterosexual family amuses, diverts, and helps the audience identify with a program. While this sounds fairly benign, TV program- ming also sets up the parameters of how individuals imagine dealing with real-life situations that resemble on-screen representations. Williams argues that media does not determine behavior by demanding the replication of television within the real, but does determine the "limits and [exerts the pressures] within which variable social practices are profoundly affected but never necessarily control- led" (130). By focusing on the heteronormative family, reality television circum- scribes normative behavior within the domain of state- and religion-sanctioned relations, implicitly reinforcing the power of the state and its institutional appara- tuses. These representations ultimately support a state that encourages corpora- 210 CATHERINE CHAPUT tions to sell to individualized viewing audiences but does not extend state benefits to those same demographics. In other words, the heteronormative family functions as what Kenneth Burke, in A Grammar of Motives, calls a "representative anecdote." For Burke, a repre- sentative anecdote is a central concept discursively promoted as a means of uni- fying society within a specifically delimited set of acceptable practices. Because the representative anecdote is a trope that the critic discovers in order to explain the connections between textuality and materiality, the discourse does not need to explicitly state the representative anecdote as its central motive. The traditional family works as a representative anecdote because it simplifies a broad and di- verse set of television practices at the same time that it invites complex and nu- anced readings (59-60). Barry Brummett argues that Burke's methodology ap- plies particularly well to media studies. Brummett suggests that such a method "resonates with the anecdotal, representative, dramatic form of the media, and because the content carried by that form is used by millions as equipment for liv- ing, a function to which the method of the anecdotal is especially well attuned. The representative anecdote is therefore a method that taps what a culture most deeply fears and hopes, and how that culture confronts those concerns symboli- cally" (483). He does not suggest that these hopes and fears are resolved, but that they are worked into representative anecdotes that readily and immediately in- voke a series of ideas, examples, histories, and values. Representative anecdotes set the boundaries that profoundly affect, but never necessarily determine, social behavior. An examination of reality television's recuperation of one of the most stable institutions, the heteronormative family, will reveal the struggle to main- tain stability within a changing world where various identity groups fight for ma- terial resources such as access to a marriage license, extension of medical or pen- sion benefits, and legal parental rights, to name only a few. Heteronormative Family Values and the Feminization of the Working Classes Extreme Makeover, an entertainment show that chooses two contestants each week to receive plastic surgery and other cosmetic updates, and Manor House, a historically focused show that dramatizes life in Edwardian England by chroni- cling participants as they role-play over a several-week period, are certainly an unlikely duo for a representative anecdote about feminization and the heter- onormative family. While many viewers read Extreme Makeover as an extended THE RHETORICS OF REALITY TV 211 advertisement for surgeons, dentists, designers, stylists, makeup artists, and per- sonal trainers, Manor House also promotes a capitalist political economy, which is shown to provide freedom, choice, and opportunity in both the productive and consumptive spheres. Indeed communications scholar David Sholle argues that reality-based television's ability to "call forth a type of popular response and interaction at the same time [it] propose[s] institutionalized normalization as the solution [. . .] pushes toward the total commodification of the television en- vironment" (57). Taking the commodification of all television-public and pri- vate, network and cable, entertainment and educational-as a given, it is easier to see how these two different programs offer an ideological picture that reso- nates with the political and personal politics of the 1950s. Extreme Makeover and Manor House set the limits and establish the boundaries of working-class culture within the confines of a heteronormative familial structure that works to ensure the constant reproduction of capitalism. This notion of "family" reestablishes the centrality of heteronormative values, including patriarchal authority and ma- triarchal caretaking, to demonstrate that the family, rather than the state or cor- porate America, has responsibility for the health and well-being of individuals. Because family functions as the nexus of individual and collective responsibility, one's value can be measured by how well he or she can defer self-interest to the interests not of the society in general but of the family in particular. Individuals on these shows are valued to the extent that they exhibit selflessness, hard work, and an ability to follow orders. I call this valuation the feminization of the work- ing class. I do not mean to imply that the working class is primarily female (al- though low-paying service jobs that currently make up the lower rung of the job market are predominantly filled with women, and these shows tend to overrep- resent women as well as women's issues). Instead, I mean that the shows depict the working classes with attributes traditionally engendered female: caretaking, housekeeping, subservience, and emotion. Solidly positioned within a mainstream lineup, Extreme Makeover and its par- ticipants maintain traditional family norms and the value of a feminized subjec- tivity. After the initial special episode of Extreme Makeover, a regular series of five episodes followed. Of the ten participants in the show's first season, eight were women and two were men. Four were married, one was engaged to be married, one was recently widowed after a long period of caring for her disabled husband, and one was a single mother of three. The three single contestants had strong ties to their immediate family. In lieu of marital partners and children, Extreme Makeover interviewed the siblings and the parents of these participants. Regard- 212 CATHERINE CHAPUT less of marital status, participants all represented a strong traditional family structure. Not a single participant or family member was identified with a non- traditional partnership. No one seemed to embrace a polyamorous, nonmonog- amous, or nonheterosexual relationship; no one appeared to live with a partner outside of marriage. The desire to attract a family audience is underscored by the commercial advertisements, which focus on self-improvement products, home products, and family entertainment.3 Further representative of Extreme Makeo- ver's position within its larger televisual flow during this first season are the other fall 2003 programs that ABC aired throughout the week-comedies and reality shows-as well as the rest of the Thursday night lineup, which included a fam- ily drama about national security and the news show Primetime Thursday. Bound within the normalcy of mainstream television, participant obsequiousness helps counter the program's nontraditional venue. Extreme Makeover participants are asked to assume, or simply narrated into, a feminized role. Certainly, participants are chosen because they have noticeable facial and bodily marks that can be refashioned. A contestant with sagging skin, a rounded nose, glasses, and poor teeth is ideal because these are all signifiers whose alteration will help the contestant appear different. But more than these visible markers, the contestant needs to demonstrate his or her worthiness of a makeover-worthiness determined by the ability to exhibit sufficiently feminine behavior. For instance, the participants in Extreme Makeover often discuss pain- ful childhood experiences or reflect on the shame they feel about their current physical appearance. This emotional baggage inevitably boils to the top and the contestant begins crying either immediately before or just after Extreme Makeo- ver reveals that he or she has been selected to participate in the show. In addi- tion to tears, participants display other attributes that traditionally have been assigned to women, such as passivity, childcare, service work, a feeling of being lucky rather than deserving, and a history of dedicating oneself to others. Con- testants are homemakers who care for their children or their disabled husbands; they work in hair salons, flower shops, and bakeries. They are reluctant to look straight into the camera and they all seem to believe that the plastic surgeon "re- ally wants what's best for you."4 Those who willingly submit to this makeover experience must acknowledge that others-more educated, more attractive, wealthier others-not only know what is best for them, but are the only ones with the power to direct their lives on to that better route. Similarly, participants who agreed to be servants on Manor House are asked to step into a role-playing experiment in which they give up their power to the THE RHETORICS OF REALITY TV 213 hierarchical structure dominated by others and outlined in rulebooks. John and Anna Olliff-Cooper, their two sons Jonathon and Guy, and Anna's sister, Avril Anson, form the aristocratic family; they are served by fourteen men and women. The key to the show is that the family has the authority to interpret that rulebook anyway it sees fit. The contestants in both shows must assume posi- tions of power not unlike those who volunteered for in the infamous Stanford Prison Experiment of 1970, where participants were divided into prisoners and prison guards and asked to act according to those roles.' Just as participants in the prison experiment stated "it was hard to separate reality from the simula- tion," Manor House producers say that participants "at the start of the project were inclined to behave as modern day people, and rebel against the system, but as time drew on they adjusted to it" (Manor House: About the Series-Frequently Asked Questions). Those who were assigned the guard roles in the Stanford study insist that they had to exert their power and authority in order to remain true to the experiment in the same way that Sir John argues that showing more kind- ness to his staff would have watered down and devalued the experience. Yet those assigned to play the prisoners in the Stanford experiment, like the servants on Manor House, generally resent their treatment. One prisoner in the Stanford ex- periment recalled, "the person I was before was distanced from me until I be- came completely someone else." While this feeling of being distanced from one- self dissipated after the experiment ended, the feeling of having been violated did not. Participants in both role-playing experiments were violated to the extent that they were positioned within a subservient role and required to live under the aegis of external authorities. The feminized roles of prisoner and of low-wage worker both reproduce the working class through female gender signification. The entire staff of Manor House becomes feminized through this kind of en- forced servitude. All staff members must follow the rulebook to help them per- form their chores in the traditional way. These rulebooks, says the narrator, are based on servant handbooks of the era. In addition to information on chores, the books also dictate behavior and exert authority over the working-class body. Rulebooks explain how to dress, when to wake up, who one can and cannot ad- dress, and how to behave inside as well as outside the house. The staff follows these rules as rigidly as possible because stepping outside their prescripts will re- sult in punishment or termination from the project. Misinterpreting this obedi- ence, Lady Olliff-Cooper feels confident to claim that her staff care for her rather than simply work for her: "our servants are so thoughtful and considerate. It's amazing to be-to be so cared for. And to have people running around after you, 214 CATHERINE CHAPUT it's magical." In a different way, Sir John rationalizes the classed structure by ex- plaining, "I really don't have a problem with having servants and being served. If I'm not served, they don't have a job. This is absolutely magnificent. I'm enjoy- ing it." Jonathon, their oldest son, has also convinced himself that "if you were born into that system, it wouldn't have been an issue or problem for servants." The unexamined feminization of workers perpetuates an unjust system by mak- ing the working class appear to enjoy their work, to be grateful for a job, and to be unaware of any other possible choices. While John and Anna Olliff-Cooper have been married for eleven years and have one son, Guy, an older son, Jonathon, appears on the show as well. There is no discussion by the cast, the narrator, or on the extensive Web site about an earlier marriage even though there was a short segment in which the narrator discussed marriage and fidelity in the Edwardian era. According to the narrator, there were less than one thousand divorces in 1910 and "For privileged women, marriage was considered essential to their happiness and even their sanity. Serv- ants were not allowed to marry and were forbidden from fraternizing with other staff. Nonetheless, half of all illegitimate children born in 1911 were born to fe- male servants ... the wealthy discretely broke the very rules they imposed on their servants." The strict regulations surrounding working-class sexuality ap- parently do not apply in the same way to the leisure class. The narrator mentions that adultery was common among the upper classes and that King Edward's own mistress was well known. Clearly, the decision not to discuss the two different families represented by the older son, Jonathon, and the younger son, Guy, is not dictated by the experiment of living in the Edwardian era as much as it is deter- mined by the ideas of the twenty-first century.' The narrative manages to discuss the staff's contemporary marital status, however. Mr. Edgar, the butler, is a grandfather; Mrs. Davies is a grandmother; Chef Dubiard is a father of two; the remaining male staff members seem to be single, but Kenny-the hall boy-falls in love with Ellen, the scullery maid. While Antonia, the kitchen maid, and Rebecca, the first housemaid, are also sin- gle, Jessica, the second housemaid, is engaged to be married. Miss Morrison, the lady's maid, lives with her mother and her daughter. Rebecca, Miss Morrison, Mrs. Davies, and Mr. Edgar all reveal that their interest in the project stems from a desire to relive the experience of their grandparents. Whether single or cou- pled, the staff's interactions with each other as well as their reflections on their contemporary lives reinscribe the dominant, heteronormative structure of the family. Adherence to traditional family values redeems the working class, while lack of such values justifies the persecution of this same class. THE RHETORICS OF REALITY TV 215 Unable to marry, the house staff nonetheless reinforces the traditional fa- milial structure by narrating themselves within the familiar framework of a fam- ily unit. Mr. Edgar repeatedly identifies himself as the staff's surrogate father. When difficulties arise with his staff, he explains that "we are like a family and like all families, sometimes the wheel comes off the car." When they succeed at tasks, he recollects, "I felt like a dad who was happy with his kiddos." Mrs. Dav- ies paints an even fuller picture, explicitly comparing the imposed familial struc- ture of the staff against the actual family for whom they work: "we are a family here. We've got a very strict father and a very simple mother and children who are well behaved and are badly behaved, who all do their best and together we all keep this house going. I think we are quite as strong as the family." Both Mr. Edgar and Mrs. Davies seem to believe that the strength of workers comes, in part, from their ability to form a makeshift family unit. Not any family structure will do, however. The strength of the family comes from its imitation of the het- eronormative structure: a mother and father with rigidly disciplined children. During the final scene of the series, Rob and Charlie walk away from the house while Mr. Edgar simply says, "my boys." Mrs. Davies then runs into the arms of her husband and the narrator mentions her return to life as a grandmother of five. Finally, Mr. Edgar shuts the gate and the narrator reveals that Edgar will be home in time for the birth of his first grandson. This family structure, rather than the transformation of oppressive working conditions, provides symbolic strength for the workers who bear the weight of maintaining this enormous Edwardian house. As head of the household, Sir John has the job of disciplining and terminating his staff-a threat he makes when the staff appears to be getting too relaxed. More often, the staff members discipline themselves through a naturalized familial structure. Mr. Edgar disciplines the male staff, Mrs. Davies disciplines the female staff, and everyone works to main- tain the Edwardian parameters of acceptability. This structure keeps things run- ning smoothly and suppresses most attempts at dissent. Kenny, the hall boy who complains that "they are beginning to slowly drain the life out of me and turn me into this sad robot" is both one of the lowest ranking staff members and one of the louder voices of dissent. He believes unequivocally, for instance, that "the people upstairs are absolutely bastards who walked all over the little people who are downstairs." Yet the familial structure undermines the strength of his claims as others represent Kenny within the trope of a little brother who speaks out of turn, makes outrageous comments, and fails to fulfill his required tasks. In fact, Antonia, the kitchen maid, states in her cast interview: "Kenny used to come out with some very strange statements and questions. These were called Kennyisms 216 CATHERINE CHAPUT as they were things only Kenny would come out with" (Manor House: The Peo- ple). Miss Morrison's taming of the chef's anger further indicates how familial structures police the boundaries of normalcy. When the chef attempts to con- front Sir John about enforcing strict rules on the staff while refusing to follow his own rules, Miss Morrison intervenes as though she were an older sister. It seems unclear whether she does this in an effort to conform to Edwardian standards or because of a contemporary sense of propriety. In either case, the result reinforces norms of appropriate subservience. The working class is trained into subservience in Manor House, yet Extreme Makeover evidences that working-class people often already know how to acqui- esce. Even though it probes contestants for evidence of loneliness and physical shortcomings, Extreme Makeover has no shortage of willing participants from which to choose. After its first one-hour special, seven thousand unsolicited tapes flooded its office and a full season was planned. Extreme Makeover then held regular casting calls in twelve major cities and received more than ten thou- sand applications from individuals vying for a chance to tell why they should be chosen for this physical and emotional transformation. Perhaps people flock to this makeover prospect because they believe what the voiceover claims: "Extreme Makeover will transform your life forever." It will change your image, boost your career, ignite your love life, and bring your family closer together. Taking place in Los Angeles, the television show metaphorically reenacts the American desire to move west in search of wealth and a better life.7 Such a dream materializes as contestants are treated to shopping sprees, an exclusive after-surgery care center, an extended stay at one of Sunset Strip's best hotels, and access to doctors, styl- ists, and physical trainers whose clientele include the famous and wealthy. The fantasy makeover promises not only an opportunity of a lifetime, but a lifelong transformation as well. In episode one, we meet Kine Carter and Tammy Guthrie. Kine is a twenty-nine-year-old hairstylist from a close-knit family, while forty-year-old Tammy works at home full-time as a mother of three. When we first meet Kine, the voiceover tells us that Extreme Makeover "holds the key to changing her life forever." After Tammy's first visit with the world-renowned sur- geon, she reveals, "I feel like I've won the lottery. This is above and beyond win- ning the lottery. This is any woman's dream." Kine has similar thoughts: "I feel like Dorothy right now and I'm in Oz and you're the Wiz and is this the dream or is this for real? I can't believe it. It's still like almost not real. It's like, am I re- ally in the doctor's office? I am ecstatic." The voiceover adds the final interpreta- tion, restating that "Tammy and Kine get the plastic surgery of their dreams." If, THE RHETORICS OF REALITY TV 217 as Dovey and Glynn suggest, reality television offers a space for ordinary peo- ple and experts to struggle over the definition of individual identity, sexuality, and relationships, then Extreme Makeover exemplifies an amazing confluence be- tween individual and expert opinions. The cosmetic dentist who observes Kine's plastic surgery, Dr. Dorfman, reveals his shock at Kine's lips. In his "twenty years of practicing [he has] never seen redundant tissue like that. Just standing there in surgery, watching it, and seeing the difference immediately was unbelievable." Although Dr. Dorfman has clearly limited his practice to extremely wealthy in- dividuals who do not have "redundant" lips, his vision for Kine matches her own goals. Kine, too, feels that her lips were "redundant" and that removing the extra skin unearths her real body and its potential. It "made me one hundred percent of who I wanted to be," says Kine. The discursive structure of the show encour- ages participants and viewers to see the world as plastic surgeons. The show al- lows no space for doubt, uncertainty, or criticism of the makeover's extremity. Family members as well as participants endorse the world of body alteration and individual valuation based on physical perfection. The six-week makeover leads up to the reveal party. Each contestant gath- ers her, or less often his, friends and family together so that one's new and im- proved self can be revealed in a single dramatic moment. Usually this takes place on stage with friends clapping and the immediate family embracing the finished product. Amid scenes of people scrambling to talk to the contestant, the edi- tors interject interviews with that contestant. In her interview, Tammy says, "I just feel that my whole direction in life has made a change because I've been on the Extreme Makeover show. I've just reached new heights in my life that I never would have been able to accomplish before this experience." Kine says, "I never expected anything this amazing to happen. I mean, I just know that this is the beginning of a great life. This is like the continuation of what God has shown me over the last twenty-nine years and I can just imagine that the next twenty-nine are going to be incredible." With a promise to change lives forever, it is not sur- prising that the show catches up with contestants months after their makeover. During this period of the show we are told that Kine's close friends put money together and helped her move to Los Angeles in order to pursue an acting ca- reer. After only a week in L.A. she secured a small part in an independent film. Tammy meanwhile has more energy to put into being a wife and mother. Her husband's interest has been sparked again as he "finds [himself] checking her out more." This entire section works to normalize a specific body aesthetic, en- courage conspicuous consumption, and define the appropriately feminized sub- James V Catano Articulating the Values of Labor and Laboring Civic Rhetoric and Heritage Tourism n 1892, workers, civic authorities, and community members of Homestead, Penn- sylvania, insisted on having a voice in the running of Homestead's Carnegie steel mill. The ensuing lockout and infamous Battle of Homestead led to deaths among workers and strikebreakers alike, the arrest of many of the town's union and civil authorities (often one and the same), and an international outcry over the events. Following the calling out of Pennsylvania's National Guard, the job action ended, and the voices of townspeople and workers in the governance of their com- munity and their workplace were, for all intents and purposes, effec- tively silenced. Six years after the 1892 battle, Andrew Carnegie publicly dedi- cated a library in his name, explicitly referring to "the deplorable event here," and urging that "This building be between capital and labor, an emblem of peace, reconciliation, mental confidence, harmony, and union" (qtd. in Demarest 207). During that same 189o period, David Montgomery notes, residents of Homestead agreed that "If you want to talk in Homestead, you talk to yourself" (qtd. in Demarest 227), and Aliquippa, Pennsylvania, was regularly referred to as "Little Siberia." Workers found themselves "ashamed" to talk about the defeat, while those who might wish to speak to labor concerns were regularly pre- vented from doing so.' 11 218 CATHERINE CHAPUT ject. That subject can certainly work outside the home; but, as Kine exemplifies, she should be humble, obedient, appreciative and, most of all, she should adhere to dominant perceptions about individual beauty. While Extreme Makeover promises a new life complete with career and ro- mance, Manor House offers something more subtle, but equally timeless. It offers historical knowledge through lived experience in what it calls "a time machine." As one participant says, the experience is about "going back in time, charac- ter building, having something no one else does on their CV." The mention of a curriculum vita circumscribes the experience within specifically academic pa- rameters, at least for Jessica. For others such as Raj, the tutor, Mrs. Davies, the housekeeper, Monsieur Dubiard, the chef, or Miss Morrison, the lady's maid, the experience relates to their professions as teachers, a chef, and a seamstress, respectively. In an increasingly insecure economy, it no doubt helps to have this unique experience to place you above the competition. Similar to the business world's unpaid internship as a stepping stone to a good job, this reality TV series offers educators and service workers opportunities to exchange volunteer labor for cultural capital rather than economic reward, at the cost of real or potential wages from paid jobs. Because the participants freely choose to participate in the project and can leave any time, the show implicitly encourages others to endure similar unpaid or underpaid opportunities by suggesting that the experience it- self is the reward. Perhaps the most important and most often reiterated lesson that participa- tion in this project provides is the affirmation that contemporary capitalist soci- ety is a vast improvement on the aristocratic past. The show hinges on the col- lapse of the Edwardian era, symbolized at different times by the sinking of the Titanic, the ascendancy of women's and workers' rights, and, finally, the return to contemporary life. The twenty-first century may have flaws, but it is not nearly as unfair as the Edwardian society. As Lady Olliff-Cooper states, "the twenty-first century allows much more full and frank conversation because you're equals. I think it's so important that with an equal, you can talk about almost anything." The idea that contemporary capitalist society treats everyone as equals repeats throughout the experiment. For instance, Mr. Edgar, who is one of the more strict adherents to his role, laments that the Edwardian hierarchy lacks commu- nication: "the family are divorced from the servants and that's terrible. You don't feel that you can speak the truth in a sense. Without truth a society is sick. It can't really survive and it was swept away." Testifying to the need for this col- lapse, Jessica explains that these volunteer "servants get no time off, work every- THE RHETORICS OF REALITY TV 219 day, sleep only five hours a day, and are developing health problems from smoke and dust. People forget that we are actually human." Shortly after this clip, the program shows the servants reading a newspaper with worker's rights informa- tion. The answer to their horrific working conditions is simply wage labor.8 By equalizing all individuals, contemporary society allows everyone open access to the workplace and protects an individual's rights through a minimum wage, an eight-hour workday, and regulated working conditions. Contrary to Manor House's valorization of wage labor, Edward's post-show interview suggests an al- ternative view. Edgar questions whether contemporary wage labor is any better than the Edwardian structure: "[L]ittle has changed in some respects. Today we have a 'new upper class' made up of meritocrats, the 'luvvies,' the mega stars/ sports persons, etc. They apparently have many of the trappings of yesteryears, and we euphemistically call things by different names to denote the same rela- tionship between those who are served and those who serve" (Manor House: The People). Manor House also focuses on women's rights. Reading an article about suf- frage, Miss Morrison asks, "we've came a long way, haven't we?" The narrator tells us that "it is the younger women who will gain most in the years ahead. An- tonia might move to a city to take over clerical and office work while the men are fighting. She could emerge from the war as a telephonist. Today, she's an op- erator in a police emergency control room." Antonia responds that "here, you can't vote, you can't speak to who you want, where you want, just everything is cut off. All the options that were open to us are just not in existence and you think, gosh, we've come a long way since then." The most pronounced point is that women today, a major component of the lowest paid positions in the con- temporary workforce, are much better off than they were in the Edwardian era. By comparing only two options, work in the contemporary free market versus work in a past epoch of servant labor, the series promotes the current exploita- tion of female workers at the same time that it endorses the passivity of those workers by reminding them they are recipients of improved conditions. Within this dichotomy, the choices inevitably point to the benefit of the contemporary moment without considering alternatives. Both programs reinforce the contemporary political economy, as prop- erly gendered capitalist subjects are rewarded for being willing to add value to a product with limited personal remuneration. In a traditionally Marxist sense, workers create value through the labor process. Time put into producing a real- ity show adds value that translates into a higher price and greater profits; conse- 220 CATHERINE CHAPUT quently, owners pay the production staff in exchange for the value they add to the final product. Exploitation in a capitalist workplace arises because workers are paid a wage valued at less than the value they add to products. Reality tel- evision participants, however, are not employees and are not paid to add value to the television program. While contributing "real" stories and "authentic" re- sponses certainly adds value to the production, contestants are not compensated in wages but through the experience itself. We should nonetheless understand this volunteer experience "as a form of value-generating labor" (Andrejevic 262). Extreme Makeover adds value because participants are the object of multiple ad- vertisements for reconstructive surgery and cosmetic dentistry as well as cloth- ing, hair, and makeup products. Each step enhances the value of the program. Manor House adds value to the cultural and economic structures of capitalism by placing them in opposition to a previous historical moment as though the choice is the present or the past rather than myriad future possibilities.9 While reality television clearly works for the political economic exigencies of global capital- ism, the labor performed by the working-class participants of these shows not only goes unpaid, it helps establish a culture in which workers welcome the expe- rience of working for free. Against the Reification ofReality TV The representation of society within frozen binaries bespeaks the legacy of capitalism and its need to reify culture. Marxist philosopher and critic Georg Lukaics concluded in History and Class Consciousness that all classes in a capitalist society endure "the reification of every aspect of its life" (149). Marx's first chapter of Capital makes a similar argument in its discussion of commodity fetish. Capi- talist society turns human beings into things and attributes magical, human-like powers to objects. Not surprisingly, argues media theorist Laura Grindstaff, tele- vision participants willingly submit to humiliating self-exposure not because they have been duped by a false consciousness, but because they desire to take part in the magic of television. These individuals "understand the parameters, partici- pate willingly anyway, and play their parts well" (196). Clearly, we are deeply en- meshed within a culture that readily identifies its limitations, but fails to see vi- able solutions. This willingness to take part in an unethical production echoes public sentiment about complicity within an exploitative capitalist regime-both beliefs stem from a larger acknowledgement that there is no alternative. Sir John's idea that "the inequalities must go, but the poor are always with us. Jesus said it THE RHETORICS OF REALITY TV 221 and I'm sure that's right" is all too pervasive. People fail to discover new possi- ble world structures because they are conditioned into a dynamic capitalist con- sciousness that culturally validates the working classes, denies other possible social, economic, or political structures, and differentiates the working classes into acceptable and unacceptable positionalities. This process, quite different from the notion of false consciousness that progressive critics so often attack, should be understood as class-conditioned unconsciousness. False conscious- ness suggests that individuals in a classed society fail to see its divisive nature, believing instead that all people have equal and limitless opportunities to suc- ceed. Class-conditioned unconsciousness, on the other hand, identifies the situ- ation wherein individuals understand the class relations of a given society but are taught to negotiate immediate, individualized goals rather than long-term change (Lukacs 70-80). In such a situation, individuals become versed in the mi- cropolitics of assuming temporary power, but are not "conscious of the actions they need to perform in order to obtain and organize power" at a structural level (53). Class-conditioned unconsciousness privileges individual, immediate goals over collective, long-term goals and therefore proliferates within our current in- dividualized, consumer culture. The first step toward countering this class-conditioned unconsciousness is to trace the rhetorics of this conditioning in order to understand better the role that television might play in our understanding of the world-what Jameson calls "collective unconsciousness." The two television programs I have mapped adapt the 1950s trope of the family from a particularly feminized position to combat na- tional anxieties about alienation, surveillance, and uncertainty with the changing political economic sphere of globalization. However, unlike so many of the par- ticipants in reality TV productions, I believe there are alternatives. Adorno sug- gests that one way to combat televisual representations would be to have a cen- tralized advisory board made up of sociologists, psychologists, and educators ("Television as Ideology" 69). Rather than this further surveillance, monitoring, and censoring that have proven themselves to be so dangerous, I suggest two al- ternatives. First, we must produce different reality shows. One of the values of the current marketplace is that its expansion of niche audiences opens up the market- place to progressive politics. If there is room in the telecommunications industry for Working Assets telephone company, then surely there is room for intelligent, counterculture television shows. In addition to new shows, we need to produce in- structions for reading reality TV and make them widely available. Adorno argues, "art which informs us about reality was always accompanied by 'instructions for 222 CATHERINE CHAPUT use' which inform us about art and today both have been conflated" (The Culture Industry 68). Unaccompanied by instructions, television remains open to many interpretations. Traditionally, television viewing-and now participation-"re- quires no specific training"; therefore, notes Williams, it brings ordinary "peo- ple within the orbit of public authority" (131). Like many contemporary scholars, Williams sees this democratic opening as a tremendous opportunity, but more often than not this uninstructed space has simply reproduced conservative poli- tics. Just as schools train students to read, write, and perform minimal mathemat- ical skills, academics should consider mandating instruction in media studies. In How to Watch TVNews, Neil Postman and Steve Power offer specific steps toward critical viewing practices. There is no reason that learning to be critical television viewers cannot become as dominant a practice within the university as learning to be good novel readers. Some critics have come out against reality television as not actually real. I agree with this critique in the sense that reality television is one long commercial in favor of the neoliberal economic policies of surveillance and volunteer labor as well as the neoconservative social policies that privilege the heteronormative family structure. But beyond this, I want to suggest the possibility of instructing viewers to understand media manipulation in relationship to political economic shifts and offering new media as an opportunity to counter the televisual pro- ductions that work to maintain class-conditioned unconsciousness among eve- ryone within capitalist societies. Or, to paraphrase a song familiar to viewers of the reality program COPS: "Whatcha gonna do?" NOTES 1. Clerical jobs were filled by women who were less likely to resist automation; Braverman argues that clerical work was "recognized as a job for 'girls"' (227). As work evolves, there arises a need further to "feminize" and discipline both women and men in the entertainment and service industries. 2. Much queer theory argues that framing queer practices in opposition to normal practices reinforces dominant categories of gender and sexuality. Warner's The Trouble with Normal argues that the movement to define homosexuality as a normative possibility constrains possibilities. TV shows function in a similar fashion because they often tie sexuality to state and corporate apparatuses. These programs exist because there is a market for them and they engage politics only to the extent of asking questions such as: should gay marriage be sanctioned? For further critique of this linkage, see Bell and Binnie's The Sexual Citizen: Queer Politics and Beyond. 3. The four breaks during the first episode of Extreme Makeover contained thirty-two com- mercials centered around the need to take care of oneself and one's family through participation in consumer culture. I have roughly categorized them as such: THE RHETORICS OF REALITY TV 223 Household Family Self-improvement consumption entertainment products Break i - 1 5 Break 2 3 6 3 Break 3 5 1 2 Break 4 2 1 3 Source: Mandsdorf 94 4. This experience typifies transference; contestants transfer their need for approval from childhood experiences onto the doctor. Consequently, they agree with his diagnosis and sugges- tions. For in-depth discussions of how this plays itself out within the realm of plastic surgery, see Blum's Flesh Wounds: The Culture of Cosmetic Surgery. 5. Quotations come from Zimbardo's video simulation of the experiment, Quiet Rage: The Stanford Prison Experiment. For more information, see the Stanford Prison Experiment Web site . 6. In sharp contrast, Miss Anson, Anna's sister, lives with her partner outside marriage. She was unable to stay with the experiment for the duration due to stress and alienation. Perhaps her nonconformity undermines her ability to perform in a male-dominated family structure. In addition to Miss Anson's temporary break from the project, two different women, Lucy and Kelly, left the position of scullery maid before a third woman, Ellen, joined the house to fill the scullery maid role. Both Lucy and Kelly left the project due to inability to perform long hours of labor in poor working conditions. Unlike Miss Anson, whose temporary departure was sanctioned by a doctor's visit, these women were characterized as infantile and selfish for their inability to finish the project. Privilege allows Miss Anson to leave the show in the same way it prevents these other women from leaving the project with similar dignity. 7. The general premise of the show mirrors the politically fraught proposal to produce a reality series mimicking the Beverly Hillbillies. The comedy arises from the inept attempt of a rural family to live among the upper classes of Beverly Hills. The proposed reality program sought a poor Appalachian family to live in a mansion and experience culture clashes between rural poverty and wealth. At the end of the series, the family would be rewarded $500,000. To find more about this controversy, see: Rural Realty vs. Reality TV Anatomy of a Public Awareness Campaign. Center for Rural Strategies. 2003. July 13, 2006 . 8. Socialism was another option briefly explored. During the charity bizarre, the Clarion Socialist Club arrived and attracted the staff's attention. This option was quickly suppressed as Sir John announced, "I'm a very benevolent employer, but these pinko edgies I wouldn't allow, I'm afraid" (Manor House: The People). 9. See the International Forum on Globalization's Alternatives to Economic Globalization: A Better World Is Possible, which outlines problems with economic globalization, assesses a variety of democratic initiatives, and offers guidelines for future sustainable communities. 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Stanford: Stanford Instructional Television Network, 1991. Kermit Campbell The Rhetoric of "I Have a Dream" The Remix And I can't even go to the grocery store Without some ones that's clean and a shirt with a team It seems we livin the American Dream But the people highest up got the lowest self esteem The prettiest people do the ugliest things For the road to the riches and diamond rings We shine because they hate us, floss cause they degrade us We tryin to buy back our 40 acres -Kanye West, "All Falls Down" (2004) Rushin' in this 40 oz. Lettin' the ink from my pen bleed 'Cause Martin Luther King had a dream Aaliyah had a dream Left-Eye had a dream -The Game, "Dreams" (2005) "have dreaml." This expression is etched so deeply into America's collec- tive consciousness that some four decades after a liberal civil rights activist uttered the phrase, ultra-conservative Republicans co-opt it, oddly enough, in order to right the egregious wrongs of the very leg- 226 THE RHETORIC OF "I HAVE A DREAM" 227 islation said activist deemed necessary for social justice and equality. In 1964, the year after America hears I have a dream so boldly proclaimed on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, Martin Luther King Jr. writes in Why We Can't Wait: "When- ever this issue of compensatory or preferential treatment for the Negro is raised, some of our friends recoil in horror. The Negro should be granted equality, they agree; but he should ask nothing more. On the surface, this appears reasonable, but it is not realistic. For it is obvious that if a man is entered at the starting line in a race three hundred years after another man, the first would have to perform some impossible feat in order to catch up with his fellow runner" (134). King re- jects here the rhetoric of equality, of sameness, on the grounds that it is unrealis- tic, not the reasoned judgment it appears to be on the surface. Based on this premise of an unequal starting line in a race, King cites an anal- ogous situation in India. In an interview conducted with Indian prime minis- ter Jawaharlal Nehru, King learns how the Indian government was dealing with discrimination against some of its citizens, the historically disenfranchised un- touchables: "The Indian government spends millions of rupees annually develop- ing housing and job opportunities in villages heavily inhabited by untouchables. Moreover, the Prime Minister said, if two applicants compete for entrance into a college or university, one of the applicants being an untouchable and the other of high caste, the school is required to accept the untouchable." Professor Law- rence Reddick, who was on hand with King for the interview, asks in response to the prime minister, "But isn't that discrimination?" Interestingly, without even the slightest hint of denial or defense, the prime minister answers, "Well, it may be. ... But this is our way of atoning for the centuries of injustices we have in- flicted upon these people." King isn't, however, interested in "atonement for atonement's sake" or requisite "self punishment." He simply believes that "Amer- ica must seek its own ways of atoning for the injustices she has inflicted upon her Negro citizens" because it is "the moral and practical way to bring the Negro's standards up to a realistic level." Thus, beyond the eloquent and infinitely quot- able declarations of the August 1963 "I Have a Dream" speech, King sought to an- swer this most pragmatic of questions: "How can we make freedom real and sub- stantial for our colored citizens?" (135). Fast-forward to January 15, 2003: the New York Times reports that "President Bush offered a sweeping denunciation of direct preferences for racial minorities in university admissions today." The president is specifically quoted as saying "I strongly support diversity of all kinds, including racial diversity in higher educa- tion. But the method used by the University of Michigan to achieve this impor- 12 JAMES V. CATANO But by 1941, there were new voices stating their view of work, Homestead, and 1892. The Steel Workers Organizing Council (SWOC) and Local 1397, Home- stead, celebrated both Labor Day and the dedication, on the corner of West and Eighth Avenues, of a monument to the fallen steelworkers of 1892. It was the cul- mination of an organizing process begun six years earlier with a parade com- memorating 1892 and a speech whose words are now echoed by the monument: "We steelworkers say to the world: We are Americans. We shall exercise our inal- ienable rights to organize." Come 1982, the steel industry was in severe decline in the United States, and the Homestead mills would shortly close for good. Talks between union and management were fruitless, and steelworkers voiced discontent over the stale- mate, speaking of intransigence on both sides. Subsequent street protests and calls for governmental intervention gradually faded into quiet. Today, the former mill site evokes different comments and commentary. It contains a new mall, light industry, and-sprinkled about in the midst of both- a variety of mementos of the site's former steel heritage. These are seen as "mem- ory makers," and the entire Waterfront development declares as its premier sym- bol a set of smokestacks, twelve of which are preserved at the far western side of the mall. In addition, voices of historians, preservationists, former steelworkers, and community organizers are stating their view of labor's heritage. The Battle of Homestead Foundation fights to preserve the newly renovated Pump House, site of the 1892 battle, as an interpretation and lecture center. The newly renovated Bost Building, from which officers of the mill's Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steelworkers viewed the battle, is formally declared a historic site. It houses the nonprofit Steel Industry Heritage Corporation, which pursues the Carrie Fur- naces as a crown jewel in the heritage preservation process. Meanwhile, Ed Salaj, ex-steelworker, says sarcastically: "Carnegie's machin- ery still exists, but the steelworker doesn't." Steve Maszle, forty-year man at Homestead from 1938 to 1978, is more direct: "Tear it all down," he says, referring to the remnants of the mills. "No one will understand what they are anyway." This struggle to be heard, to have a voice in one's community and in what is remembered and memorialized as its heritage, exemplifies civic rhetoric in ac- tion. To this civic rhetoric, heritage tourism adds the further desire to attract visitors and economic benefits-an activity that has long been attached, if not central, to the ostensibly "fixed" rhetorical statements found in physical monu- ments. Today's heritage tourism sites are likely to be much more elaborate, how- 228 KERMIT CAMPBELL tant goal is fundamentally flawed. At their core, the Michigan policies amount to a quota system that unfairly rewards or penalizes prospective students based solely on their race" (Lewis 1). In a mere forty years, President Bush assures us, the Negro has accomplished the "impossible feat" of catching up with his fellow runner three hundred years ahead of him in the race; in forty years, white Amer- ica has dealt a fatal blow to white supremacy and become, ipso facto, colorblind; in just forty years, King's dream has become a presumptive reality for the twenty- first century Negro (middle class, working class, and underclass; urban, rural, and suburban). In the minds of today's political conservatives, white America has done its part, has made freedom real and substantial for the nation's colored citizens. Rewind and remix: an old (civil rights) tune put to a new groove, a fresh sonic sensibility. On January 20, 2003, about six months shy of the fortieth an- niversary of"I Have a Dream," the nation celebrates the birth, life, and legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. At my institution, a private liberal arts college in the state of New York, I conduct one of the many workshops scheduled for the "Mar- tin Luther King Day 2003 Celebration." Inspired by the song and video "Who We Be" by rap star DMX (Earl Simmons), I propose for workshop attendees a discussion of King's "I Have a Dream," the conservative remake (King's dream of not being judged by color remade into not seeing or acknowledging color and its disparities) and the Hip-hop remix (King's dream of freedom and equality mixed with the rapper's critical consciousness as spokesperson for the Hip-hop genera- tion). Here I wish to draw from that discussion a salient point about rhetoric: that language gets appropriated and used, on one hand, to gloss over racial dif- ferences and class disparities, and, that, simultaneously, the oral and visual rhet- oric of today's Hiphoppaz is employed to make those very differences and dispar- ities visible to an increasingly global audience. These artists bear what I profess to be the true mark of the rhetor: speaking in dreams. The (Color) Blind Leading the Blind The lyrics of rapper DMX's "Who We Be" perfectly exemplifies the invisi- bility of those who were once and often still are currently judged by the color of their skin. I made this suggestion to the audience of students, a few of them prominent leaders of the campus Republicans. Central to the song is the binary us and them, they and we. Though DMX does not reveal precisely who "they" or "we" are, he emphatically states: "they don't know who we are," or more appro- THE RHETORIC OF "I HAVE A DREAM" 229 priately, in the vernacular, "they don't know who we be." At the most basic level, "we" could be black Americans, and "they" black America's antithesis, American whites. Much black artistic expression is riddled with, and understandably so, this simple binary. However, the remaining lyrics of the song suggest something less dichotomous, a less singular identity for both "we" and "they." In fact, "Who We Be" may well signify a postmodern conception of identity-fragmented, con- tradictory, yet inclusive and, thus, extraordinarily close to reality. By virtue of its rejection of the rhetoric of sameness, "Who We Be" can also be read as a marker of class identity and consciousness, a radical proposition that our culture does not distribute resources and material goods equally. Indeed, Hip-hop music fre- quently takes up this very trope-a trope of lower working-class consciousness, a critique of material life in the post-I Have a Dream society in which we live. If DMX articulates such a lower working-class consciousness, then his ver- sion of working class is tied to a particular racial (African American) and geo- graphical (urban) context. The first three lines of "Who We Be" depict (except for the farmer) the typical inner-city profile: "The bullshit, the drama, the guns, the armor / The city, the farmer, the babies, the mama / The projects, the drugs, the children, the thugs." This image shifts somewhat in line four, lest "they" perceive "we" to be a monolith: "The tears, the hugs, the love, the slugs." In addition to tears, hugs, and love, there is "The hurt, the pain, the dirt the rain." This appar- ently is what "they" don't know about what DMX and others call ghetto living, youth coming of age in the projects of, in this case, "Yonkers, the Bronx, Brook- lyn, Harlem." What "they" don't know, in other words, is what "we" see: What we seeing is The streets, the cops, the system, harassment The options, get shot, go to jail, or getcha ass kicked The lawyers, the part, they are, of the puzzle The release, the warning, "Try not to get in trouble" The snitches, the odds, probation, parole The new charge, the bail, the warrant, the hole... It's a narrow vision of life, these "options," but one that has its nuances, encom- passing the above as well as "The silence, the dark, the mind, so fragile / The wish, that the streets, would have took you, when they had you." "We" or "who we be" isn't, therefore, African Americans generally, those secure in their middle- class, suburban values and worldview, but the urban working class, even ghetto underclass, particularly ghetto youth. Significant is DMX's choice of the word "options," since the very underpinning of the American Dream is that every cit- 230 KERMIT CAMPBELL izen, no matter her lowly station in life, can opt to achieve or live that dream. By presenting the sight/plight of the urban ghetto resident, DMX professes the most un-American of options: "get shot, go to jail, getcha ass kicked," thus call- ing into question bootstraps ideology, the notion of individual agency. Here we have then another marker of black, working-class consciousness, another remix- ing of the "Dream." Given DMX's description of what "we" see and know, who then might "they" be? That's one of the key questions that I put before my young audience at the Martin Luther King Day Celebration. Of course, my own perspective on the mat- ter was manifest in my title for the workshop: "They Don't Know Who We Be: The Consciousness of Colorblind Conservatives." That is, DMX's "they" rep- resents white political conservatives who are willfully blind to the privileges of their own white skin. As an example of this, I pointed out the privileging of whiteness in American television and film, highlighting the fact that a year or so earlier the NAACP had been driven to threaten an all-out boycott in order to prompt the major TV networks to increase the presence of African-Americans in front of and behind the cameras. Not surprisingly, my critique wasn't so warmly received by the conservatives, but it sparked vigorous debate and served a con- venient link between, as I have said, the conservative appropriation of King's dream-the kind of cunning identifications Kenneth Burke describes in A Rheto- ric of Motives-and the dream that for many Americans of color is still deferred. In the aforementioned New York Times report, Senator John Kerry touches on this kind of cunning identification: "This administration continues a disturbing pattern of using the rhetoric of diversity as a substitute for real progress on a civil rights agenda" (Lewis 2). In Burke's analytical schema, "The aspect of identifi- cation, whereby one can protect an interest [whiteness or white-skin privilege] merely by using terms [colorblind society and preferential treatment] not inci- sive enough to criticize it properly, often brings rhetoric to the edge of cunning" (1334). This is a clever rhetorical tactic of linguistic bait and switch. One can't be absolutely certain about any particular reading of DMX's "they" or "we." After all, blacks themselves-especially middle-class or "bougie" blacks-could be included among "they" if these blacks dismiss DMX's rhetori- cal appeals or consider them the rants of the overused and abused rhetoric of victimization. The lyrics and the song's video footage strongly suggest that what distinguishes the two is a great cultural divide based as much on class as on race; race and class remixed, in fact. DMX is no Martin Luther King Jr. in his articula- tion of racial inequality and social justice, but in his own way, with the keeping- THE RHETORIC OF "I HAVE A DREAM" 231 it-real attitude of today's Hiphoppaz, he speaks truth, without appeals to liberal white guilt or to sympathy from the black middle class. Instead, as a prophet of Hip-hop's postmodern sacred/secular world order, his call is to make visible the light. How "they" respond to it or whether "they" respond to it is a burden "they" must personally bear. The words of these "prophets of the hood"-to use Imani Perry's referent for them-are destined to be heard (2). Prophets, Gangsters, Thugs, or Rappin'Rhetors? In "The Language Culture of Rap Music Videos," Patricia Washington and Lynda Dixon Shaver argue that OG rappers fit Antonio Gramsci's concept of the organic intellectual "because they are members of a community of oppressed people who use music as an instrument to speak of their common oppression socially, politically, and economically." As such, they believe that these rappers "perform several important functions": "they (1) replace existing intellectuals who have ignored or rejected their origins; (2) use the existing experiences and feelings of urban people (through rap) to restore lost pride in self, ancestors, and community; (3) educate urban youth utilizing symbols they can understand in a language that permits them to shut out those not open to the message" (172). The first of these functions purportedly performed by OG rappers is argu- able, considering the oral and written work of such towering public intellectu- als as Cornel West, bell hooks, and Michael Eric Dyson, who seem quite in touch with their origins and those of the people they write about. The restoration of pride in self, ancestors, and community, function number two, is certainly evi- dent in Hip-hop, yet when taken too far it can yield tragic results (e.g., the mur- ders of Tupac Shakur and Christopher Wallace, aka The Notorious B.I.G., and the East Coast-West Coast rivalry of the mid-199os). The third function, that of educating urban youth through familiar symbols, strikes me as key to the rap art- ists' function as organic intellectuals. That is to say, if rappers are organic intel- lectuals at all, then it is because their uses of language or discourse raise public consciousness of ideological differences that often are concealed by the conserva- tive remake of I have a dream and the rhetoric of the American Dream. As class- conscious, race-conscious organic intellectuals, rappers like DMX demytholo- gize abstractions like mobility, opportunity, options, and bootstraps. In his autobiographical/theoretical narrative/critique Bootstraps: From an American Academic of Color, Victor Villanueva calls rhetors "intellectuals ac- tively seeking social change," referring to Gramsci's "permanent persuader" who 232 KERMIT CAMPBELL counters the current hegemony (Villanueva 128-29). There are distinctions wor- thy of note between what Gramsci calls traditional intellectuals, organic intel- lectuals, and new intellectuals. For instance, drawing on Gramsci's Prison Note- books, Villanueva states that: "Organic intellectuals are involved in a dialectical and rhetorical enterprise: reliance on personal experience and the experiences of the groups from which they come in order to attract other groups, including tra- ditional intellectuals. When the organic intellectual is involved in this enterprise she becomes Gramsci's 'new intellectual.' She becomes a 'permanent persuader,' involved 'in active participation in practical life, as constructor, organizer'" (129). Although this new intellectual could be forming between the Hip-hop organic intellectual and the traditional intellectual within the academy, I don't see it as a necessary prerequisite for active engagement in "the rhetorical enterprise of a counter hegemony" (132), at least not for the hegemony of whiteness and middle- classness. The impetus for Washington and Shaver to consider the OG rapper as an or- ganic intellectual derives not just from the verbal but from the visual: the rap mu- sic video. They believe that the "visual images of rap and rap videos reveal sites of conflict" that are a "critique of the existing economic order, of its violence, family disruption, social alienation, polarization of social units and deprivation" (173). More specifically, they see such sites of conflict as representing "social dilemmas selected by the rappers because of their implicit and explicit importance. These social dilemmas appear to be basically topoi or commonplaces in the rapper's rhetorical repertoire, except that they, Washington and Shaver assert, "consti- tute the belief system of rap's organic intellectuals and gangster figures." There is no clear indication of how the rapper's verbal or visual rhetorics about these "di- lemmatic issues" serve as counterhegemonic forces among youth or the general public. Rappers may "seek to escape marginalization of self by the public presen- tation of the social dilemmas that mark their daily lives," yet how they do so de- termines whether they combat the racism and classism they face or remain sub- ject to them (174). Unfortunately, Washington and Shaver don't offer a detailed analysis of any one video. They cite, for instance, the topoi of Tupac Shakur's "Brenda's Got a Baby" (e.g., unmarried teen mothers, dysfunctional families plagued by drug abuse or missing parents) and Intelligent Hoodlum's "Grand Groove" (e.g., pov- erty, dysfunctional family, socialization into gangs), but never intimate precisely how these topoi interact with Hip-hop's avid listeners nor its mainstream watch- dogs. Rap's topoi are essential but insufficient arsenals for the current culture THE RHETORIC OF "I HAVE A DREAM" 233 wars. The message of Public Enemy's 1989 anthem "Fight the Power," featured prominently in Spike Lee's film Do the Right Thing, another song Washington and Shaver cite, is still relevant to confront issues of "social justice," "economic loss," and "police brutality" (175). However, today's battle with the prevailing rhetoric of colorblindness requires a subtler message, like the one presented by "Who We Be," which makes whiteness and middle-classness visible through its indirect as- sociation with ghetto blackness. By denouncing civil rights rhetoric in favor of the more radical Afrocentric rhetoric of the late 198os and early 1990s, Public En- emy, in this instance at least, doesn't offer a critique of the conservative rhetoric of colorblindness. By contrast, DMX's "we" and "they" aren't necessarily respec- tively the radical Afrocentrist and racist white. His song and video speak more broadly, if ambiguously, of an identity distinguished not only by color (blackness and brownness) but also by class. Hip-hop's Double Consciousness Much like Public Enemy's "Fight the Power" video, DMX's "Who We Be" opens with footage from the 1963 March on Washington where King gave his fa- mous "I Have a Dream" speech. In the Public Enemy video, however, the event is dismissed almost as quickly as it is recalled, signifying a change in attitude and tactic for protest at the cusp of the 199os. In "Who We Be," on the other hand, the march isn't disparaged or signified on in favor of, say, the radical rhetoric of Malcolm X. Instead the DMX video places this event in a montage along with other footage from that era: worker strikes; demonstrators being hosed; desti- tute neighborhoods, including burning buildings; and pro-segregationists bear- ing placards reading "Keep Alabama White." Again, in the hands of the Hip-hop artist (rapper, deejay, and producer), race and class are remixed in the montage. Contemporary shots or images reflect the lyrics of the song. Nearly every word of the song is plastered across the screen in black and white letters, obscuring some of the images in the background footage. From the second and third lines of the song, for instance, viewers can see shots of pedestrians on a city block; a farmer tending to crops; an image, though sketchy, of a mother and child; and the projects. Perhaps the most significant visual from verse one comes in lines five and six: "The funerals, the wakes, the churches, the coffins / The heartbro- ken mothers, it happens too often." Verses two and three continue in a similar vein, the former being the more visually compelling because of the eerily real- istic images of cops harassing, going Rodney King-like on a suspect, the courts 234 KERMIT CAMPBELL with unscrupulous lawyers, and prison, from "the cell" to "the yard" to "the riot squad" and the twenty-three hours of lockdown. The final verse, verse three, bears a more personal touch than the previous two. DMX proclaims: This here is all about My wife, my kids, the life that I live Through the night, I was his, it was right, but I did My ups and downs, my slips, my falls My trials and tribulations, my heart, my balls Lyrically and visually, he delves further into his personal life, that is, his ambigu- ous relationship with his parents-"I love 'em, I hate 'em / Wish God, I didn't have 'em, but I'm glad that he made 'em." Images recur: poverty ("the roaches, the rats"); police harassment (a police car and siren) "every time we scrap"; and the repose of a child, a "little boy with no feelings." This verse also includes a different kind of visual representation. The lines read: "The frustration, rage, trapped inside a cage / Got beatings 'til the age I carried a twelve gauge." While most of the footage from the civil rights era appears during the chorus, in this verse, we see behind the word "Beating" splattered across the television screen the placards from the pro-segregationist march. Perhaps the one ("Beating") isn't meant to foreground the other (the "Keep Alabama White" signs), but it re- affirms the link between the contemporary and the past, King's dream of color- blind justice and equality and the nightmarish reality of color-segregated and impoverished inner cities. That is, I suppose, the audiovisual message rap's rhetors have for us-well, those of us who couldn't possibly be "they," the many who can't recognize them- selves in DMX. Perhaps this explains why in the video version young boys and girls who are shown singing the chorus of the song each remark at the end, "I am DMX." They, these precious black and brown children, appear, much like DMX himself, superimposed on the various scenes of destruction. But if they are DMX, then who is DMX? Rapper? Actor? Convict? Husband? Father? Manic depres- sive? Nigga from Yonkers? Surely, these dear children are none of these. What they could very well be, though, is "trapped inside a cage." The video opens, af- ter all, with DMX inside a jail cell. In other scenes, he's shown behind the wheel of a pimped-out ride. But the shots in the cell are more enduring, particularly in light of the many scenes of organized protest that serve as backdrop. One such scene shows a demonstrator bearing a sign declaring or advocating "Freedom." King's call to "Let Freedom Ring" (in "I Have a Dream") is, therefore, sampled and THE RHETORIC OF "I HAVE A DREAM" 235 remixed by an unlikely successor, a ghetto boy turned Hip-hop rhetor-profess- ing that "we" be free from the cage of America's demonization of lower working- class or ghetto black identity. The message of Hip-hop's rhetors could conceivably rest here, forging a new identity or new kind of blackness, one that, to borrow from Peter McLaren, "is not dependent upon whiteness to complete it" (48). But Hip-hop's rhetors are also inventing or reinventing whiteness, a whiteness that depends on ghetto blackness for legitimacy in the increasingly vast sphere of global Hip-hop cul- ture. So, in a way, Hip-hop's whiteness conflicts with "white" as a transcendental signifier (45). Citing Diane Fuss's work on Frantz Fanon, McLaren writes: The transcendental signifier "white," according to Fuss, is never a "not-black," but rather operates from its own self-proclaimed transparency, as a marker that floats imperially over the category of race, operating "as its own Other" and independent from the sign "black" for its symbolic constitution. In terms of the colonial-imperial register of self- other relations, which, as Fuss notes, operates in psychoanalysis and existentialism on the Hegelian principle of negation and incorporation in which the other is assimilated into the self-the white subject can be white without any relation to the black subject because the sign "white" exempts itself from a dialogical logic of negativity. But the black subject must be black in relation to the white subject. (45) Eminem, Bubba Sparxx, Paul Wall, China Whyte, Sarai-white male and fe- male rap artists-are scarcely "never a not black" (McLaren 45). They may, like Vanilla Ice, be imitating young black men and women, but that imitation is only as authentic or valid as its association to blackness, to vernacular blackness (in their speech, attitude, and, especially their social and cultural allegiances). The white subject can be, like the Beastie Boys, "white without any [or much] rela- tion to the black [Hip-hop] subject," but existential (not just artistic) credibil- ity lies in its identification with ghetto blackness. Nurtured on Hip-hop and the product of the border (8 Mile Road) between inner-city black Detroit, and the working-class white suburbs, Eminem (Marshall Mathers) is a subject quite ap- parently immersed in a remixed environment in terms of both race and class. As Carl Hancock Rux remarks, Eminem is or "performs a New White Nigga"; in spite of, or rather, because of his whiteness, "he comes as a representative of what Niggaz have produced in their dreams-someone who is not them but wor- ships them and belongs to them and, by virtue of socialization, is one of them" (27). This is not a whiteness we are accustomed to seeing, not even in the main- stream media's depiction of poor whites in huge metropolises like New York and L.A. Only in a movie like Eminem's 8 Mile do whiteness and blackness merge, 236 KERMIT CAMPBELL or at least share the same existential space or reality. As Dave Kehr writes in a New York Times review of the film, "But in 8 Mile, it's the suburbs that are miss- ing. The film's hero, an aspiring rap artist, is a young male Caucasian who resides just north of the dividing line, in a trailer camp named 8 Mile Motor Courts ... The trailer court is north of 8 Mile Road; Rabbit's [Eminem's] life is south of it, where he works making fenders in a metal stamping factory, carouses with his black friends, performs his music." Kehr believes: "Class and race end where the individual renews the old dream of America, here dressed in the baggy jeans of Hip-hop" (15). But if this individual (even Eminem) is dressed in hoodies, Tim- berlands, and baggy jeans, then the day when class and race end, when we "live in a nation where [our children] will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character" (King 85) is probably a long way off. While Hip-hop artists like Eminem bridge the cultural divide between black and white, urban and suburban, individuals alone won't dispose of race and class divisions in American society. The OG rapper, an organic intellectual, is for many Americans the anti-American Dream, the Horatio Alger myth gone awry among black, brown, and now white youth, whose success comes at the expense of the moral fiber of the nation. As long as the American mainstream (conserva- tives and liberals) mismanages King's dream and fails to grapple with the com- plexities of race and class in post-civil rights America, then not even the vaulted rhetoric of the American Dream can save us. WORKS CITED Burke, Kenneth. "From A Rhetoric of Motives." The Rhetorical Tradition: Readings from Classical Times to the Present. 2nd ed. Ed. Patricia Bizzell and Bruce Herzberg. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 2001. 1324-40. DMX. "Who We Be." The Great Depression. Island DefJam Music, 2001ool. 8 Mile. Dir. Curtis Hanson. Universal Pictures, 2002. The Game. "Dreams." The Documentary. Aftermath/G Unit/Interscope Records, 2005. Gramsci, Antonio. Selectionsfrom the Prison Notebooks. Ed. and Trans. Quintin Hoare and Geof- frey Nowell-Smith. New York: International, 1971. Kehr, Dave. "The Hip-hop Path Across Class Borders." New York Times, Nov. lo0, 2002: 15. King, Martin Luther, Jr. "I Have a Dream." A Call to Conscience: The Landmark Speeches of Dr. Mar- tin Luther King, Jr. Ed. Clayborne Carson and Kris Shepard. New York: Warner Books, 2001. -. Why We Can't Wait. New York: Mentor, 1964. Lewis, Neil. "President Faults Race Preferences as Admission Tool." New York Times, Jan. 16, 2003: 1-2. McLaren, Peter. "Gangsta Pedagogy and Ghettoethnicity: The Hip-hop Nation as Counterpublic Sphere." Socialist Review 25.2 (1995): 9-55. Perry, Imani. Prophets of the Hood: Politics and Poetics in Hip-hop. Durham: Duke UP, 2004. THE RHETORIC OF "I HAVE A DREAM" 237 Public Enemy. "Fight the Power." Fight the Power Live. DefJam/CBS Records, 1989. Rux, Carl Hancock. "Eminem: The New White Negro." Everything But the Burden: What White Peo- ple Are Takingfrom Black Culture. Ed. Greg Tate. New York: Broadway Books, 2003.15-38. Villanueva, Victor, Jr. Bootstraps: From an American Academic of Color. Urbana: NCTE, 1993. Washington, Patricia, and Lynda Dixon Shaver. "The Language Culture of Rap Music Videos." Language, Rhythm, and Sound: Black Popular Cultures into the Twenty-first Century. Ed. Joseph Adjaye and Adrianne Andrews. Pittsburgh: U of Pittsburgh P, 1997. 164-77. West, Kanye. "All Falls Down." College Dropout. Island DefJam Music, 2004. ARTICULATING THE VALUES OF LABOR AND LABORING 13 ever, making use of visual reenactments, videos, electronic texts, and databases to enact multimedia arguments concerning the events that serve as their reason for being. These polymodal forms of representation, and the economic forces within and behind them, intensify two key concerns that surround all memorial rhetoric: the formal question of civic rhetoric as a structuring medium whose ar- ticulation of a particular "heritage" is central to the process of public memory; and the related ethical issues rooted in whose and what rhetoric "speaks" within the multimedia-and commercial-activity that is heritage tourism. Ultimately, the question for the civic rhetoric of heritage tourism is whether it can-or wants to-capture this multivocality or to substitute some other form, multimedia perhaps, but perhaps ultimately univocal. There is already evi- dence of the loss of multivocality in the work of some organizations as they mod- ify their labor rhetoric to avoid offending corporate and political entities upon whom they depend for economic support. Such modifications of working-class rhetoric within heritage tourism so as to provide an adequate or, more troubling, an "acceptable" civic rhetoric for memorializing labor are the concern of this chapter. Interpretive Frameworks Derrida paraphrases Plato's sense of writing as a replacement for active mem- ory this way: "The sophist thus sells the signs and insignia of science: not memory itself (mneme), only monuments (hypomnmata), inventories, archives, citations, copies, accounts, tales, lists, notes, duplicates.... Not memory but memorials" (107). For Plato, writing is equivalent to fixed monuments: aides-memoires at best and, at worst, a misleading substitution of an object for the actual working of memory and the pursuit of truth. There is a similar sensibility at work in James Loewen's Lies Across America, a book whose subtitle, What Our Historic Sites Get Wrong, suggests his own con- cerns with memory and memorials: "When I was a boy on our annual summer vacation trips," he notes, "the family car seemed to stop at every historic marker and monument.... [Unfortunately, t]he lies that we encountered on our trips across the United States subtly distorted our knowledge of the past and warped our view of the world" (15).2 Although Loewen seems to imply a Platonic pursuit of truth, he remains a product of the twentieth century. Ultimately, his emphasis falls not on the truth of historic sites, but on the meanings that they help to enact, meanings about the Kathleen LeBesco Fatness as the Embodiment of Working-Class Rhetoric When the regulation of desire becomes especially problematic (as it is in advanced consumer cultures), women and their bodies will pay the greatest symbolic and material toll. -Susan Bordo, Unbearable Weight Even when individuals have managed to move upwards into middle class jobs, prevailing definitions ofphysical capital continue to mark their bodies with the stamp oftheir origins. -Chris Shilling, The Body and Social Theory rior to around 1970, the only reference to fat that one could find in popular and scholarly articles about social class was to "fat cats," captains of industry whose exploitation of the workingman allowed for a little indulgence on their part. Susan Bordo argues that the paunchy profile of mid-nineteenth-century businessmen and politicians sym- bolized bourgeois success, and that "by contrast, the gracefully slender body announced aristocratic status; disdainful of the bourgeois need to display wealth and power ostentatiously, it commanded social space invisibly rather than aggressively, seeming above the commerce in ap- petite or the need to eat" (191). Fat cats were never themselves of the working class, an identity embodied more typically by brawny or lean types. With the ensuing shift from industrial work to the less physi- cally exerting service and information economies, these bodily arche- 238 FATNESS AS WORKING-CLASS RHETORIC 239 types have reversed themselves. Contemporary writing on social class decries the ubiquity of obesity among the working class and celebrates the ability of the af- fluent to remain relatively insulated from the threat of the obesity "epidemic." Janice Turner, for example, claims that "it has never been harder to be slim. It takes a substantial amount of time, money, willpower, self-esteem and educa- tion. Healthy eating is like financial prudence: don't fritter away your future for present pleasures. And [...] that is a hard notion to instill in those who have least" (5). Television, our dominant cultural storyteller, has picked up on this new ren- dering of working-class bodies and has, in recent years, spun out a handful of representations of the non-elite. Perhaps the most familiar of these are Roseanne and Anna Nicole, women whose status as mythic signs renders unnecessary their last names. How do both women, despite their considerable monetary wealth, publicly perform working-class identities? How are their "excessive" bodies un- derstood in popular discourse? The fat bodies of Roseanne and Anna Nicole compose a rhetoric of disdain and stigma-a rhetoric embodied less in their tele- vision personas and more in the public framing of their identities. Roseanne and Anna Nicole provide a basis for understanding how fat bodies, despite their legi- bility as products of the cultural logic of late capitalism, incur disdain and stigma that transfer to the increasingly questioned socioeconomic category of "working class." This project takes up three questions: How do Anna Nicole and Roseanne simultaneously perform-and connect-their fat identities and working-class identities within a milieu that marginalizes both identity markers? How do vari- ous publics (especially the popular press) read and represent their fat, working- class bodies? From these two cases, what might we learn about fat bodies as leg- ible but stigmatized products of late capitalism? Performing Class and Fatness For much of the last fifty years in the United States, the working class has been largely invisible in the stream of representations produced by mass media (Bet- tie; Butsch). Whether this is the result of overt attempts to spit-shine the image of a nation always marked by economic disparity or a less disingenuous preoccupa- tion with American Dream-style class mobility, the fact remains, "working-class experiences and working-class identity are fundamental to American conscious- ness however much this has been denied and disguised by history, politics, popu- 240 KATHLEEN LEBESCO lar culture, national mythology, in theories about gender and race, and even by people whose economic situations might indicate their working-class status" (El- lis 1). The result is a "wealth-washed" perspective on social class in contemporary American culture. When working-class people appear in popular culture, they are often fat. Jackie Gleason on The Honeymooners, Esther Rolle on Good Times, and Carroll O'Connor on All in the Family serve as familiar sitcom examples. Furthermore, "often [they are] represented as lazy and without those managerial qualities that (according to popular ideology) confer upward mobility" (Grogan 140). This finding makes an interesting starting point for an analysis of stand-up comedian-turned-sitcom star and producer Roseanne, and model-cum-rich widow-cum-reality TV star Anna Nicole Smith. Having had creative control over her show, Roseanne never pre- sented her character as lazy, though she was certainly fat. In fact, the fictional Ro- seanne works a variety of different jobs, often more competently than her higher- paid supervisors, and faces a second shift of housework back at the Conner home. This does not mean that she is enamored of wage labor; instead, her sarcastic com- mentary clues viewers in to her bemused contempt for the whole enterprise. In ad- dition, over the nine-year run of the series, Roseanne Conner was upwardly mo- bile; despite being fat, she moved from hourly labor to an entrepreneurial position at her caf6. Nonetheless, the material conditions of the Conners stayed more or less the same until their lottery win. In contrast, Anna Nicole Smith, a voluptuous model who gained notori- ety for her marriage to an octogenarian tycoon, and later for a reality television show that presented the minutiae of her daily life, never controlled her media image. She found herself labeled a gold digger, although her marriage presented her only chance for upward mobility. Her reality series positions her as lazy in- asmuch as she rarely appears to work; instead, she frolics with her dog, parties, searches for a new house, and interacts with staff whose job seems to be to sup- port her Anna Nicole-ness. While it is easy to argue that both shows represent characters who may differ significantly from the women who play them-Rose- anne was very wealthy and powerful while playing a character who was consider- ably less so, and Anna Nicole may exaggerate her "dumb blonde" image for the cameras-the way both women carry on outside the context of their shows is largely consistent with the behavior and attitudes of their characters. Despite decreasing class consciousness on the part of a populace inundated with representations of consumerist bliss, Anna Nicole's and Roseanne's inter- ventions in popular culture have reminded the public of the existence of a vital FATNESS AS WORKING-CLASS RHETORIC 241 working class. That these performers of fat, working-class identity are also women compounds their transgressions, given the more stringent enforcement of cultural norms surrounding the female body. Farah Shroff provides a context for these in- terventions in her explanation of the compromises of feminism in the late twen- tieth century, stating that while women have, at long last, been encouraged to free their sexual appetites, they are simultaneously charged with the harsh task of reigning in their appetites for food (109), thus preventing themselves from getting too far "out of control." This remaining restriction is a legacy of religious and phil- osophical traditions in the West that code self-management as male, whereas "all those bodily spontaneities-hunger, sexuality, the emotions-seen as needful of containment and control have been culturally constructed and coded as female" (Bordo 205-6). Roseanne, detailing how she has maintained confidence while in- habiting a body otherwise considered unappealing, affirms this connection: To me, being fat isn't a negative .... Fat is a great friend. It's a cushion, very comforting at times. I feel sexy when I'm fat, but then I feel sexy when I'm skinny too. Being fat, for a woman, also means you take up more space, so you're seen-and probably heard-more easily. It's real ironic. At the same time that women were encouraged to be politically ac- tive and speak out, we unconsciously started to starve ourselves skinny, which is what men want us to do. That's very much a part of this wave of feminism, an epidemic among women. (qtd. in Dutka 83) Roseanne upholds the usefulness of the desires of women considered "by their very nature excessive, irrational, threatening to erupt and challenge the patriar- chal order" (Bordo 206) and articulates a politics of fatness that connects to her working-class identity. Some have suggested that, compared to the rank-and-file, celebrities can more easily embrace a fat acceptance agenda because fatness is a working-class problem a few levels removed from fame and beauty (Clanchy 8). This perspective fails to recognize that because of the resources available to ce- lebrities, they take more heat than everyday women for being fat-and thus their determination to proudly present their own fat bodies is a beacon of strength for working-class fans. Roseanne performs a proud version of working-class identity, albeit with a stripe of contradiction. In a Time magazine interview, she describes how after a lengthy stay at a mental institution, she lived in a trailer for seven years: "I don't recall that being a real negative time. I had three kids in three years and was into being pregnant and a mom. I had a very active inner life. Bill [her husband] liked it. I'd wait for him to come home at 4:30, serve Hamburger Helper and Jell-O and a salad, and we'd sit for hours passionately discussing music, art and Philos- 242 KATHLEEN LEBESCO ophy" (Dutka 82). Here the markers of working-class identity-trailer, familial orientation, early off-work time, cheap processed foods-stand in marked con- trast to discussions of philosophy, music, and art, which are often seen as the do- main of the "cultured" (upper middle/managerial class). Roseanne makes clear that her interests transcend the constraints of limited financial resources, and in so doing asserts herself as a voice for working women, while at the same time making overtures to more "cultured" readers. This double movement positions Roseanne as a woman of two eras-both the past, when the fat body signified status, and the present, when it signifies a lack of status. Roseanne's show reflects in a sassy manner many of the life experiences and concerns of working-class people. Roseanne Conner works a series of minimum- wage jobs-from factory worker and shampoo girl to fast-food counter helper and waitress-and experiences financial strain as a result. She copes by joking about her predicament in a way that promotes class consciousness. For instance, as she anticipates a storm, she asks her family, "What's the worst that could hap- pen? The tornado could pick up our house and slam it down in a better neigh- borhood?" (Freed 95). Many plotlines feature Roseanne cutting down to size her despotic, sexist bosses-whether undermining unrealistic production quotas at the factory or telling off a clockwatching caf6 supervisor-and finding resource- ful ways to afford necessities and even occasional splurges on a tight budgets, thus representing the realities of working-class people (Bettie, 13o; Freed, 95). Roseanne's real-life second husband, Tom Arnold, assisted her in performing a public working-class identity. Entertainment Weekly referred to their marriage as "a match made in trailer-trash heaven," pointing out that both stars were brash and overweight. At their wedding, Arnold, playing on Roseanne's then well- known working-class sensibility, bellowed a slogan that would define the cou- ple for the remainder of their years together: "We're America's worst nightmare: white trash with money!" (Schwartz 110). Both celebrities clearly enjoyed their deviance from received norms of comportment; Roseanne has been described as having "absolutely no use for the pretenses of American propriety" (Rich 15). Photos from 1990, published in Vanity Fair by celebrity photographer Annie Lei- bowitz, showed the portly couple rolling in mud, an image that cemented their trashy reputation. Indeed, with her aggressive personality, working-class sensi- bility, and unrepentantly fat body, Roseanne "didn't just push people's buttons, God bless her, she held her thumb there and buzzed away" (Millman 2). Anna Nicole Smith also pushes buttons. Smith has been in the public eye since the early 1990s, when she hit it big as a model for Guess jeans. However, two FATNESS AS WORKING-CLASS RHETORIC 243 more recent happenings garnered her notoriety: the death of her octogenarian billionaire husband and subsequent squabbles over his estate, and the debut of her reality show in August 2002. Steve Johnson of the Chicago Tribune described Anna Nicole as "the borderline narcoleptic stripper-turned Playmate-turned bil- lionaire's bride" (1). Anna Nicole seemed to annoy people by being wealthy while still performing a working-class identity, and by becoming fat once she had the money that is supposed to signify thinness. However, her behavior has never been as warrior-like as Roseanne's; in many cases, viewers wondered to what ex- tent Anna Nicole had any control over her presentation. While Anna Nicole may be less savvy than Roseanne about her public image, she seems aware that some people take pleasure in it for reasons other than mocking fun. Anna Nicole rec- ognized a fan base in big women: "I have large women that love me," part of the "whole market" (Johnson 1). In recognizing herself as a poster girl for fat women, she performed pride in her appearance, a subversive move for a woman whose body is ridiculed with the intensity of a thousand suns. Indeed, on The Anna Nicole Show, we see Anna Nicole as a fat woman who is unashamed of her sexuality, and who showcases her raging libido by bouncing on a bed while house-hunting, talking dirty to the camera, and discussing her mas- turbation habits. Until the show's 2004 season, when Anna Nicole appears sixty- nine pounds lighter than in previous seasons, Anna Nicole's time on her show was spent doing mundane things-meeting with her lawyer and personal assist- ant, shopping, playfully "voguing" for the camera-and not on obsessing over weight. Nonetheless, Anna Nicole makes a problematic role model for fat women when she articulates a negative self-image and especially when she undertakes a radical body transformation project via the specious means known as Trim- spa. Describing her depression after the death of her octogenarian husband- a period in which "Smith porked up to over 200 pounds on a diet of Twinkies, Little Debbie cakes, carbonated drinks and more than three meals a day" (Rob- ins 3)-Anna Nicole says, "I stayed in bed, and I ate and had panic attacks. It was horrible. I went from sex symbol to fat blob" (qtd. in Robins 3). Whereas Roseanne's early presentation of fat working-class existence was all armor, Anna Nicole's seems to be more chink. Indeed, her preoccupation with dieting in her show's second season cut short the subversive possibilities of her fat body. Anna Nicole's logic is consistent with Susan Bordo's notion that "those who are willing to present themselves as pitiable, in pain, and conscious of their own unattrac- tiveness-often demonstrated [...] by self-admissions about intimate physical difficulties, orgies of self-hate, or descriptions of gross consumption of food, win 244 KATHLEEN LEBESCO the sympathy and concern of the audience" (204). However, the sympathy and concern of vast swaths of the audience has been forthcoming for neither Rose- anne nor Anna Nicole, despite their varying presentational strategies. Representing Class and Fatness in the Popular Press In an essay exploring the political uses of the body by the modern state, Har- vey and Sparks consider the claim that bodily functioning and expression have been negated by the sedentariness and deskilled labor characteristic of mass production-based industrial societies. Concomitant with this perspective, they argue, is a belief that "health and wellness professionals are [. ..] working to help correct some of these excesses and injustices of industrial production" (165). Though health and wellness professionals are certainly involved in this correc- tive process today, a posse of media pundits, journalists, and entertainment re- porters have thrown their hats into the ring, as well, drawing attention to those public exemplars of postindustrial corporeality, fat folk. In conjunction with their editors, they have spun out hundreds of articles about Anna Nicole and Ro- seanne whose very titles frame them as beyond unsympathetic; "Anna's Just a Big Waist of Our Time" (Williamson 2002) is but one example. The media's framing of Roseanne since the 1988 debut of her sitcom can best be described as ambivalent. Her immensely popular show was immediately rec- ognized as the first in a long time to present a blue-collar universe to audiences who could identify with the economic hardships of the Conners, laugh along with the show's cynical sensibility, and perhaps even feel superior to the on- screen family's loutish antics. One journalist wrote, "Think about Roseanne in sweat pants and a bra riding piggyback on Dan, squealing about their winning lottery ticket; you don't have to be an overeducated snob for the word vulgar to pop into mind" (James 37). While critics generally lauded the show-"the white trash yang to Bill Cos- by's buppie yin" (Nussbaum 19)-for its humor and its groundbreaking depic- tions of working-class life, the punditocracy is less than enthusiastic about the celebrity herself: "Roseanne [the character] herself was loud and crass, mirroring the star's persona more than any class distinction" (James 37). The character is forgiven her boorishness, but the celebrity is not. Indeed, much disdain centers on Roseanne's performance of everyday life, as when she is lambasted for her off- key rendition of the national anthem and mock crotch-grabbing at a San Diego ballgame. In contrast, observations about the representation of working-class FATNESS AS WORKING-CLASS RHETORIC 245 life in the show are typically enamored and forgiving, even when underscoring occasional indulgence in class stereotyping. The New York Times proclaims: "de- spite its lulls and its heroine's abrasive presence, the series played a crucial role in defining social class and establishing the dysfunctional family as the norm in the 1990's" (James 37). Even so, according to another critic, "they indulge in a manic physicality that would be unthinkable among the more controlled and genteel Huxtables. They maintain a traditional, low-fiber diet of white bread and maca- roni. They are not above a fart joke" (Ehrenreich, "Wretched of the Hearth" 28). Those comments aimed at Roseanne the celebrity are decidedly less gentle. In de- scribing her August 2003 reality show for readers of the New York Times, John Le- land, nearly rapturous with intimations of schadenfreude, takes great care to por- tray Roseanne as crude and undignified: "Six years after her exhibitionistic, often tyrannical behavior wore out both the television industry and the audience, the potential for more of the same is precisely what she has to sell. [. . .] It has been more than a decade since being Roseanne meant grabbing her crotch after sing- ing the national anthem at a baseball game and publicly accusing her parents of molesting her as a child. [. . .] Her face, once the most popular on television, looks chiseled on the site of its former self, reflecting extensive cosmetic sur- gery." (2). This commentary suggests that Roseanne poses a threat. If Roseanne chooses to depict herself as satisfied with her body and under no false pretenses about the obstacles to class mobility, she also presents a menace to those faithful adherents of a meritocracy wherein people who work hard at their menial jobs and hard at keeping their bodies in shape will be rewarded. Indeed, "the tabloids have taken to stalking Barr as if she were an unsightly blot on the electronic land- scape of our collective dreams" (Ehrenreich, "Wretched of the Hearth" 31). Though much of the media commentary on Roseanne takes similarly cheap shots at her "trashiness," her fatness, and her aggressiveness, a few critics have made thoughtful observations of the distance between the blue-collar life of her sitcom character and the New Age decadence of Roseanne the celebrity. Initially hailed by progressive writer Barbara Ehrenreich as "the neglected underside of the eighties, bringing together its great themes of poverty, obesity, and defiance" ("Wretched of the Hearth" 28), working woman Roseanne uses her feistiness to avoid being victimized by her social circumstances. Emily Nussbaum, looking back at the show's premiere in the New York Times, declares that "Roseanne Con- nor [sic] broke the mold for TV mothers: she was crabby, she was fat, she was crushed by her responsibilities, but she was loving despite it all" (19). Another critic commented: "during most of the show's run, the Conners were a paycheck 246 KATHLEEN LEBESCO away from disaster and openly contemptuous of corporate America. They defied TV stereotypes of 'white trash' (a term Roseanne and Dan often gleefully used to describe themselves), showing a hippie-like open-mindedness, a refined sense of ironic humor. The Conners were too smart for the grunt jobs they were stuck with, but no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't make it to the next level" (Millman 2). However, by the final episode, the thinner, wealthier Roseanne Conner artic- ulates the American Dream: "I learned that no one could stop me but me." Nuss- baum argues, "It's Roseanne's takeaway philosophy. But it's also the very New Age message that the first episode mocked as opium for the masses: the prom- ise that you control your own destiny. Roseanne on the cusp saw that as class propaganda: a way of blaming people for their own troubles. Roseanne the celeb- rity embraced it" (Nussbaum 19). Instead of lambasting Roseanne for exempli- fying working-class mores and being fat, Nussbaum pensively criticizes her as a class traitor. This media account of Roseanne's shift in values illustrates the com- promises that resulted in the series' end undermining its original premise-that working-class life and fatness could be points of pride. Caryn James echoes this sentiment, tying the star's change of heart to her change of body. In analyzing Roseanne's "shark jumping" (attempting to boost ratings with gimmicky special episodes and wacky plot twists) in its final years, James contends that "a rich Roseanne Conner was as bizarre as the conspicuous physical makeover that no one in the Conner family ever mentioned" (37). That Roseanne the celebrity was compelled to transmogrify Roseanne the character away from her very brassy beginnings not only in body but also in economic for- tune undermines the very principles for which she originally stood. Much of the popular press coverage of Anna Nicole Smith tells of her working- class roots, though most of it chooses to mock her "white trash" story. Born in Texas, Smith dropped out of high school in tenth grade, married at seventeen, and became a single mother (Ryan 1; Murphy 15). Many stories about Smith highlight her short-lived career as a fast-food counterperson, linking her work at the lowest levels of the food service industry to her body: "Her ample physical endowments are fair game because she'd still be plucking feathers at Jim's Krispy Fried Chicken in Mexia, Texas, if not for the existence of them" (Williamson 1). Other stories tie her to different bastions of underemployment: "She worked for several months at a Wal-Mart [. ..] and later at a Red Lobster but wasn't making enough to pay the rent and buy food" (Murphy 15). In USA Today, Donna Freydkin actively and ex- plicitly positions Anna Nicole as white trash: "In person, Smith is less a bodacious, FATNESS AS WORKING-CLASS RHETORIC 247 buxom glamour puss than a weary, slightly washed-out, soft-spoken former model who still radiates muted shades of the party-girl pizzazz that first put her on the map. That was back in the 1990s, when the voluptuous model strutted down the catwalk and served as the body and face of Guess? Jeans. Today, she's best known as the former stripper who netted $88 million." (15). Even the title of Freydkin's ar- ticle, "Anna Nicole Out of Bed, Onto TV," positions her as mythic welfare queen, sleeping excessively and waking only to take handouts. Despite Smith's wealth, Freydkin successfully positions her as working class because of her lack of control over the circumstances of her own life-then derides her for it: "Smith, who has no official creative input or control, nevertheless gave cameras wide-open access. [. . .] In a display of tastelessness, viewers hear Smith urinating in her bathroom. Smith says her life is maddeningly mundane. [.. ..] 'Maybe I go bowl or something. Come home. Watch TV a lot. I like to watch The Simpsons, King ofthe Hill, and my favorite is Jerry Springer"' (Freydkin 15). Freydkin's snide tone is meant to remind readers just how reprehensible this woman is, with her low-rent hobbies, her will- ingness to sell her privacy to the highest bidder, and her foisting the sound of uri- nation on a seemingly unsuspecting audience. Other writers hone in on Anna Nicole's body, rather than her working-class identity, as an offense to humankind. Diane Williamson carps: "Anna Nicole has become cluelessly unaware that the 'Aren't I sexy' act grows old fast when one's butt has attained cabin-cruiser proportions, when one's desire for sex has ap- parently been replaced by a constant craving for food, so much so that in one episode she literally stopped in her tracks while house hunting and announced, "Hold on-I gotta eat something," as though she were a diabetic in need of in- sulin." The stakes in repudiating fat-as-sexy seem to be very high for this critic who snarls that Anna Nicole, at 34, "can't even do the only thing that made her famous-look good." Williamson's commentary is characteristic of public re- sponse to Anna Nicole-a certain sense of outrage at her nouveau riche, indul- gent, sizeable self that seems rather overblown in proportion to Anna Nicole's momentary blip on the pop culture radar. To claim that "Anna Nicole is not the 'outrageous' figure touted in the show's insipid jingle" is arguably correct (un- less one follows Kathleen Rowe's argument about the subversiveness of the un- ruly woman); but to conclude "She's just repulsive and really, really dumb" is to betray a certain anxiety about her visibility as an icon of working-class appetites (Williamson 1). This anxiety is echoed, although in far less vituperative form, in many press reports about Anna Nicole. Bill Murphy describes in the Houston Chronicle how 14 JAMES V. CATANO societies that erect them, interpret them, destroy them, and ignore them. As it engages in such memorializing, civic rhetoric establishes itself as a primary form of public memory and historical truth. Yet monuments are not fixed truths, even though their regular use of stone attempts to suggest otherwise. They are op- portunities for us to enact doxa, to enact social and cultural beliefs, desires, and needs-sociocultural meanings, in short. So defined, memorial rhetoric is re- lated to another sophistic concern, that of kairos, the complex interplay between rhetoric and certain sociocultural beliefs, needs, and understandings within a given situation. In considering the rhetoric of labor and its use by heritage tourism, then, I am interested in demonstrating that the civic rhetoric of and about memori- als really is no more and no less than those historical, contextual meanings that are enacted by a rhetorical dynamic linking the monument with the particular moments that, more and more, include the economic environment in which the rhetoric takes place. Speaking Labor History Like many memorial objects, the Homestead monument was put in place af- ter the specific event it commemorates-in this case, nearly fifty years later. We know the "stated rhetoric" of the monument, preserved as it is in the granite's own physicality and records of its dedication. Designed to memorialize the nineteenth- century death of steelworkers and their Amalgamated Association, the seven-foot carved stone fits easily into the genre of war memorials, a fact underlined not only by workers' deaths in the battle, but also by workers' clear sense that they were under attack by corporate powers and were attempting to defend not just their jobs but also their way of life-albeit unsuccessfully. Erected in 1941 by the Steel Workers' Organizing Committee and Local Un- ions in Homestead, Pennsylvania, a suburb of Pittsburgh, the monument's 1941 dedication speaks to a rebirth of unionization and worker control and the status of labor power at that time. From the outset, the monument's creation and dedi- cation engage a complex rhetorical argument that encapsulates the past event and its context, as well as then-contemporary sensibilities regarding the role of labor and industrialization within Pittsburgh and the United States as a whole. In its design, the monument readily engages a visual rhetoric of dynamism, if not outright victory, in the war over workers' rights, even though the initial battle was lost. The steelworker, perhaps lancing a heat through his furnace's 248 KATHLEEN LEBESCO in court appearances related to her late husband's estate, Smith testified that "she, a single mother unable to pay her rent, came to marry one of Houston's richest men and received extraordinarily expensive jewelry, three homes and a constant flow of cash" (15). That Anna Nicole was able to enact a massive eco- nomic transformation with only her body as currency angers many. Whereas our culture hews to an ideal of working-class people pulling themselves up by their bootstraps, we are decidedly less comfortable with the image of working-class women pulling themselves up by their bra straps, trading on bodies far outside the range of cultural acceptability to gain economic advantage. This link between sexuality and the fat body is made, if not sufficiently ana- lyzed, in other press reports about Smith. The Los Angeles Times tells us: "seem- ingly at peace with the tonnage she added since her cover-girl glory, our hero- ine carried herself like Moby-Dick in drag," and, in the same breath, "we also met her slashing wit, as when she said she wanted to go home and masturbate, and later when she talked dirty to the camera while dressing for a party: 'Bring it on, I dare you"' (Rosenberg 1). There seems to be some queasiness here about Anna Nicole's comfort with her own excessive body and her playful expressions of sexuality. Anna Nicole has broken the Hollywood code whereby size-six fe- male sex symbols are supposed to ooze sexuality (how very classy of them!) but never speak of, or vulgarize, it. Jana Evans Braziel argues that media attention to Anna Nicole's speech on her show masks anxiety about other matters of the mouth: eating and sexuality. Braziel highlights comments about "the hypervisi- bility of Anna Nicole's body and sexuality, again suffused with unstated anxieties about (over-) consumption" (1) in a move that speaks to the central threat posed by Smith and other fat working-class women. Media coverage of Smith seeks to temper this threat by whatever means possible, which often equates to encour- agement of an ironic or detached appraisal of her. In the Boston Globe, Suzanne Ryan quotes Boston psychologist Shari Thurer, who says that Smith is an "icon of gluttony. She portrays herself as sexually voracious and monetarily voracious. On top of that, she parodies herself by calling attention to herself as kitsch. Most people will watch the show straightforwardly and enjoy vicariously her taste- lessness. Then we can feel superior to her because we don't do that" (1). Indeed, Anna Nicole's fat working-class menace can be kept at bay if viewers are encour- aged to scoff at rather than embrace her seditious potential. Not all coverage mandates this kind of perspective on Anna Nicole, how- ever. Jean Harvey and Robert Sparks, reporting the 1988 findings of Laberge and Sankoff, state: "the middle class engaged in dieting and devoted considerable time (preparing low-calorie meals) and effort (participating in physical activi- FATNESS AS WORKING-CLASS RHETORIC 249 ties) to improving or maintaining their physical appearance; the working class tended to skirt these issues and emphasize external (surface) aspects of appear- ance: cosmetics and dress" (Harvey and Sparks 173). Writing for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, Dawn Fallik draws (however unintentionally) on this repertoire of meaning to describe Smith. In response to a claim by a former manager that Anna Nicole is not "exactly Shamu" despite her weight gain, Fallik writes, "Actu- ally, she's more Amazon than sea mammal, all blue-eyeshadowed, strapless and smirky-grinned. Even if the strength is pure surface glitz, it's nice to see a large- size sexy woman strut her racetrack curves. I just wish she sounded as secure and sassy as she appears on the runway" (1). At the same time as Fallik proposes that fatness and sex appeal are not mutually exclusive-an unusual idea in the con- text of newspaper coverage-she reminds us that Anna Nicole emphasizes su- perficial elements that tie her to the working class. Fatness and the Logic ofLate Capitalism Part of the problem of the contemporary working classes is that the two parts of their traditional identifier have been torn asunder: "The American working class is rapidly losing its cultural specificity as working-class men increasingly de- fine their identity not through work but through their middle-class consumption patterns and lifestyle" (Lamont 194). Indeed, what appear to be individual eat- ing habits and practices of bodily maintenance are the result and embodiment of class dispositions (Harvey and Sparks 172). When work is replaced by consump- tion as the chief signifier of class identity, the shape of the working-class body changes. Gone is the muscled physique of the dockworker, replaced by the fleshy form of the customer service representative with the ability to afford relatively cheap and absolutely abundant junk food. Much of the gravitation of the work- ing classes toward this type of food can be explained by the concept of food inse- curity. Study results indicate that "low household income, recent unemployment and economic problems in childhood were all predictors of food insecurity. [. ..] In addition, obese people reported more buying cheaper food due to economic problems and fears or experiences of running out of money to buy food than did normal weight subjects" (Sarlio-Lahteenkorva and Lahelma 2880). As a result of this fallout, the lean, disciplined body is the signifier of choice for affluence un- der capitalism: "There is a prima facie case for believing that a dietary 'calling' to discipline the body by reference to a religio-medical regimen would have been compatible with a spirit of capitalism" (B. Turner 27). Members of the working class, then, find one another less and less in social 250 KATHLEEN LEBESCO clubs, union meetings, and fraternal organizations; instead, they recognize one another at the grocery store checkout counter or in line at the plus-size clothing emporium. Where their shared identification used to be based on pride in work, it is oftentimes today rooted in culturally mandated shame over their fatness, inter- preted by society as consumption-gone-amok. Indeed, "postindustrialization and the accompanying economic restructuring have set in motion a series of forces that undermine working-class cohesion and create new types of social identifi- ers that are not conducive to class mobilization" (Jenkins and Leicht 377). Shame is an ineffective basis for solidarity, as it scatters its bearers so as to "help" them avoid incurring stigma. The shaming of fatness, a primary mode of working-class rhetoric today, is a forbiddingly neat way to keep the working class in its place. Furthermore, with obesity on the rise at all class levels, researchers are ques- tioning the very accuracy of comfortably ensconced links between working-class identity and obesity. Ahmad debunks the working-class associations of obes- ity: "Current obesity rates vary less across income lines than one might sup- pose: They are 29 percent for people who make less than $1o,ooo per year, ver- sus 25 percent for people who make more than $50,000 per year" (62). Grogan, attempting to understand the misperception that working-class bodies are usu- ally fat, cites a 1996 study by Robinson et. al., which suggests: "pressures to be thin are spreading beyond the upper and middle classes, producing increased levels of body concern amongst working-class girls, and that body concern is no longer associated with socio-economic status in women" (qtd. in Grogan 138). Those who hold this misperception may fail to take into account the power of media outlets, which "have created more similar cultural pressures on people of different classes. [. . .] Through this democratization of vision, people of all so- cial classes are presented with the same kinds of pressures to conform to the ide- alized images presented in the media. Recent evidence suggests that the democ- racy of vision produced by the popular media, where people of all classes watch the same television programmes and the same movies, read similar magazines and aspire to the same fashions in clothes (although marketed more cheaply to those in lower income groups), has produced shared body shape ideals that span class divides" (Featherstone qtd. in Grogan 138). Despite the evidence that paints fatness as characteristic of all social classes, the low-class reputation sticks, topped with a dollop of shame. We carry on as if "being thin is virtuous and a sign of economic success, but being fat is shame- fully lower class. ... Thus fat represents low social status and lack of self-control" (Szekely qtd. in MacInnis 77). FATNESS AS WORKING-CLASS RHETORIC 251 Gender must enter the equation, as well. Consistently equating fatness with working-class identity (which skews toward women and children these days) and shaming both serves to discipline women perceived as out of control. Beth MacInnis argues that fat oppression "serves to keep women from deviating from male-defined normative behavior." Fat women are not seen "as actively trying to please men, and are subjected to ridicule, scorn, and contempt" (76). This con- nects to class in that women's primary value in patriarchal society is an indicator of how well they approximate male-defined body ideals. In this scheme, dieting and lavish attention to superficial aspects of appearance become tools of class mobility for women. Dieting contributes to the "forging of the free but docile citizen" (77). Though rarely commented on (aside from the "white trash" appellation), the racial identification of Roseanne and Anna Nicole merits consideration. Annalee Newitz and Matthew Wray elucidate the linkages between classism and racism, paying particular attention to the ways in which the white trash label serves to undermine stable notions of white identity as a locus of power. At the same time, the label is used to blame the poor for their poverty and social problems: in other words, it does not merely identify marginal white people, it provides cultural myths to justify their continued marginalization. Newitz and Wray are sharply critical of Roseanne's class narrative, which they feel suggests a "strategy of denial" wherein class difference becomes a free-floating signifier donned and doffed for entertainment purposes rather than the harsh material reality that it truly is. The iconic figure of the fat woman has been a point of intersection for dis- courses of race, class, and gender in popular representations for decades. Though Roseanne and Anna Nicole are clearly white-identified, facets of their personae hark to the mammy tradition in American film. Usually "big, fat, and cantanker- ous" (Bogle 9), it went without saying that the mammy was also black, a mater- nal servant who, fiercely independent from black men, supported the domestic sphere of the white master more than she did her own children. Scholar Lisa An- derson argues: "the social role that the icon mammy plays in mainstream culture has not changed, but the presentation of the woman who performs as mammy has" (43). Thus in an era in which civil-rights gains and black-produced enter- tainment media have loosened semiotic connections between blackness and re- strictions on upward mobility, fatness steps in neatly to signify inferiority. An- derson characterizes the mammy as good and docile, a servile foil to her potent white master. To make a parallel case for Anna Nicole Smith or Roseanne would 252 KATHLEEN LEBESCO be difficult, as these are unruly women; but as I have argued above, each has her moments of capitulation to mainstream white middle-class body and comport- ment ideals for women. Instead, Roseanne and Anna Nicole seem to resemble the mammy most in light of Anderson's contention: "[M]ammy is also perceived as a threat to society and order. While much of the time not taken seriously, she can also be seen as the seed that could bring down the natural order" (40). In Roseanne and Anna Nicole Smith, we see fat women who have incurred public wrath for getting rich but being fat. Roseanne, far from docile in her early assertive feminist politics, was deemed less of a public annoyance after the weight loss and extensive plastic surgery afforded by her self-made millions. Mike Feath- erstone argues: "The subjugation of the body through body maintenance rou- tines is presented within consumer culture as a precondition for the achievement of an acceptable appearance and the release of the body's expressive capacity" ("The Body in Consumer Culture" 18). He also points out: "the mastery of the cul- tural person entails a seemingly 'natural' mastery not only of information [. . .] but also of how to use and consume appropriately and with natural ease in every situation" ("Perspectives on Consumer Culture" lo). Though Roseanne's verbal rhetoric was rarely tamed, her embodied rhetoric was shorn of its rough edges by her consumption of surgical procedures. Anna Nicole could more easily be labeled "docile" with her soft voice and seemingly drugged manner, yet her tre- mendous power to rankle just by being herself-a fat, nouveau riche woman- lifted her out of submissiveness. Jeffery Sobal and Albert Stunkard state: "obesity is a severely stigmatized condition among women, and one of relative affective neutrality among men." However, "women appear far more ready to accept the stigma" (264). Here we have the rub. Roseanne's vociferous rhetoric of fat acceptance is no longer worn on her body, her layers of fat carved away in the service of a new, elite self suited to the upper-class woman she has become. Anna Nicole continues to articulate a more contradictory position on her own fatness, sometimes internalizing the stigma of the "fat, unsexy blob" and other times embracing her status as a fat icon in the first season of her show-followed, of course, by a well-publicized weight- loss regimen. Catrina Brown and Karin Jasper contend: "women learn that their own appetites are to be controlled or denied rather than being indulged and en- joyed as a source of pleasure" (19). The disjuncture between how Roseanne and Anna Nicole intermittently perform fat identity with their words and with their bodies may be owed to an ongoing struggle with the normative imposition of re- straints on appetite. FATNESS AS WORKING-CLASS RHETORIC 253 Figures like Anna Nicole and Roseanne solve a problem for capitalism, an economic system partly dependent upon unrestrained appetites for consump- tion. Their excessiveness, in both body and behavior, exemplifies the persistence of the carnivalesque within a major site of consumption, American media. Feath- erstone writes: "According to Bataille's (1988) notion of general economy, eco- nomic production should not be linked to scarcity, but to excess. [... . The key problem becomes what to do with la part maudite, the accursed share, the excess of energy translated into an excess of product and goods, a process of growth which reaches its limits in entropy and anomie. To control growth effectively and manage the surplus the only solution is to destroy or squander the excess [done through carnivals, etc ....] Yet capitalism also produces images and sites of con- sumption which endorse the pleasures of excess" ("Perspectives on Consumer Culture" 14). When understood in this context, Anna Nicole and Roseanne lose some of their subversive power and appear as cogs. Their representation as self-indulgent, excessive, trashy women helps to control growth and manage surplus. But when virtue is associated with high-class thinness and self-indulgence with working- class fatness, Barbara Ehrenreich says, there's a reason for it: Low-fat is the flip side of avarice for a reason: Thanks to America's deep streak of Puri- tanism-perhaps mixed with a dollop of democratic idealism-ours has been a culture where everyone wants to be rich, but no one wants to be known as a "fat cat." We might be hogging the Earth's resources and tormenting the global working class, the affluent seem to be saying, but at least we're not indulging the ancient human craving for fat. So the low-fat diet has been the hair shirt under the fur coat-the daily deprivation that off- sets the endless greed. ("Low-fat Capitalism" 13) Roseanne and Anna Nicole are two women struggling to reconcile newfound riches with working-class origins, trying to decide how to project the rhetoric of their bodies within this context of deprivation and greed. It appears, for the time being, that their cultural interventions have been enough to make some of us re- examine the relationship among gender, social class, and fatness, though they remain "read" by much of the public as irritating exemplars of an irredeemably trashy fatness-confirmation of current prejudices. Still, the hope exists that Ro- seanne and Anna Nicole are but two instances of the increasing circulation of a variety of bodies that represent physical capital, a circulation that may engender a change in social values. Chris Shilling poses a desirable end result: "In contem- porary consumer society, then, we may be witnessing processes which will make it extremely difficult for any one group to impose as hegemonic, as worthy of 254 KATHLEEN LEBESCO respect and deference across society, a single classificatory scheme of 'valuable bodies"' (143). To undo the easy rhetoric of working-class bodies as shameful, to allow them long-awaited subjectivity, would be the ideal outcome. WORKS CITED Ahmad, Shaheena. "How to Slim Down the World's Fattest Society: Time for a Twinkie Tax?" US News and World Report, Dec. 29, 1997: 62-63. Anderson, Lisa M. Mammies No More: The Changing Image of Black Women on Stage and Screen. Lanham, MD: Rowman, 1997. Bettie, Julie. "Class Dismissed? 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Steve Martin Establishing Counterhegemony through Narrative The Comic Books of the Congress oflndustrial Organizations recent survey of labor scholars revealed that the founding of the Congress of Industrial Organizations (CIO) was organized labor's top ac- 'A complishment of the twentieth century (AFSCME).' Robert Zeiger, in fact, writes that the "CIO stands at the center of the history of the twentieth century. Its emergence was the key episode in the country's coming to terms with the 'labor problem' that had commanded public attention since at least the 1870s" (1). Immediately after its break from the American Federation of Labor (AFL) in 1935, writes Ronald Filippelli, "workers in the mass-production industries found the initials CIO a rally- ing cry with almost magical significance" (189). Within one year, the CIO "boasted of four million members" and "everywhere there seemed to be militant organizing drives, sitdown strikes, mass picketing and company union takeovers" (189). In 1937, the CIO outnumbered its rival, the AFL, with five million members; and, in 1955, it claimed to have nearly six mil- lion (Preis 4, 166). Furthermore, in the defining decade of the 1930s, it was the CIO, writes Melvyn Dubofsky, "that symbolized labor upheaval" (378). As the first organization to unionize the mass industrial worker on a nationwide scale, the CIO was a powerful working-class force. Scholarly attention paid to the CIO and its unions has in no way been scant. In fact, scholars have sustained lively debates over the leg- acy of the CIO. At least three distinguishable historiographical threads 256 ESTABLISHING COUNTERHEGEMONY THROUGH NARRATIVE 257 exist in the CIO literature. A "New Left" evaluation contends that the CIO "sold out" (Levenstein; Ochinsky; Rosswurm). More than any other influential organi- zation, these scholars maintain, the CIO possessed radical potential that it squan- dered. Alternatively, a "New Deal liberal" assessment maintains that the CIO should be judged favorably because it continued to advance the general purpose of the socially progressive New Deal era (Dubofsky; Kampleman; Zeiger). Walter Galenson, one of the earliest historians of the CIO, put it this way: "It is no exag- geration to say that there was a fundamental, almost revolutionary change in the power relations of American society" (xvii). Finally, scholars have begun to study and to write about the CIO as more than simply a federation of labor unions, but as a larger "social movement" that derived its power from grassroots action (Cohen; Freeman; Friedlander). This perspective downplays the institutionalized power of the CIO and instead emphasizes its grassroots, working-class identity. Put in now-common phrases, the CIO under this estimation was more of a "bot- tom-up" rather than a "top-down" organization. What is noticeably missing from much historical analysis is a serious con- sideration of the language and discourse used by the CIO. Rhetoric rarely has played an evidential role in the disputes of historians. The discourse of the CIO, however, is particularly important: the centralized and hierarchical leadership of the CIO communicated with national and local unions and the rank-and-file via pamphlets, newsletters, and speeches. One particularly intriguing form of dis- course the CIO used in its efforts to communicate to the working class is comic books, which provide a uniquely adaptable body of evidence from which to ana- lyze the CIO's communicative strategies. I will examine four comic books that were produced, published, or distrib- uted by the national leadership of the CIO: "Joe Worker and the Story of Labor," "The Bible and the Working Man," "They Got the Blame," and "There are No Master Races." These documents are educational, instructional, and persuasive tools that uniquely told the history of the labor movement and instructed work- ers about the future course of action they should take. Moreover, these comic books functioned to establish a kind-of "counterhegemony," a vision of what it meant to be an American that was unique to the rank-and-file and ran counter to mainstream beliefs and assumptions. Narratives and Hegemony What was the purpose of the narratives for the specific comic books under consideration? Gramsci and Benjamin provide relevant theories regarding the ARTICULATING THE VALUES OF LABOR AND LABORING 15 door, is not bowed, but powerful and fully involved in his labor. The produc- tivity of that labor is echoed and reinforced through the stylized "blast" of the furnace upward, a design that also carries overtones of Soviet-era labor repre- sentations, hagiography, and even simple sunburst motifs. In like fashion, the in- scription boldly speaks its role in serving to commemorate the "memory of the iron and steel workers who were killed ... in defense of their American rights," rights that, by implication, were denied them by the un-American practices of the Carnegie Steel Company. As such, the monument can be, in the words of Blair and Michel, "judged both generically appropriate and culturally legible." That is, the steelworkers' monument "incites contemplation and thoughtfulness, raise[s] compelling is- sues, about relationships of the deceased . .. to the living, . . . [and] offers what all memorial discourses must-an acknowledgment and place of dignified trib- ute to the deceased" (38). But there are other aspects of the monument's rhetoric as well. A physically de-contextualized description cannot enact the looming presence, seven blocks away, of the immense Carnegie Library, erected by its namesake in 1898. In sheer size, the visual rhetoric of the steelworker's monument is dwarfed by that of Carnegie's building-a reduction that also hints at the monument's and the workers' varying degrees and forms of power to control not only the workplace but the rhetoric and, indeed, the doxa surrounding the role of labor in general. The use of such civic and doxic power is demonstrated by Carnegie's own rhetoric at the dedication of this personal monument, a rhetoric that left no doubt about how he felt regarding the battle and how his library was to argue its proper commemoration. As Carnegie said, with a delightful capacity for eras- ure, "I can never cease to have among my fondest wishes this wish, that the work- men of Homestead will know no end to their present abounding prosperity, nor to the cordial and friendly relations which happily exist between the firm and its many thousands of skilled, intelligent, self-respecting workmen in all its works. The best of all unions is such a happy union as prevails everywhere between the firm and its men, the two contracting parties representing kind, friendly capital and self-respecting labor" (Demarest 207). The library was thus Carnegie's means for arguing a specific cultural mem- ory of the Battle of Homestead, while its massive size dramatized his hegem- onic right to engage a rhetorical position in the first place. Union activities were crushed following the Homestead defeat, and it was no longer possible even to gather on the streets in groups of more than two or three without the almost 258 STEVE MARTIN roles of narrative in labor education. The purpose of a story, Benjamin writes, is "instruction." This instruction, moreover, is of a certain kind: it possesses an "orientation toward practical interests" (86). There are three ways in which the storyteller may provide "counsel" to the audience: (1) moral advice, (2) practi- cal advice, and, (3) a proverb or maxim. The overall significance of a story is to convey wisdom, which Benjamin defines as "counsel woven into the fabric of real life" (86-87). Storytelling is not the mere dissemination of information, which Benjamin refers to as the "new form of communication" (88). Rather, storytelling is a decidedly "artisan" form of discourse-it has thrived in the arena of work: "It does not aim to convey the pure essence of a thing, like information or a report" (91). A story is therefore different from "mere" information, and from the novel, because it survives and continues to "educate" long after more specifically situ- ated information has become useless. Gramsci's position on "rhetoric" is close to hostile; but he seems to equate rhetoric as oratory only, which may suggest that his hostility does not necessar- ily transfer to other forms of persuasive discourse. Urban workers, Gramsci sug- gests, distrust oratory. Oratory "dazzles" the audience with seemingly rational arguments and vivacious words. Upon further "chewing," however, the masses realize that the oration was full of "deficiencies" and "superficialities" (374-78). Gramsci's term for the form of discourse found in CIO comic books is "folklore," which, precisely because it is reflective of a conception of the world that already rings true with the audience, leaves a lasting impression if not an immediate be- dazzlement. Folklore, therefore, can be trusted and is a better educational tool than traditional oratory. Gramsci believed that existing folklore, however, conveyed the "wrong" con- ception of reality. I contend that altering the major premises of existing folklore could result in the establishment of "counterhegemony" through these narrative elements. I use the term "hegemony" as closely to Gramsci's usage as possible. Although Gramsci does not offer one clear definition, a key element is that he- gemony implies "rule by consent," not some kind of oppressive version of domi- nance. For Gramsci, hegemony does not describe a handful of wealthy, powerful males oppressing the masses. It is the opposite of that, if it is anything at all- but that also would be too simple an interpretation. Hegemony, to Gramsci, is more about empowerment through negotiation than oppression. But without class consciousness, Gramsci reminds us, members of the working class are but puppets on a string and therefore have little ability to affect hegemony (70-71). Along the lines of Horkheimer and Adorno's "culture industry" (120-67) ESTABLISHING COUNTERHEGEMONY THROUGH NARRATIVE 259 which suggests that the images and stories of our culture are deceptive and con- trolling, Gramsci argues that the folklore of his time and place tricked the masses into believing that nature always includes the "ruler" and the "ruled." Religion, as just one type of folklore, certainly perpetuated this. In order to change this ac- ceptance of social stratification-that some are meant to rule and others to be content with their poor lot in life-the folklore would also need to be changed. The question then becomes: How does telling labor's story from various folk- loric vantage points change the expectations-or even the "common sense"-of the laborer? How and to what extent are the major premises of the underlying concepts of Americanism, liberty, justice, equality, and democracy, adapted to a working-class audience in an effort to bring about a counterhegemonic intellec- tual autonomy? The Formation of Counterhegemonic Understandings A crucial element of any narrative is whether or not it is primarily backward- or forward-looking. Benjamin suggests that educating and motivating the masses should focus on past injustices. He writes, "Social Democracy thought fit to as- sign to the working class the role of redeemer of future generations, in this way cutting the sinews of its greatest strength. This training made the working class forget both its hatred and its spirit of sacrifice, for both are nourished by the im- age of enslaved ancestors rather than that of liberated grandchildren" (260). Ben- jamin's suggestion that future-oriented narratives "trained" the working class in a certain way and stripped from it a spirit of hatred and sacrifice implies that stories need to emphasize the horrible atrocities of the past. By further implication, then, narratives that prophesy a future "utopia" only encourage gradualism and muffle radicalism. Regardless of the truth of Benjamin's claim (one could probably argue that dwelling on the past accomplishes nothing), the comic books of the CIO focus on the past. "Joe Worker and the Story of Labor," for example, traces the sacrifices and victories of labor as far back as biblical Babylonia, and "They Got the Blame: The Story of Scapegoats in History" traces the use of scapegoats through ancient India; Imperial Rome; Salem, Massachusetts in 1692; white supremacy and anti- Catholic movements of nineteenth-century America; and, of course, Nazi Ger- many in the twentieth century. This reliance on the past is not only used to remind the audience of past in- justices, but also to illustrate, both literally and figuratively, the strategies em- 260 STEVE MARTIN ployers use to keep the working class from realizing its common plight. A pri- mary function of these publications is to unmask the techniques capitalism has used for centuries. Although one may disagree with Benjamin's assertion that im- ages of "enslaved ancestors" are the best motivator for inciting working-class re- bellion, a focus on the past nevertheless may have been necessary to show work- ers the techniques that have been and would, unless identified and challenged, continue to be used. Thus, these comic books attempt to synthesize the role of Christianity and the cause of labor unions, to reveal the rhetorical strategies em- ployers have used to pit various races and ethnicities against one another to pre- vent unified action by the working class, and to redefine the sources of blame throughout history by unmasking the use of scapegoats. Religion, Justice, and the Workingman For centuries, religion was used as a way to prevent the working class from or- ganizing. As Gramsci observed, echoing Marx's statement that religion is the opi- ate of the masses, the ruling class successfully used religion as folklore to justify a poor existence on earth in exchange for a blissful eternity in heaven. Unions were not needed because they could accomplish nothing that altered this religious truth. Rather than attempting to convince the working class that religion was a tranqui- lizing drug, and therefore should be abandoned, the CIO used religion-Christi- anity specifically-to justify unionization and the use of the strike. Understanding that many in the working class were religious and likely unwilling to give up faith in God for faith in a union steward, the CIO used biblical passages in "The Bible and the Working Man" to demonstrate the religiosity of unions and union strate- gies. Included with the comic book is a page that reads "To Those Who Read This Leaflet." This page contends that the "early church began as a movement which sprang from the people. With few exceptions, its members came from the ranks of the needy and oppressed."3 Whereas traditional Marxism, and history as a whole perhaps, contends that religion was created to control the masses, this comic book takes a different, counterhegemonic, approach. The CIO, like most mainstream American labor organizations, accepted the religiosity of its members and used such conviction to persuade them of the group's worthiness. Perhaps more than any other scriptural passage, for example, the labor movement frequently recited: From the sweat of their brow thou shalt eat bread (Genesis 3:19). The first page of this comic book-the CIO actually called it a "leaflet"- shows a man in a crowd at the union hall asking, "But are Unions Christian?" An answer comes from elsewhere in the room, "Unions want justice and jus- ESTABLISHING COUNTERHEGEMONY THROUGH NARRATIVE 261 tice is Christian." "Justice" is also a secular concept, as much American as it is Christian, and the prevention ofjustice is perhaps the most quintessentially "un- American" action that ever could be advocated. In order to achieve justice, this comic claims, unions and striking may be necessary. On the fourth page, the apostles are portrayed as labor agitators: John and Peter, at spear-point of Roman soldiers, "refused to be intimidated as they organized the people to respect the Lord." The scene of the comic then shifts back to contemporary times, with a priest speaking to a young couple. The priest is saying, "Organize to help each other ... The whole purpose of the trade un- ions is contained in the teaching of Paul and these others." A young female adds, "Long ago the guilds did some of that ... They provided for sickness, accident, theft, and fire insurance." The young man of the couple, now convinced unions are acceptable, still has a concern about the righteousness of strikes. He questions the priest, "Of course Paul was right ... And the guilds were o.k.... But unions ... Does the bible have strikes?" "Yes, indeed!" replies the priest. This page then becomes an at- tempt to justify strikes as compatible with Christianity and the stories of Scrip- ture, an interpretation of religion that was counter to existing beliefs. What fol- lows is a story of Exodus-as-labor-strike, with the language of labor bargaining clearly used. The Egyptians enslaved the Hebrews, the comic explains, and the Hebrews cried out to God for help. God "asked Moses to organize the starved and overworked people against the Pharaoh." Moses "presented God's demands" to the pharaoh, but the pharaoh only ordered a "speed up." God became angry with the pharaoh for not negotiating, so "By a series of plagues, God frightened the pharaoh into negotiating, but he did not bargain in good faith ... he'd start con- tract negotiations but drop them as soon as each plague ended" (italics mine). The strategy used in "The Bible and the Working Man" is a clear effort to estab- lish a counterhegemonic understanding of religion. The tenets of Christianity were often used as devices to thwart union action. Unions and striking were portrayed as "un-Christian" and religion was, in fact, used as a tranquilizer on the working class. Whereas traditional Marxist writings on religion, however, likely alienated the religious masses, the CIO used a Gramscian notion of folklore to counter the pervasive teaching that unions and striking were in some way blasphemous. Democracy through Racial and Ethnic Equality A common theme in "Joe Worker and the Story of Labor" and "There are No Master Races" is that equality is the only way democracy can be realized. Al- 262 STEVE MARTIN though the CIO was not nearly as egalitarian in practice, as many historians have demonstrated, its discourse was perhaps truly ahead of its time. The contention that there are no real differences among races, aside from physical appearances, was certainly radical in the 1940S. The advocacy of an "American" nationality and an abolishment of "Italian," "Irish," and other ethnic identifiers, also pow- ers this discourse. The fortieth page of "Joe Worker" illustrates this new Americanism in an ef- fort to instruct the reader to overlook race, ethnicity, and religion. The worker- as-American, these comic books suggest, is all that matters. The first panel on this page shows an employer behind a desk asking, "Ahem, Spinelli, what's your nationality?" Spinelli answers, "American, of course!" Joe Worker clarifies the question for Spinelli, "Oh no, he wants to know if your grandfather was Italian!" The assumption here is that this employer does not hire Italians. This is why Joe Worker says "Oh no!" when the question is asked. The next panel explains that New York State passed the "Ives-Quinn bill" in 1945. More commonly known as the Quinn-Ives bill (the comic book author re- versed the order of the names), this piece of legislation explicitly prohibited dis- crimination based upon "race, creed, color, or national origins" in private indus- try (Freeman 68). To the labor movement, such legislation provided a realization of an "American" identity officially devoid of racial, religious, or ethnic baggage. Workers could now identify themselves as "American" without being forced to hyphenate their identity with prefixes such as "Italian" or "Irish" and with less fear that they would be overlooked for employment. In the fourth panel of this same page, an employer is speaking to Joe Worker, "You know, Joe ... I'm getting much better help since I don't ask what race or re- ligion they belong to." Of course, employers did not encounter much difficulty in determining such factors because one's skin color, accent, or last name often betrayed the intent of legislation like the Quinn-Ives bill. The Quinn-Ives bill was perhaps more symbolic than effective in reality, but the labor movement nev- ertheless capitalized on the passage of the legislation in an apparent effort to achieve unity and to counter the "divide and conquer" strategy that employers used. The comic book also positively portrays the desired effect of such legisla- tion on workers. One laborer is drawn talking to Spinelli, "You're a grand guy, Spinelli, so's Goldstein and Brown. What a dope I used to be!" Joe Worker, drawn facing to the viewer, not the other characters in the panel, responds, "That's be- cause you KNOW them now. You never gave them a chance before." The comic ESTABLISHING COUNTERHEGEMONY THROUGH NARRATIVE 263 book frequently uses this strategy of drawing Joe Worker facing the reader. As a visual device it provides, in Benjamin's terms, instruction and counsel to the reader. In effect, when the character ofJoe Worker is drawn looking at the reader rather than at other characters in the comic book, he is saying, "this is the moral of the story." Applying Benjamin's theory of the story, such a technique also leaves parts of the enthymeme unstated. Joe Worker does not explicitly say "Hey, reader, don't judge others by their nationality!" but instead presents a more subtle les- son. Ideas of unity and Americanism are not crammed down the readers' throats in these comic books. Such a strategy could backfire, because, as Gramsci ob- serves, traditional discursive forms often result in skepticism rather than con- viction (374-78). The uses of anecdotal lessons are forcefully conveyed through a portrayal of what it means to be an American. At the same time, the definition of "American" is being altered to include a broader range of people. In another attempt to promote equality, the CIO reproduced a comic from True Comics magazine titled "There Are No Master Races!" Themes from this shorter comic are found throughout "Joe Worker and the Story of Labor," but "There Are No Master Races!" more systematically describes the anthropologi- cal and biological arguments against beliefs in a superior race. The purpose of the publication is noted in a cover letter from the CIO's Department of Research and Education: "In a world torn with political, economic, and physical strife, it would seem that superficial differences would have no place. It would seem that great conflicts over who should rule and how, who should eat and how much, who should kill and be killed, would eliminate petty prejudice, and that men would stand together on the basis of their ideas, their ideals, and their goals. It would certainly seem that the color of a man's thinking would outweigh the color of his skin." Before delving into a scientific debunking of a master race, this publication exploits existing folklore of religion as its starting point: "The Bible story that Adam and Eve were the parents of the human race gains new strength from sci- ence, which shows that all human beings are related, and that no one race is su- perior to another." The rest of the document explains to the reader, through his- torical narrative, that the reasons for different physical features, such as skin color or the shape of one's nose, are geographical, not social or moral. Such a les- son allows for the construction of a different major premise: whites are not white because they are superior in any way, but because their ancestors lived in colder climates. "Science"-and a touch of religion, if we consider the brief appeal to 264 STEVE MARTIN Adam and Eve as the parents of all humanity-therefore explains physical racial differences. Regarding racial intelligence, the comic book states, "Many believe that Eu- ropeans were the first to have superior intelligence. But while they were still liv- ing a primitive life, around 3,000 B.C. ... the Egyptians had built a magnificent civilization." Visually, the panel that contains the first half of the above quota- tion is chaotic. It shows cavemen-like figures throwing stones at a large bear. On the next page, a "double-panel" (for emphasis) shows an extremely orderly and sophisticated view of an Egyptian city. The Egyptians are drawn with slightly darker skin. The next page of the comic book shows a scene where men are taking a test. A light-skinned male is thinking, "This is tough," while another light-skinned male is thinking, "A cinch!" One dark-skinned man is thinking, "I don't get it," while another is thinking, "What a push-over." The description to the left of this panel reads, "Intelligence has nothing to do with skin color. In World War I, tests given to U.S. soldiers of all colors showed that education, not skin color, determined their intelligence rating." These strategies, of course, are attempts to counter the existing belief that non-whites are inferior in intelligence and morality. The tech- nique found in the comic book is one that privileges a test-a method perceived as objective-over unfounded racial stereotypes. Written by James B. Carey, the CIO's secretary-treasurer and chairman of the Committee to Abolish Discrimination, the cover letter included with "There are No Master Races!" reads: "We therefore commend this leaflet to all people of good will who find themselves confronted, in their daily living, with the morass of ignorance, and superstition, and misunderstanding of racial factors, which are being deliberately used by the enemies of democracy to confuse Americans and others, in the selfish interests of privileged groups." These publications were used to create a new understanding of what "race" meant. While mainstream understandings depicted African and Asian Americans as inferior, the CIO at- tempted to create a counterunderstanding. Redefining History by Unmasking the Use of Scapegoats Below the title of "They Got the Blame: The Story of Scapegoats in History," a statement of purpose is offered: "The scapegoat trick is as old as history itself. The Nazis used it to seize power in Germany, to weaken from within their en- emies in Europe. They even tried to 'divide and conquer' the United States! To ESTABLISHING COUNTERHEGEMONY THROUGH NARRATIVE 265 know the trick is to be on guard against it. That is the purpose of this story-to expose the scapegoat trick and how it works." By equipping the rank-and-file with such knowledge, the CIO likely hoped to create and establish a new understand- ing of racial and ethnic bias and prejudice. The retelling of the story of scape- goats in history seemed designed to establish a counterhegemonic understand- ing, one that instructed, as Benjamin would argue, the working class to perceive their experiences and behaviors through a reinterpretation of historical events. This short comic book traces the use of scapegoats to the primitive Bhars tribe in India, where an epidemic of cholera had broken out. These peoples, the comic book tells the reader, knew of only one cause for such epidemics-evil de- mons. To appease the gods, and to get rid of the demons, the tribe captured a wa- ter buffalo. The tribe's priests, the narrative tells the reader, daubed the buffalo "with red paint and tie[d] some cloves and grain to its back with a yellow cloth." The next panel shows a water buffalo being "driven through the village, chased into the jungle, and never permitted to return." A frame of text below the illustra- tions explains the historical allusion: "What is this all about? The answer is sim- ple. The primitive Bhars believe they have frightened the cholera 'demons' into the body of the unfortunate animal. The buffalo is their 'scapegoat.' He is made to suffer for the tribe's misfortune. The village now rejoices, convinced that the plague has been carried away in the body of the animal." By basing the historical premise of scapegoating on superstition and "demons," the author of the comic book is using narrative to take away any legitimacy of blaming social ills on cer- tain groups of people. The historical interpretation the author of this comic book provides argues that both Hitler's and the Bhars tribe's beliefs were based not upon reason of any kind but upon faulty, even superstitious, premises. This publication also shows that the Romans used Christians as scapegoats: "If there was a fire, flood, drought or famine, the Christians were blamed, made the scapegoat." A panel is drawn with Emperor Nero overlooking a blazing Rome. He is drawn with a concerned look on his face, his chin resting on his fist to repre- sent a thinking posture. A "thought bubble" is drawn above his head: "I'll blame this disaster on the Christians! It will be easy to convince Romans into believing anything about them!" The narrative of the comic book then skips to America in the seventeenth through the nineteenth centuries. A set-up frame on the left side of the document reads, "In every country there are people who can be duped into blaming their misfortunes on innocent scapegoats." Colonial America "was no exception," the comic book reports. If crops failed, the disaster was blamed on witches. 266 STEVE MARTIN Between 1820 and 1880, the Irish became America's new scapegoat, the comic book tells the reader. But, in adherence with the counterhegemonic strategy of re- defining the "true American," the text assigns importance to Irish immigrants: "Though they contributed greatly to the rapid growth of America's cities and rail- road, Irish immigrants were persecuted politically and economically." A strong link between the anti-Irish sentiments and anti-Catholicism is noted as well: "The persecution of minorities because they were considered 'foreign' was a short step to persecution of these same groups because of a difference in religion." This theme is briefly addressed in "They Got the Blame," but is given even more detailed atten- tion in "Joe Worker and the Story of Labor." Page seven of "Joe Worker" introduces us to the Know-Nothing Party of the mid-18oos and that party's use of scapegoats. The transitional frame on top of the fifth panel states, "Unscrupulous politicians, seeking scapegoats, formed the Know-Nothing party, with a platform of bigotry and hate against foreigners, Catholics and Jews." A character drawn in the shadows of the left-hand side of the frame is swearing in a new member of the Know-Nothing Party. He is wear- ing a white hood, a clear and perhaps not-so-subtle visual insinuation that the Know-Nothing Party was a precursor to the Ku Klux Klan. The final panel of this page shows a chaotic riot in progress. Members of the Know-Nothing Party are shown beating people and the dialogue balloons read, "Kill the Irish! They're plotting against the government!" and "Down with Catholics!" One member of the Know-Nothing Party is depicted beating a nun. Joe Worker steps in to stop him and says, "You fool! Haven't you read the Constitution and the Bill of Rights?" The last two panels of the page are drawn to indicate the scene is tak- ing place at night, with flames in the background and clandestine silhouettes wit- nessing the action. This technique uses visual cues to enhance the conspiratorial, even "evil," feel of the unfolding action. Later, the KKK becomes a crucial aspect of the story. The foreword of the comic book provides some insight as to why this is significant when it asks, "What was the difference between the First and Second Ku Klux Klan?" The set- up frame tells us that the "first" KKK started shortly after the Civil War, "with the aim of terrorizing the newly freed slaves by floggings, torture and murder." In 1915, the Klan was revived, but this time its motivation was profit as much as hate. The set-up frame refers to the second Ku Klux Klan as a "profitable racket, with a $10o initiation fee and nightgowns sold at fancy prices ... It made 'hate' into big business." In the panels below, a conspiracy between politicians and the Klan is revealed to the reader. A politician is shown asking for Klan support. Wil- liam J. Simmons, who, the reader is told, revived the Klan, responds to the poli- ESTABLISHING COUNTERHEGEMONY THROUGH NARRATIVE 267 tician, "Then you gotta take orders. Blame everything on the foreigners and the labor unions." The next page further demonstrates the KKK as a conspiratorial ally of cor- porations. An employer overhears Joe Worker attempting to unionize a Geor- gian mill town. The next panel shows the employer cutting a deal with the Klan: "Don't worry, the Klan'll stop him cold!" Klan members, drawn in their white, hooded robes, beat up Joe Worker and throw him out of a moving vehicle. But our hero, in the page's last panel, with a bandaged head and his arm in a sling, unites the workers with these words, "Now you know what's up. The Klan sows hatred among you so you won't form a union. If you stick together, they're sunk." Joe Worker functions in this last panel as the "sacrificial" lamb. Because he is beaten and bandaged, he stands as the visual evidence of the Klan's real motiva- tions. The KKK, the comic book explains, was not the only group to use this tac- tic; so did Hitler. The set-up frame on page twenty-five reads: "The demagogues peddled the same vicious line during the Great Depression. While the workers walked the streets or sold apples on corners, while banks closed their doors and millions were on relief-the trouble-makers came out of their holes. The trick was used again, they yelled: 'It's all the fault of the foreigners, the Jews, the Ne- groes, the Labor Unions.' Hitler was using the same 'scapegoat' line in Ger- many. Scapegoating is different from the "divide and conquer" strategy because it functions externally from the workers. Rather than stirring up internal hate in a factory, for example, the scapegoat lines were used "in the streets" to prevent peo- ple from joining unions. The use of a scapegoat also attempts to unify one group (wealthy, property-owning white males) by inciting hatred against another easily identifiable group. According to Kenneth Burke, the scapegoat is used to remove impurities from one's self. The use of a scapegoat, he argues, functions as a "ves- sel" through which individuals "ritualistically cleanse themselves by loading the burden of their own iniquities upon it" (Burke 406). Although this comic book is not as theoretically complex in its usage of the term "scapegoat" as is Burke, they nevertheless share the same principle of the use of the scapegoat. Hitler, and others, used scapegoats for a succinct purpose: to unify "by a foe shared in com- mon" (Burke 408). The hate stirred by the use of the scapegoat is focused on cer- tain groups of people, whereas the divide-and-conquer trick is used to incite ha- tred in a more chaotic fashion. Five pages later, the reader is shown exactly how this scapegoat technique is used against labor. The first panel of the page is set up with a transitional text 16 JAMES V. CATANO immediate appearance of company-controlled policemen, who would quickly break up such conversations. Despite his talk of union, Carnegie's library stood as a massive rhetorical declaration of his civic power and control, arguing day in and day out that speaking about the Battle of Homestead was his right, and that his rhetoric controlled the moment-and the rhetoric of many moments that followed. During the 1919 steel strike, for example, Mother Jones found herself put in jail for speaking publicly at Homestead. Even as late as 1933, then U.S. Sec- retary of Labor Frances Perkins was stopped mid-sentence by a burgess as she be- gan speaking to a crowd of workers who had gathered outside Homestead's town hall. Undeterred, she moved over to the post office, a bit of federal land where lo- cal authorities could not halt her speech. Given such events, the civic rhetoric of the steelworkers' monument must be understood within its physical, economic, and sociopolitical contexts. It is obvi- ous, for example, that the civic rhetoric that the monument speaks was already doxically present in the community's vision of labor and labor's traditions. In 1936, five years prior to the monument's dedication-and prior to the unioniza- tion of the mill-George Powers noted: "There was a great need for the SWOC to counteract [the anti-union] propoganda [sic]" that was being put forward. "One day, three of us sat in Steve Bordich's kitchen in West Homestead kicking this question around in an informal way. At first Steve just sat listening, taking it all in. Then he said, why don't you guys arrange a parade to commemorate the Homestead strike of 1892. After all, six of our men died for us" (92). The parade did in fact take place, moving from the bottom of the hill, near where the monument now stands, up to the cemeteries where bodies of slain workers had been interred. Not surprisingly, the occasion called forth a tradi- tional epideictic speech, the classical form in which civic (or in this case, union) leaders praise and honor the values and heroes of the community as whole. Most worth noting, however, is that within that epideictic rhetoric, the rhetoric of the subsequent monument was already being stated-not metaphorically but liter- ally, echoed in the inscription later engraved into the monument itself. "We steel- workers," they both declare, "say to the world: We are Americans. We shall exer- cise our inalienable rights to organize." The verbal rhetoric of the monument is thus multivocal in its own way, physically memorializing the historical event of 1892, the doxic value that the ethos of 1892 enacted during the 1936 parade, and the rhetoric of unionization engaged by all three. When dedicated in 1941, the monument's simple visual presence thus served to rhetorically embody not only what it literally declared, but also labor's undeniable right to say it. By 1941, the 268 STEVE MARTIN box that says, "As far back as 1929 .. ." Hitler himself is shown in the panel below saying, "We gotta give our Germans somebody to hate, so they don't see what we're doing!" A man behind a desk replies, "That's easy we'll give 'em the Jews!" In this panel, the comic book establishes the Jew as Hitler's scapegoat. The ha- tred toward Jews is shown later in the page as merely a technique to divert atten- tion from the Nazi Party's attempt to rule the German people. The Jew is made a scapegoat to trick labor into thinking it is fighting against a common enemy. Hitler and the Nazi Party, the comic book argues, pretended to be the friends of labor until they were in power. In the fourth panel, a group of workers realizes what the scapegoat trick is attempting to accomplish when one member of the group says, "We've been fooled, Hans! I thought they were only after Jews and Catholics!" The next panel cuts back to America, where an employer, shown reading the newspaper, realizes how Hitler gained his power. He is saying, "Say, that guy Hit- ler's got something! Mebbe we could grab a little power here the same way!" His sidekick replies, "Sure thing! Let's first yell about the Jews. Then we kin start on the others!" The panel is drawn as a dark, isolated room. It is similar to the ster- eotypical "mafia room" found behind drinking establishments in Hollywood movies and television. The only light comes from a small lamp hanging directly above the two men, much like the "interrogation room" scenes of television's po- lice dramas. Surrounding them is only blackness. In contrast, the adjacent panel is drawn brightly. The transitional text box above the panel reads: "But union leaders were on the alert." These two panels are drawn adjacently, which offers a distinctive "good versus evil" motif. This visual technique of contrasting light and dark scenes seems designed to demonstrate that labor leaders have exposed the evils of the deception of the scapegoating tactic. The unveiling of the "scapegoat trick" functions to establish a counterhegem- onic understanding of racial, religious, and ethnic differences. It was not acciden- tal that employers used African Americans as "scabs," or that they pitted ethnic and religious group identities against one another. By tracing the use of scape- goats throughout much of history, these two comic books sought to foster a dif- ferent understanding of the origins of hatred, bigotry, and prejudice. If the pre- vailing belief of the era is understood as one in which hatred of "non-white" races, certain ethnicities, Catholics, and Jews, was largely acceptable, then the unmask- ing of the scapegoat trick was a clear attempt to counter that hegemonic under- standing of differences. The strategy of these comic books attempted to replace the major underlying assumption that these groups were inferior, or even evil, with the major premise of superstition as the originating cause of such prejudice. ESTABLISHING COUNTERHEGEMONY THROUGH NARRATIVE 269 Counternarratives All of these strategies ultimately seemed designed to achieve one goal: to es- tablish the conviction that differences of race, religion, and ethnicity, have been used as tools against the working class. The mainstream acceptance of a master race, the use of scapegoats, religious persecution, or any form of bigotry func- tioned to "divide and conquer" the working class. The rhetoric of the CIO, how- ever, offered counternarratives that altered the major premises upon which these dominant understandings rested. Simultaneously, the CIO used existing folk- loric understandings to adapt the discourse to its working-class audience. The documents examined argued for a counterhegemonic understanding of several dominant major premises in America. The CIO justified unionization with biblical scripture; "The Bible and the Working Man" conflated religion and jus- tice, thereby inserting religious freedom and beliefs within an American concep- tion of that which is just. By exposing the "divide and conquer" trick, for exam- ple, these publications attempted to redefine what it meant to be American. By advocating the elimination of prefixes such Italian American or Jewish American, the CIO documents attempted to reduce the relative significance of such distinc- tions. Furthermore, the scientific explanation of race as offered in "There Are No Master Races!" attempted to establish a new understanding of physical racial dif- ferences. The dominant understanding of the time-and, unfortunately, even to- day to some extent-was that non-whites were inferior intellectually and morally, if not physically. Perhaps most notably, the CIO explained bigotry and hatred as scapegoating techniques. This unmasking of an existing hegemonic understand- ing sought to replace the major premise that social ills could be blamed on various groups with the premise that doing so was based upon superstition, not reality. NOTES 1. This survey was conducted of prominent labor and industrial relations scholars, including John T. Dunlop and Marshall Ganz of Harvard University, Thomas Kochan of MIT, David Montgomery of Yale University, and Clete Daniel and Kate Bronfenbrenner of Cornell Univer- sity. 2. "Joe Worker and The Story of Labor." Authors identified on cover as Nat Schachner and Jack Alderman. National Labor Service, U.S.A., 194. Available at the Historical Collections and Labor Archives, Pennsylvania State University, State College, PA. Subsequent references to this work will be referred to with page numbers that I assigned to each page because of the length of the work. No original page numbers existed. "The Bible and the Working Man," No author identified. Available at George Meany Memorial Archives, Silver Spring, MD, date unknown. Subsequent references to this document will be clear in the text; no page numbers will be given, as the document possesses none. 270 STEVE MARTIN "They Got the Blame." This comic book is identified on the bottom of the cover as based upon Kenneth Gould, "They Got the Blame," published by the International Committee of Young Men's Christian Associations. The CIO distribution copy is reprinted from True Comics magazine. Subsequent references to this document will be clear in the text; no page numbers will be given, as the document possesses none. "There are No Master Races." This comic book is identified as based upon the CIO pamphlet "The Races of Mankind," by Ruth Benedict and Doctor Gene Weltfish, published by the Public Affairs Committee. The top of the cover indicates that it is reprinted from True Comics magazine. Subsequent references to this document will be clear in the text; no page numbers will be given, as the document possesses none. 3. Document included with the distribution of "The Bible and the Working Man." WORKS CITED American Federation of State, County, and Municipal Employees (AFSCME). Press Release. "CIO Founding Tops List of Labor's Triumphs in the 2oth Century." Sept. 1, 1999 . Benjamin, Walter. Illuminations: Essays and Reflections. Trans. Harry Zohn. Ed. Hannah Arendt. New York: Schocken, 1969. Burke, Kenneth. A Grammar of Motives. Berkeley: U of California P, 1969. Cohen, Lizabeth. Making a New Deal: Industrial Workers in Chicago, 1919-1939. Cambridge: Cam- bridge UP, 199o. Dubofsky, Melvyn. "Not So Radical Years: Another Look at the 1930s." Major Problems in the His- tory of American Workers. Ed. Eileen Boris and Nelson Lichtenstein. Lexington, MA: Heath, 1991. 375-87. Filippelli, Ronald L. Labor in the USA: A History. New York: Knopf, 1984. Freeman, Joshua B. Working-Class New York: Life and Labor Since World War II. New York: New, 2000. Friedlander, Peter. The Emergence ofa UAWLocal, 1936-1939. Pittsburgh: U of Pittsburgh P, 1975. Galenson, Walter. The CIO Challenge to the AFL: A History of the American Labor Movement 1935- 1941. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1960. Gramsci, Antonio. The Antonio Gramsci Reader: Selected Writings 1916-1935. Ed. David Forgacs. New York: New York UP, 2000. Horkheimer, Max, and Theordor W. Adorno. Dialectic of Enlightenment. Trans. John Cumming. New York: Continuum, 1998. Kampleman, Max. The Communist Party vs. The CIO. New York: Praeger, 1957. Levenstein, Harvey A. Communism, Anti-Communism, and the CIO. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1981. Ochinsky, David. "Labor's Cold War: The CIO and the Communists." Major Problems in the His- tory of American Workers. Ed. Eileen Boris and Nelson Lichtenstein. Lexington, MA: Heath, 1991. 510-24. Preis, Art. Labor's Giant Step: Twenty Years of the CIO. New York: Pathfinder, 1972. Rosswurm, Steve, ed. The CIO's Left-Led Unions. New Brunswick: Rutgers UP, 1992. Zeiger, Robert. The CIO:1935-1955. Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 1995. Julie Lindquist Conclusion Working-Class Rhetoric as Ethnographic Subject henever I speak publicly about my ethnographic research on political argu- ment in a working-class bar, I can count on somebody to pose the following question: OK, so when you began your research, how, precisely, did you define working class? It is, of course, the obvious question. I say that I didn't, precisely, and explain that the forma- tion of "working classness" through language was the thing I set out to explore. I initially identified the work as a study of argument in a "working-class" bar because the core constituency at the bar labored in blue-collar or service jobs-and the few who didn't (I learned from my experience working at the bar) valued and identified with this kind of work. Yet I found, as I went on, that a sense of class identity came as much through an ideological orientation to the value of la- bor as a productive character and community-building activity as it did through the mean fact of participation in a certain kind of labor or industry. I learned that the practice of political argument at the bar was a way to enforce cultural boundaries around this ideology. Still, my unwillingness to say that I began with a stable, a priori deci- sion about how to define class membership is troubling: How could I presume to study something I myself couldn't precisely identify? In exactly that way: I could presume. The ethnography of working- class culture is, like any other ethnography, an act of faith. This basic predicament of field research is certainly not news to seasoned ethnog- raphers: as Van Mannen-following from Wagner and Sperber-puts 271 272 JULIE LINDQUIST it, "the observer knows of a culture's presence not by looking, but only by con- jecture, inference, and a great deal of faith (3). The ethnography of class culture, however, is even more epistemologically and procedurally problematic than the fundamentally problematic enterprise of ethnography in general. Thus, under- standing working-class cultural practice as rhetoric makes it available for eth- nographic study, precisely because "class culture," inasmuch as it inhabits the phenomenological domain between social structure and cultural forms, is so hard to define. Since, as I have suggested elsewhere, "the idea of 'class culture' presents interesting problems for scholars across disciplines, pointing as it does to the place where social structures and material conditions meet the particulars of local practice, in the politics of the everyday" ("Class Identity" 2), rhetoric, in- asmuch as it invites into confrontation issues of performance, persuasion, and ideology, can usefully address the problem and the solution of what it means to imagine class culture as a set of experiences that ultimately derive from a set of economic conditions. Thinking about discourse in working-class communities as rhetoric can give us a heuristic, if not anything as systematic as a "method," for grounding theo- ries of cultural production in everyday experience. Doing so helps to name the locations of agency in this process, and thereby to deepen and enrich the possi- bilities of the ethnography of communication for the interpretation of cultural processes. The ethnography of working-class rhetoric, in other words, puts us in proximity to the phenomenology of class experience, while keeping an eye to class as a structural process. This is the case because rhetoric allows for a descrip- tion of cultural processes as they are driven by motivated, and often socially con- flicted, linguistic action. Yet such a claim immediately raises questions. If attention to working-class rhetoric allows for the productive interpretation of social processes and experi- ences, then why bother with ethnography at all? What, in the end, is to be gained by approaching working-class rhetoric as an ethnographic subject? Obviously, there are various ways to identify acts of communication produced for and/or by workers as forms of "working-class rhetoric" and to think about how they operate in various publics. An example that comes immediately to mind is Lillian Rubin's work, specifically her classic Worlds of Pain and the more recent Families on the Fault Line, ambitious oral histories of working-class domestic life. In her collected narratives of the work and home lives of working-class men and women. Rubin makes available invaluable insights into how working-class people interpret and speak of their experiences. In telling their stories in order to persuade Rubin of the WORKING-CLASS RHETORIC AS ETHNOGRAPHIC SUBJECT 273 truth of the reality they inhabit, Rubin's subjects produce a working-class rheto- ric. They are theorizing-inventing narratives that persuade themselves as well as Rubin-as-interviewer-what it means, in the moment-to-moment of everyday ex- perience, to be working class. Yet another possible-though differently motivated-example of working- class rhetoric is Jim Goad's infamous Redneck Manifesto, an antiacademic exhor- tation to pay attention to the unique predicament of working-class whites. Goad wants his in-your-face class analysis to persuade complacent middle-class liber- als that all whites are not equally privileged, that in fact "the good ol' boys and the old boys' network are at loggerheads" (39), and that this observation is in- tended "not to downplay the guilt you already know about, [but] merely to infer that there's a lot more guilt than you may have suspected" (41). Goad delivers a vitriolic critique of classism-in American culture and institutions generally, but particularly as it shows up in the ideology of leftist proponents of multicultural- ist politics. He begins the Manifesto with an explicitly rendered catalogue of "red- neck" body types, writing that "we come to believe that working-class whites are two-dimensional cartoons," listing as products of the popular imagination "the obese, curler-wearing women standing unashamed in orange bikinis, their slop- ing boobs slung over cesarean scars. Their unwashed, uncomprehending kids with cavity-peppered chartreuse teeth. The scaly, pale-grey skin of buck-toothed men. ... [s]kull face after skull face of dull-brained peasantry" (16). Thus Goad gives a shocking representation of damaging cultural rhetoric about the working class, on one hand, and identifies absences in public rhetoric about the effects of classism in America, on the other. Paying attention to how such discourses circulate-or fail to circulate-is obviously important in understanding the social and political processes that ul- timately define class experience. Goad's rhetoric about the cultural rhetorics of classism, for instance, can tell us much about the public invention and represen- tation of what it means to be working class, both in the discourses it critiques and in the example it offers of the kind of folk critique Thomas McLaughlin would call "vernacular theory." Goad, as self-appointed representative of the "redneck," speaks on behalf of the degraded working-class white. But like any theoretical treatment of the politics of class, Goad's rhetoric is limited in what it can tell us about class culture, and in particular cultural processes. This is true even though Goad spares us no detail of the particulars of the "trashy" life, since the extent to which Goad speaks for the actual people in the institutions of his community is questionable. Certainly he doesn't speak for women's experience, or the experi- 274 JULIE LINDQUIST ence of working-class people of color. His version of "working class" is race- and gender-specific-and as a treatise intended for public consumption, the work is obviously and necessarily reductive in order to be effective as polemic. It is not situated practice, does not look deeply into working-class institutions or com- munities, and is in a sense "dislocated," even as it tactically locates the paradig- matic working-class subject in the rural South. Goad's "manifesto" is a valuable example of rare public working-class rhetoric, a direct exhortation on the behalf of certain (i.e., white, male, and rural) workers to others outside local commu- nities. Yet socially productive working-class discourse is more often "found" in places where it can't easily be heard by others, since to be "working class" is, in one respect, to have limited access to public channels of communication. If we want to know working-class rhetoric as a set of inventive and adaptive practices, we have to travel to the places where it happens-or, in my case, as in many oth- ers'-return home to the places where it happens. The Rubin and Goad examples of working-class rhetoric point to the exi- gency for ethnography: Rubin gives us people theorizing but not creating social relations; Goad describes the practical effects of social hierarchy on working-class whites, but not their motivated descriptive practices. Rubin's subjects want to persuade her; Goad clearly wants to persuade his subjects. In neither case do we see working-class people engage in the kinds of everyday persuasions that make up the sociable stuff of everyday life. Those of us who are interested in working- class studies have at our disposal a range of other qualitative- and narrative-based methods for approaching rhetoric as situated practice-and these yield useful un- derstandings, just as the rhetoric produced by Goad and described by Rubin are useful in understanding forms of class experience. However, if what we are after is a deep understanding of the dynamic enactments and resistances to ideologi- cal processes of lived class experience, then we should look to the ethnography of rhetoric in natural settings for insights into the productive tensions-the small moments of stability and instability, tradition and invention-that make up the larger narrative of working-class history. If we want to understand working-class experience as it fills the space between culture and economy, then we should go where working people are and listen to them talking in such a way that teaches us what they are doing, socially and politically, with their talk. Once there, however, what kind of "talk" should we listen for? What does it mean to listen for "rhetoric" rather than "language" or "communication" or even "discourse"? There are many ways to define "rhetoric" for the study of situated practice-as knowledge production, as persuasion, or as the pragmatic function WORKING-CLASS RHETORIC AS ETHNOGRAPHIC SUBJECT 275 of language more generally-far too many to rehearse them usefully here. Taken together, though, these definitions of rhetoric implicate knowledge, ideology, and performance. I propose an understanding of rhetoric that works from the New London Group's definition of "discourse" as "a construction of some aspect of reality from a particular point of view, a particular angle, in terms of particu- lar interests" (78), with special emphasis on the suasive function.1 To describe a working-class rhetoric, then, is to describe ways of knowing and to document these as dynamic linguistic practice, in particular the practice of expressing (real or imagined) competing interests. Persuasion by definition indicates change, but it also presupposes resistance to change. So a working-class rhetoric would have to document patterns of change and stability in beliefs as they are activated in lo- cally public communicative practices. Specifically, these practices can include a range of speech genres and acts variously framed as performance: everyday con- versation, narrative, or argument. The emphasis here is not on an exclusive kind of language, but on the function of language as public action. To name the object of such study "rhetoric" is to work within a heuristic do- main that enriches established traditions of research on communicative behav- iors, largely through its potential to conceptualize links between motive, agency, and social effect-and this is the case whether the theoretical vocabulary comes from Aristotle or Burke. Yet the ethnography of rhetoric, though it works though particular attention to motive and language as social action, is enabled by as- sumptions about language in society developed by sociolinguists, who have for decades theorized connections between cultural identity, linguistic practice, and social change. More recent work in sociolinguistics is particularly congenial to the study of language as social action, as it calls for replacing the traditional lin- guistic notion of "speech community" with "community of practice" (Eckert and McConnell-Ginet; Lave and Wenger; Wenger). Such a formulation is particularly useful for the study of rhetoric. Eckert and McConnnell-Ginet, for example, de- fine the community of practice as a social group defined by its participation in a practice or set of practices, and out of which ways of doing, valuing, and being emerge. "As a social construct," write the authors, "a community of practice is different from a traditional community, primarily because it is defined simulta- neously by its members and by the practices which that membership engages" (464). This is an important move if the point is to study the role of language in processes of resistance and dissent as well as its capacity to articulate and affirm cultural traditions. Along similar lines, there are useful theoretical and methodological grounds 276 JULIE LINDQUIST for the ethnography of working-class rhetoric in the writings of researchers who, influenced by British and Continental cultural theory, have begun to apply socio- linguistic methods to the project of describing hegemonic processes in real time (see, for example, Clark). Working from different disciplinary orientations but with the same emphasis on forms of class culture, linguists, folklorists, sociolo- gists, and anthropologists seeking to locate structural processes in local practices have produced several ethnographic accounts of working-class language that as- sume cultural practices are to some extent residues of late capitalist formations. Paul Willis's famous Learning to Labour, a study of British "lads" engaging in acts of resistance to the social roles prepared for them was among the first of the gen- res. Others have since followed suit: ethnographies by Foley, Limon, Fox Harti- gan, Stewart, and Grindstaff are good examples. Douglas Foley, for example, de- scribes his study of Chicano high school students in a South Texas town as "the story of how these youth learn a materialistic culture that is intensely competi- tive, individualistic, and unegalitarian" (1). Though these studies are different in scope, methods, and theoretical framing (Fox, Limon, and Stewart are concerned with poetics), they all work to understand cultural practices in their capacity to reproduce social structures. Work such as this can go a long way in helping us understand connections between class and culture. Moreover, enabled by the density and particularity of ethnography's narrative epistemology, such work ad- dresses the subjective complexity of class experience, particularly the kinds of class and gender cross-significations described by Sherry Ortner, who observes that "gender relations for both middle-class and working-class Americans carry an enormous burden of quite antagonistic class meaning" (20). Thus the emerging tradition of ethnographic cultural studies, variously in- flected by Marxist and postmodern theories, pushes into the domain of rheto- ric by addressing working-class language practice in its inventive and productive capacities, on one hand, and by engaging the particular difficulties of account- ing for the meaning of these practices, on the other. Marxist anthropology seeks to reject the idea that cultures can be treated in isolation, as social organizations that exist somehow out of time and space. It wants to return attention to his- torical and colonial processes as determinants of cultural meaning (Layton 130- 31). Postmodern anthropologists assume that their job is to describe the disor- derly, sometimes conflictual processes of interpretation: they ask, in the absence of historical grand narratives, how do people invent and renegotiate their social worlds? As Tylor explains, "Post-modern ethnography attempts to recreate tex- tually this spiral of poetic and ritual performance ... [as] one of co-operative WORKING-CLASS RHETORIC AS ETHNOGRAPHIC SUBJECT 277 story making ... none of whose participants would have the final word in the form of a framing story of encompassing synthesis (qtd in Layton 206). The eth- nography of working-class rhetoric can help mediate between projects of Marx- ist anthropology, which assumes structural determinants of linguistic practices, and postmodern anthropology, which questions scientific validity and assumes contradictions. The territory of rhetoric, in other words, is the place where class meets cul- ture in dynamic, yet often difficult to map, processes of language production. Rhetoric can help to locate class processes in spaces of culture, and also to work productively with the contradictions inherent in taking class culture as the ob- ject of anthropological research. In a sense, it can help to address the problem of space-time that is at the root of all ethnographic analyses, but which is par- ticularly knotty in the case of class ethnography: How is it possible to describe a temporal process-class into culture, back into class again-in spatial (i.e., eth- nographic) terms? To do so is to risk a kind of interpretive double-exposure, in which the products of space and time blend in hard-to-define images. Literary critic Noel Polk's description of his boyhood experience of being the subject/ob- ject of a group photograph is a helpful illustration: When I was a lad at Boy Scout or church camp, I'd have to pose with the other campers for a group photo. There were lots of us; we would be lined up in three or four rows like a choir and we would stretch for ten to twenty yards in front of the camera. The camera used to take such a wide photograph was a curious creature that moved from left to right, panning the group as it exposed only a portion of the film at a time, while inside the cam- era the film rolled from one spool to another in the opposite direction, so that everyone had to be extremely still while the camera's eye passed where we were. . . . If you were very fast, you could stand on the top row at one end, have your picture taken, then after the camera had rolled by jump down and race around behind the group, beat the camera to the other end, and have your picture taken there too; thus you'd appear twice in the same picture. (4) This description appears in a chapter of Polk's memoir entitled "Upon Being Southernovelized," in which Polk narrates the experience of being the unwitting subject of a novel based on the university and department where he works. Inas- much as the double-image metaphor describes the complexities of apprehending dynamic processes of group formation, it is an excellent analogy for what is dif- ficult about the ethnography of class culture (though Polk himself did not have this particular application of his metaphor in mind). There is always a surplus of activity behind the camera, always more going on than any given interpretive ARTICULATING THE VALUES OF LABOR AND LABORING 17 Steel Workers' Organizing Committee had indeed won the war for unionization, and the men had a renewed right to the rhetoric of union activism lost in the 1892 battle. It is important, however, not to romanticize this moment in the way that Carnegie's building was used to romanticize his own vision of worker and union activities and nature. The monument served as a rhetorical declaration of union presence, yet there are clear suggestions of limits on even that visual rhetoric. For one thing, the monument was placed at the base of the Homestead Bridge, on property that was technically owned by the state, not by the town. This de- tail speaks directly to how much the workers' "American rights" were still not an established fact but a function of their ability to argue for them, to voice a civic rhetoric that spoke to a tenuous shifting of political power back to the hands of labor. In addition, the very act of memorializing the Battle of Homestead must be seen as problematic, since the workers were, after all, unsuccessful in preserving their union. That irony only reiterates the nature of memorial rhetoric in gen- eral, which is, after all, a rhetoric of both praise and loss, glorification and be- reavement. Furthermore, that mixed appeal and its effect function within the temporal progression of all memorial rhetoric, a process that by definition looks to the past from a subsequent moment in which the initial bereavement is to be revisited. Any memorial rhetoric is a function of temporal movement beyond the dedication ceremony-a double remove, as it were, from the historical event and from official memorialization of that event. The result of these temporal move- ments is an ongoing recasting of civic and memorial rhetoric and the values they address. Speaking Labor Activism Discussing World War I memorials, Jay Winter notes that "Once the mo- ment of initial bereavement had passed, . . . the meaning of war memorials was bound to change.... They could have had no fixed meaning, immutable over time" (98). In like fashion, the twenty-first century rhetoric enacted by the Home- stead monument is directly tied to its physical and social context. Still tucked away on a street corner and pressed up alongside a bar, the monument remains well tended. But public memory regarding the monument's initial rhetoric rests mainly in the minds of a few, while most speed rapidly through what is now an intersection decidedly unfriendly to foot traffic. It is within this physical and so- 278 JULIE LINDQUIST frame can show. Fixing class culture in an ethnographic moment is like framing a moving picture, which introduces the danger that the resulting representation will contain products of time that will show up as products of space. This phe- nomenon is inherent in any act of rendering culture, but given class culture's pe- culiar status as the residual stuff of historical processes, it is even more acutely present. In "Does the Working Class have a Culture in the Anthropological Sense of the Word?" Foley addresses the eccentricities of ethnographing class culture evoked by Polk's time-space conundrum. Foley observes that what makes working-class practice difficult as an object of ethnographic investigation is that working-class culture must be understood as both a political culture-that is, an outgrowth or residue of structural relations-and an anthropological culture-a group distin- guished by shared history and traditions. Foley explains that neither the tradi- tional methods of anthropological linguistics, which are not well equipped to ac- count for the field of larger structural relations, nor cultural studies, which have not yet fully accounted for the specifics of local practices, can adequately appre- hend working-class experience as a phenomenon that is emergent, systemic, and locally distinctive. It is difficult to treat class cultures as cultures in the traditional sense-sites of organized, stable experience and class production; at the same time, it is hard to render the dynamic nature of class in narrative. Jose Limon, in the introduction to his critical ethnography of Mexican-Americans' ethnopoetics, reflects on this difficulty as he considers the problematics of interpreting and ren- dering his collected forms of data: "As I think through my various expressive dis- courses, scholarly and 'folk' alike, what I shall presume to discover at the level of the political unconscious are not seamless narratives of domination or resistance relative to this working-class sector. Rather, in varying historical moments, these expressive discourses give evidence, yes, of 'resistance' and 'domination' but also of seduction, anxiety, internal conflict and contradiction in race, class, and espe- cially gender dimensions conditioned always, as always, by a changing 'Anglo' capi- talist political economy" (15). Foley suggests that one way to treat class cultures as both conservative and (re)productive is to focus on expressive practices as "alienated communicative labor"-that is, on a set of reproductive practices that can make these processes available for ethnographic investigation ("Does the Working Class" 142 ). Nam- ing the object of an investigation of class culture rhetoric can similarly work as a means to apprehend culture in motion and to observe the contradictions in symbolic activity and use. Beyond that, naming can work to exploit the contra- WORKING-CLASS RHETORIC AS ETHNOGRAPHIC SUBJECT 279 dictions of postmodern knowledge and representation. As I have suggested in previous work, "The ethnography of working class rhetoric, then-though it clearly cannot provide an expansive, etic view of the socioeconomic mechanisms that drive the distribution of resources-is concerned with examining how the means attached to these resources are reproduced locally, in the emics of cultural practice" (Place to Stand 7). Rhetoric stabilizes, but retains the dynamic and proc- essual nature of, both ethnography and class culture, working at the intersection of empirical validity and interpretation. In so doing, rhetoric emphasizes what is strategic and hortatory-agentive, purposeful discourse, language that people use to explain themselves to themselves and the world. To study working-class rhetoric is to position oneself as listener of a group's articulated theory of itself, and to project this theory back onto the field of larger social relations. The ethnographic experience of working-class ethnographer Aaron Fox demonstrates how this might work. Fox, an ethnomusicologist who writes about working-class poetics, is keenly aware of the rhetorical nature of class cul- ture, describing its ethnography as emerging from "a collision between a non- methodological method and a non-objective object" ("Poetics" 61). Fox argues that, because it strives to find points of stability between "terminological, epis- temological, and experiential hybrids, framing discursive and modalities and po- litical impulses that diverge and conflict" working-class ethnography can only be understood as an "ironic" project (61). As an example of how this irony functions, Fox narrates his encounter with Tyler Foote, a Vietnam veteran, felon, and parolee, describing Foote as a skilled practitioner of working-class discourse, a "literary ethnographer of his own culture" (63). Listening to Foote speak, Fox understands him to be a highly sophisticated student of political culture whose philosophies of social processes articulate, in his own distinctively working-class linguistic reper- toire, the ideas of contemporary postmodern and Marxist theorists. Foote's politi- cal sophistication, concludes Fox, "ironizes" the enterprise of attempting to theo- rize his discourse as a product of "false consciousness." His encounter with Tyler Foote, writes Fox, "demonstrates some of the ways in which ethnography and class culture are tropologically saturated with pervasive irony. The 'object' of eth- nographic writing is a speaking subject; the cultural experience of class is a subjec- tive, individual refraction of objective, collective social relations. These ironies are compounded when the hybrid practice of ethnography frames the hybrid domain of class culture as its subjective, speaking object" (63). What Fox is describing is a situation in which he sees working-class culture invented before his eyes-that is, a rhetorical process unfolding. In contending with the "irony" of ethnographi- 280 JULIE LINDQUIST cally objectifying a subjective process, questions of motive and agency come to the fore. Foote refuses to simply "practice" (in the sense of "rehearse") common- places; he is inventing new possibilities for interpreting, and ultimately acting in, his social reality. Fox's encounter with Foote underscores the possibility that it is the potential of rhetoric to account for strategic practices that allows us to catch culture in the act of knowledge production. The project of taking rhetoric as the subject (as well as the domain) of ethnographic study is distinctive in its potential to interpret, and to locate forms of agency in, cultural practices. Covino and Jolliffe distinguish the study of rhetoric from sociolinguistics not by method but by emphasis, explaining that "rhetoric is more often concerned with planned discourse ... and linguistics is more often concerned with unplanned discourse, presented more-or-less spontaneously" (595). This is a useful, if (necessarily) re- ductive, distinction: rhetoric's emphasis on more deliberate forms of representa- tion allows for special attention to whether and how linguistic action can direct the course of social processes, and under what particular circumstances. In my research at the Smokehouse Inn (Place to Stand), I wanted to find out how class identity and culture were produced discursively; what role routinized practices of argumentation played in this process; and to what extent discourses framed as persuasion had anything to do with ideological, and therefore social, change. Thinking in terms of rhetoric allowed me to listen to people listening to them- selves, and also supplied me with the necessary heuristics for hearing this proc- ess as it did the cultural work of affirming ideologies of solidarity and (simultane- ously) of representing group motives and interests to an imagined public. Though there has to date been little articulation of the potential of rheto- ric as a domain of anthropological study, the innovative work of Ralph Cintron is a model of what might be done along these lines. Cintron has observed that while anthropology has become more rhetorical in its attention to the problems of positionality, representation, and the ethics of knowledge production, its pos- sibilities have not been fully explored by ethnographers in interpreting cultural scenes and processes. He contends that rhetoric has particular promise in help- ing us to understand culture in its performative capacities, pointing out that it has traditionally attended to matters of performance and display (as epideictic, for example). Rhetoric can, therefore, be useful in describing a range of cultural practice: "Sociocultural anthropology," writes Cintron, "is rhetorical long before its texts, its ethnographies, its theoretical treatises, come into being because the cultural stuff that becomes the fieldnote is rhetorical" (3). In his ethnography of chero gang life, in which the author intends to "explore how a variety of people WORKING-CLASS RHETORIC AS ETHNOGRAPHIC SUBJECT 281 made or displayed themselves and how these makings were influenced by sys- temic power differences" (x), Cintron uses rhetoric as a way to apprehend the agon of cultural processes. He describes his work as "a project in the rhetorics of public culture or the rhetorics of everyday life," a designation he chooses in or- der to "name an approach that, consistent with the discipline of rhetoric, is inter- ested in the structured contention that organizes, albeit fleetingly, a community or culture" (x). Work in the rhetoric of the everyday, in Cintron's formulation, aims to understand cultures as "systems of contention in which a contentious position does not exist without its structured opposite and the two together have much to do with the specificities of everyday life" (xi). One way to describe this space of everyday contention is as the space of mesostructure, the place where so- cial structure is mediated by/invented in discursive practice. Maines describes mesostructure as a phenomenological domain between structuration and prac- tice, explaining that "it is through interaction that structures are enacted, but in that process, interaction becomes 'conditional' interaction . . . mesostructure portrays freedom as possible through constraint and constraint as a consequence of freedom" (28). Rhetoric, then, might be specially equipped to work within the space of the contradictions between social structure and lived experience and to frame these as productive sites of interpretation. But what, in the end, are the products of this kind of research, and what might be their uses? If ethnographers of working- class rhetoric find it, as I did, difficult to name the very object of their investi- gations, then how is it possible to say that the knowledge it produces is useful, or even valid? In the end, it is the unstable epistemological and methodological difficulties of the ethnography of working-class rhetoric that make it worth do- ing. There are several reasons why this is true: the difficulties in theorizing and developing methodologies for the ethnography of working-class rhetoric invite those approaching the study of culture from different disciplinary locations to speak more directly to each other; these difficulties, humbling as they are, stand to change the way academics and teachers speak to themselves; and these diffi- culties press researchers to recognize everyday practices as both culturally dura- ble and driven by class interests. The very difficulty of taking working-class rhetoric as the subject of ethnog- raphy illuminates the shifting refractions of class experience; the effort to pin it down demonstrates all the ways it can not be stabilized. Foley has persuasively shown how anthropological and humanistic cultural theories need each other to come together in a well-theorized, yet methodologically viable, approach to the 282 JULIE LINDQUIST study of class culture. The products of such a dialogue between systematic and hermeneutic approaches to the study of culture bring deeper understandings of social processes in complex societies-yet the process of the dialogue itself is a necessary corrective to the limitations of each approach. Traditional anthropol- ogy must be continually pressed to find relevance in contemporary information economies; meanwhile, cultural theory must continue to modulate its infatuation with textual hermeneutics with sustained attention to human lifeworlds. Only through a productive collaboration between the two approaches can we hope to understand the mechanisms and the range of experience of class in America. If the ethnography of working-class rhetoric compels disciplinary orienta- tions into more reflective attitudes, then it can work similarly to keep the official practitioners of institutional knowledge-that is, us, the academics who "study" social class-aware of the social moorings of our motives and projects. As those who tend the gates leading to the sacred spaces of knowledge production, we should feel an ethical responsibility to understand, and a relentless pressure to keep rediscovering, what the stakes are in holding these positions. The kind of grounded cultural theory the ethnography of rhetoric yields, a contingent theory supported by multifaceted and aggressively reflexive narratives, can continue to teach us about the costs and benefits of interventions into our student's institu- tional experiences. Paradoxically, what begins in an act of presumption (naming class culture as the object of study) can end in a posture of humility, as we learn about our own class motives and alliances. This kind of informed humility has many social uses and institutional ben- efits, far too many to take up here. As a writing teacher, the ones that come to my mind most immediately are pedagogical uses. Apart from merely describing "what happens" in working-class spaces, the ethnography of working-class rhet- oric can, as David Seitz demonstrates, position us to understand the sets of loy- alties and locations we must honor when we attempt to change people's minds about what politics "is" and how writing is a political act-as is the project of critical pedagogy. We need to know what is stake for people in relocating them- selves in sites of other rhetorical processes and practices. Let me give an example of how I see this knowledge of rhetoric working and what I think it has the potential to accomplish. In his recent essay "Hidden Intel- lectuals," Gerald Graff makes an argument to fellow English teachers to honor students' native intelligences as the raw materials of intellectual activity. The exi- gency for Graff's essay is the epidemic disregard among academics for these na- tive intelligences. Graff wants teachers to understand that "there must be many WORKING-CLASS RHETORIC AS ETHNOGRAPHIC SUBJECT 283 buried or hidden forms of intellectualism that might get channeled into intel- lectual work, but might if schools were more alert about tapping into them" (261). Graff's aim, ultimately, is to encourage educational institutions to make academic rhetorics available to students who, he is convinced, could learn them if they were only let in on the game-in particular, the game of argument, the speech genre that is most useful as currency in humanistic disciplines. To make his case for the inherent structural affinity of students' everyday practices for of- ficially sanctioned forms of academic argument, Graff cites examples of vernacu- lar activities that are inherently deliberative in nature, such as debating the mer- its of pop music figures, or athletes. He uses his own experience in such debates as evidence that this sort of activity is "out there," remarking that in engaging in the kinds of critical argument the local working-class kids (the "hoods") would "never have bothered with," he was learning to become an intellectual even be- fore he had a language to name such a category. Yet in supposing that such rhe- torical practices are absent in working-class communities and ending our spec- ulations there, we miss opportunities to learn about rhetorical practices-or, perhaps, the cultural reasons for resisting certain kinds of practices-that might allow us to intervene meaningfully in the education of working-class students. As I indicated in a response to Graff's essay, "the problems of intellectual identifica- tion [may be] rather more vexing and intractable than Graff seems to see them, emerging as they do from historically established class antagonisms" ("Hoods" 262). The problem is not Graff's recognition of the problem of access, or his in- tentions, both of which have obvious integrity. It is that Graff is not working from a deep understanding of the inventive capacity, or the cultural meanings, of local rhetorical practices. It should be obvious how an important project such as Graff's stands to be enriched by a fuller understanding of the forms and uses of working-class rhetoric. We need to know what working-class kids are not doing in their language practices, but also what they are doing-and furthermore, how these practices count locally as social actions. Graff, or anyone interested in making connections between local cultural practices and academic ways of speaking and knowing, stands to learn as much to inform pedagogy in barrooms and poolrooms as in classrooms. If, as I have suggested, studying rhetoric as interested action makes class culture available for interpretation as a dynamic, temporal phenomenon, then locating it in socially productive spaces is important. And if rhetoric is public and suasive discourse, an obvious place to look is in local institutions and fora, places where working people come together with the purpose of some form of knowledge production. 284 JULIE LINDQUIST Writing almost two decades ago, sociolinguist Kathryn Woolard observed that researchers in dominant institutions were looking in the wrong places to get a full picture of how cultural practices participate in processes of "reproduction"- and to what extent they actually do so, explaining that "the structuralist repre- sentation of dominant, hegemonic ideologies as impenetrable does not capture the reality of working-class and minority community practices" (18). Woolard's call for researchers of class culture to look to local institutions to locate forms of agency and to document process of social formation is essential advice for ethnographers of working-class rhetoric. We shouldn't be surprised, though, if we happen to bump into a few colleagues-not only in rhetoric, but in anthropology, communication studies, history, folklore, and cultural studies-as we go about our business. Recognizing the heuristic uses of working-class rheto- ric as an ethnographic subject entails relentless attention to local practices, but it should in no way distract us from the contributions of scholars engaging in other forms of humanistic-critical, historical, and philosophical-scholarship on so- cial formation and cultural processes. As Ann Brady points out, the call for inter- and multidisciplinary approaches to rhetoric has been productively taken up in recent years, as scholars such as Ellen Cushman and Malea Powell combine an- thropological, historical, and critical methods to learn more about how rhetoric works as a political and historical practice (58). As we continue to explore the pos- sibilities of ethnography for the study of working-class rhetoric, it is important that we pay attention to, and continue to learn from, the rich variety of ways in which rhetoric has been applied, extended, and redefined as a cultural subject. NOTES I would like to thank David Seitz, who has, as always, offered tremendous help with the production of this work. 1. The New London Group is an international group of education, communications, and literacy scholars charged with the task of imagining sustainable forms of literacy education, in- cluding Courtney Cazden, Bill Cope, Norman Fairclough, James Gee, Mary Kalazantis, Gunther Kress, Allan Luke, Carmen Luke, Sarah Michaels, and Martin Nakata. WORKS CITED Brady, Ann. "Rhetorical Research: Toward a User-Centered Approach." Rhetoric Review 23 (2004): 57-74. Cintron, Ralph. Angels' Town: Chero Ways, Gang Life, and Rhetorics of the Everyday. Boston: Beacon, 1997. 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"Language Variation and Cultural Hegemony: Toward an Integration of Sociolinguistic and Social Theory." American Ethnologist 12 (1985): 738-47. Contributors Lew Caccia teaches writing at Walsh University in North Canton, Ohio. He is also a doctoral candidate in the literacy, rhetoric, and social prac- tice program at Kent State University, conducting dissertation research on occupational risk communication at a Fortune 500 manufacturing plant. He holds a master's degree in English and a graduate certificate in professional writing and editing from Youngstown State University. His work has appeared in Rhetoric Society Quarterly, Technical Commu- nication Quarterly, and Atenea. Caccia's teaching interests include com- position, technical writing, and poetry. Kermit E. Campbell is associate professor of writing and rhetoric at Col- gate University. He teaches courses in composition, rhetorical history and theory, and African American expressive culture from slavery to Hip-hop. He has published several articles in the field of composition and rhetoric and a recent book entitled Gettin' Our Groove On: Rhetoric, Language, and Literacy for the Hip-hop Generation. James V Catano is professor of English and a member of the film and media arts and women's and gender studies programs at Louisiana State University. Catano's publications include Ragged Dicks: Masculin- ity, Steel, and the Rhetoric of the Self-Made Man; Language, History, Style: Leo Spitzer and the Critical Tradition; and essays in College English, College Composition and Communication, Journal of American Culture, and Men andMasculinities, among others. He is currently in post-production on a documentary video entitled Steel Voices: From Mills to Malls and Movies. Catherine Chaput, assistant professor in the Department of English at Brock University, teaches courses in rhetoric and writing studies. Bridg- 287 Who saysl 18 JAMES V. CATANO cial context that former head grievance man at the Homestead mill Mike Stout, in the traditional blended rhetoric of memorialization, refers to the monument as both "sacred ground" and a "signal of the beginning of the end" for steelwork- ers, their industry, and their union. As "sacred ground," the monument enables the rhetoric "proper" to bat- tleground memorials, since, as Stout explains, "probably in the hundreds if not thousands of people died working in this mill and fighting to get a union into this mill, not just in 1892, not just in 1919, and not just in the 1936 CIO drive but throughout that entire period." To that memorial rhetoric Stout adds that of labor activism: "Every single year from 1979 up through 1985 we had a me- morial, every single May at the monument, and we had a press conference, and we had people come." Yet even as Stout uses the monument to enact this rheto- ric of glorification, he also uses it to emphasize a new rhetoric of bereavement: "That monument represents that period from 1941 through May 23, 1986, when the place was shut down." It is in this sense that the monument becomes a dec- laration of the beginning of the end. For all that the monument memorializes a union victory, and a subsequent period of economic and political strength for workers, it also engages an ouroboros rhetoric of the destruction of Homestead's union in 1892 and again in 1986. In spite of these mixed rhetorics, or perhaps because of them, there are a number of foundations and groups attempting to physically supplement the once-again overshadowed labor rhetoric provided by the Homestead monu- ment alone. Groups such as the Battle of Homestead Foundation (BHF) and the Steel Industry Heritage Corporation (SIHC) have managed to save, preserve, and mark a variety of sites around the Homestead area. Now these groups are bat- tling to save the famous Carrie furnaces from demolition. These "translated" monuments have been saved, by and large, through a combination of historical interest and rising economic support for heritage tour- ism. Such a blend combines traditional (and relatively cheap) "verbal" visual rhetoric-historical markers at the grave site and the Pump House-with re- lated but much more expensive structures-the buildings and furnaces them- selves. The differing ways in which civic rhetoric and the heritage of labor activ- ism can be enacted through such structures is telling. The traditional historical sign or plaque is, of course, both the cheapest and (for that reason, among others) the most common rhetorical statement. The Homestead monument is clearly a step up in both cost and memorial "impact," with its verbal rhetoric augmented and enacted by visual components. Neverthe- 288 CONTRIBUTORS ing various theoretical fields, her research explores the myriad interdependen- cies among economic globalization; practices of everyday culture; and institu- tional, state, and transnational political regulations. She is working on Inside the Teaching Machine: Globalization and the Rhetorical Hermeneutics of the U.S. Public Research University, a book-length study of the origins and consequences of the global university. Dale Cyphert, associate professor of management at the University of North- ern Iowa, teaches courses in organizational management, business communi- cation, and communication management. She is interested in workplace com- munication, especially the contrasting rhetorical patterns across organizational cultures, occupational classifications, and levels of management. Her scholar- ship has appeared in journals including Business Communication Quarterly, the Quarterly Journal ofSpeech, Southern Communication Journal, Text and Performance Quarterly, and Western Journal of Communication. William DeGenaro, assistant professor of rhetoric and composition at The Uni- versity of Michigan-Dearborn, teaches courses in composition, creative writ- ing, and working-class studies. His research centers on the critical study of social class and open-access education in the United States and has appeared in College English, Journal ofBasic Writing, Teaching English in the Two-Year College, Disability Studies Quarterly, and JAC He is working on a history of developmental writing education within the Miami University system and a study of his farmer/poet great-grandfather's writings as an embodiment of a working-class poetics. Anthony Esposito is assistant professor of speech and communication studies at Edinboro University of Pennsylvania, teaching courses including interpersonal communication, argumentation and debate, and mass communication and modern society. His research interests lie in popular culture, working-class stud- ies, and communication. Melissa J Fiesta is assistant professor of English at California State University Long Beach, where she teaches courses in rhetoric, composition, and literacy. Her research focuses on social activist rhetorics written by women, histories of the teaching of English, and rhetorical theory as a method for social action in public spaces including writing classrooms. She is the author of "Reconstruct- ing Home in Early Feminist Rhetorics: The Religious Discourses of Protestantism CONTRIBUTORS 289 and Transcendentalism as Sites of Production for Sarah Grimke and Margaret Fuller" in the collection Rhetoric, Polis, and the Global Village. Judith D. Hoover is professor of communication at Western Kentucky University, where she teaches research methods and interpersonal, group, and organiza- tional communication. Publications include Effective Small Group and Team Com- munication, Corporate Advocacy: Rhetoric in the Information Age, and essays on the rhetorics of Ronald Reagan, Lee Iacocca, and Martin Luther King Jr. Kathleen LeBesco is associate professor of communication arts at Marymount Manhattan College, teaching courses in communication, popular culture, and feminist and queer theory. She coedited Bodies Out ofBounds: Fatness and Trans- gression and The Drag King Anthology and is the author of Revolting Bodies? The Struggle to Redefine Fat Identity. She serves as the book and film review editor of Disability Studies Quarterly. Julie Lindquist is associate professor in the Department of Writing, Rhetoric, and American Cultures at Michigan State University, where she teaches courses in writing, rhetorical theory, composition studies, and pedagogy. Her recently pub- lished book, A Place to Stand: Politics and Persuasion in a Working Class Bar, is an ethnographic study of the rhetorical invention of class identity. She has also pub- lished on writing pedagogy, social class and class identity, and practices of argu- ment. Kristen Lucas is assistant professor in the communication studies department at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Her research interests focus on dignity in the workplace, career discourses, and blue-collar organizations. She has published in Journal ofApplied Communication Research, International and Intercultural Com- munication Annual, and Communication Research. Steve Martin is assistant professor of communication at Ripon College, where he teaches public speaking, rhetorical theory, technical writing, and political com- munication. His research has appeared in Communication Teacher and the Jour- nal ofthe Wisconsin Communication Association, and he is winner of the Robert G. Gunderson Award for Outstanding Debut Paper, Public Address Division, at the National Communication Association. 290 CONTRIBUTORS Anne F Mattina is associate professor of communications at Stonehill College, where she teaches courses on gender and communication, persuasion, and com- munication theory. Publications include "Hillary Rodham Clinton: Using Her Vi- tal Voice," in the collection Inventing a Voice: The Rhetoric of American First La- dies of the 2oth Century and "Rights as Well as Duties: The Rhetoric of Leonora O'Reilly" in Communication Quarterly. Melanie Bailey Mills is professor of communication studies at Eastern Illinois University, teaching courses in organizational and interpersonal communication and women's studies. Her research interests primarily focus on occupational cul- tures, particular the "dirty work" of blue- and pink-collar jobs. She began work- ing with truckers in the 198os and is indebted to the many drivers who have shared their professional and personal lives with her. Emily Plec is associate professor of communication studies at Western Oregon University. Her teaching and research areas include rhetoric, intercultural com- munication, and social justice. Her current work focuses on environmental and civil rights activism in the farmworker movement and the rhetoric of racism in sports. She has authored or coauthored articles and book chapters in the Howard Journal of Communications, Communication Teacher, the Environmental Communi- cation Yearbook, Journal ofthe Northwest Communications Association, and New Ap- proaches to Rhetoric. Index activist rhetoric, 18-21, 29, 47-66, 70, 72-73, 86 Addams, Jane, 69-86; "The Subjective Neces- sity for Social Settlements" 74; Twenty Years at Hull-House, 72, 85 Adorno, Theodor, 204, 208, 221-22 affirmative action, 227-28 agribusiness, lo8-9, 110-11, 113, 125. See also farmworkers All in the Family (television show), 240 Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel- workers, 12, 14 "American Dream" mythology, 144, 229-30, 231, 236, 239, 246 American Federation of Labor, 56, 256 American Trucking Association, 131-32 ardte, 2 Aristotle, 1-4, 70-71, 110, 275 Athens: political economy of, 1-2 automotive workers, 164 Barr, Roseanne. See Roseanne Battle of Homestead, 11, 15-17, 20 Battle of Homestead Foundation, 18, 19, 23, 28 Benjamin, Walter, 257-59, 265 Berlin, James, 1-2 Bread and Roses strike, 48, 58-61 British Women's Social and Political Union, 52 Burke, Kenneth, 210, 230, 267, 275 California Environmental Protection Agency, 165 capitalism, 102, 108, 204, 206, 218-20, 239, 249, 253, 260 Carnegie, Andrew, 11, 15-17 carpal tunnel syndrome: risk of in occupational settings, 170-71 CB radios, 133, 140 Chavez, Cesar, 109, 121 child labor, 121-23 Children's Exodus, 60 Christianity, 260-61, 265 Cicero, 70 Cintron, Ralph, 280-81 civic rhetoric, 2, 11-30 class codes, 35, 42 class consciousness, 6-8, 35, 47, 70, 77-83, 86, 229-30, 240 Cold War, 205, 208 collectivity, 144-60 comic books, 256-69 commerce, 23-26, 92-93, 109, 127, 136 Committee to Abolish Discrimination, 264 commonplaces: in the work ofJane Addams, 69-86 concrete workers, 144-60 Congress of Industrial Organizations, 18, 256-60 construction workers, 165 counterhegemony, 257, 269 culture industry, 258-59 DeBartolo, Ed, Jr., 94 dehumanization, 119-21 Derrida, Jacques, 13 dignity, 180 divine birth, 2 DMX, 228-30, 233, 234 Do the Right Thing (film), 233 doxa, 14, 15, 112 economic development. See commerce 8 Mile (film), 235-36. See also Eminem elitism, 1-4, 6, 144 291 292 INDEX Eminem, 235-36 Environmental Protection Agency, 115 epideictic speech, 16 ethics, 203 ethnography, 271-84 Extreme Makeover (television show), 204, 210-12, 216-20 family: and reality television, 204, 206-7, 209-17 farmworkers, 107-25; and Farmworker Wom- en's Leadership Project, 114; injuries to, 121; Japanese, 11o. See also agribusiness fatness, 238-54 Federal Motor Carrier Safety Regulations, 137-38 feminism: feminist historiography, 70; material feminism, 53. See also rhetorical analysis, feminist Flynn, Elizabeth Gurley, 59, 62, 64 Fordism, 205 Fox, Aaron, 279-80 gender: and communication patterns, 33; and farmworkers, 108-9, 114, 118, 120; and the Great Strikes, 47-66; ideology of "separate spheres," 49, 53; and race and class issues, 44, 181, 273-74, 278; and television, 205-8, 211, 219, 239, 240, 242, 249, 251, 253. See also feminism; rhetorical analysis, feminist Genesis, Book of, 2 globalization, 203-4, 208-9 Gompers, Samuel, 55 Good Times (television show), 240 Graff, Gerald, 282-83 Gramsci, Antonio, 231-32, 257-59 Great Depression, 32, 37, 43-45, 257, 267 Harvest Gypsies, The (Steinbeck), 107 heritage tourism, 11-30 Hesiod, 2 Hip-hop, 228-33. See also names of individual artists historic sites, 11-30, 88-103. See also names of individual sites hobos, 130 Homestead Monument, 11-30 Honeymooners, The (television show), 240 hooks, bell, 44, 45, 231 Huerta, Dolores, 121 Hull-House, 80-83. See also settlement houses ideology: ofJane Addams, 72; theoretical per- spectives on, 33-34; of the value of labor, 271. See also capitalism, Marxism, socialism immigration, 47-50, 53-66, 107-25, 108-11, 113 Industrial Workers of the World, 36, 38, 59, 62, 65 kairos, 14 King, Martin Luther, Jr., 227, 228, 230, 234, 236 Knights of Labor, 48 Ku Klux Klan, 54, 266-69 labor. See organized labor labor: history of, 14-15 liberalism, 73-76 literacy, 69-70 literate practices, 164-76 loci, 70-72, 75, 76, 85 Lukacs, Georg, 220-21 Malcolm X, 233 Manor House (television show), 204, 210-16, 218-20 marginalization, 28 marriage, 211-12, 214-15 Marxism, 219-20, 260-61, 276-77, 279 media: and representations of the working class, 88-89, 93-94, 102 memory, 13, 15, 17, 20, 24, 88-89; vernacular, 90, 92, 99-100, 103 meritocracy, 182 Mexican Americans, 108, 110-11, 113-20, 124 Migrant and Immigrant Assistant Center, 118 Miller, Thomas, 4 miners, 32-45, 165, 180-97 minimum wage, 180, 219 monuments. See historic sites Monus, Michael, 94 Mother Jones, 16 Motor Carrier Act of 1935, 131 multivocality, 13, 20, 101-2 museums. See historic sites; National Civil Rights Museum; Youngstown Historical Center of Industry and Labor narrative paradigm, 40-41 National Civil Rights Museum, 91 National Safety Council, 164 nativism, 53-54, 57-58 Nazis, 264 Nehru, Jawaharal, 227 INDEX 293 New Deal, 257 Notorious B.I.G., 231 obesity epidemic, 239, 250 occupational communities, 128, 144 occupational identification, 127 occupational narratives, 195-97 Occupational Safety and Health Association, 170 On Rhetoric (Aristotle), 2-3, 110, 275 organic intellectuals, 232 organized labor, 256-69; and farmworkers, 108, 11o; in mining, 36-45; and negotiations, 168-69; and problematized providing and protecting, 185, 194; in the steel industry, 11-3o; and settlement houses, 79-80, 82-85; and strikes, 48, 55-66 parlor rhetoric, 49-50 Plato, 13 politics, 22-23, 51-52, 180, 226, 228, 271 pragmatism, 76-77 problematized providing and protecting, 180- 97; in African American communities, 181 Progressive Era, 47 Public Enemy, 233 Quinn-Ives Bill, 262 race: Jane Addams on, 74-75; Douglas Foley on, 276, 278; Jim Goad on, 274; and the labor movement, 262-64; and migrant farmwork- ers, 107-25; and the rhetoric of Hip-hop, 226-36; and scapegoating, 268; and self- conceptions in the working class, 183; and the steel industry, 22, 97 reality television, 203-22 Redneck Manifesto, The (Goad), 273 Reed, John, 63 religion, 260-63 representative anecdotes, 21o rhetoric: critical, 112; new, 5, 8, 70-71 rhetorical analysis, 5, 7, 48-5, 88-103; feminist, 50-51, 53, 65-66 rhetorical appeals, 2-4 rhetorical tradition, 1, 4 risk assessment. See workplace risk, assessment and control risk communication. See workplace risk, com- munication Roseanne, 238-54 Rothenberg, Daniel, 113, 114 Rowan's Rhetorical Model, 166, 169, 176 Rubin, Lillian, 272-73 Santorum, Rick, 22 scapegoating, 264-69 Seitz, David, 282 settlement houses, 54, 69-86 sexuality, 5, 207, 208, 214 sexual orientation, 207 Shakur, Tupac, 231, 232 shirtwaist industry. See textile industry Silk Strike of 1913, 48, 61-65 Smith, Anna Nicole, 238-54 social differentiation, 33 social ethic, 73 socialism, 54, 57-58, 60, 64, 72-73, 83 Stanford Prison Experiment of 1970, 213 Steel Industry Heritage Corporation, 18, 19, 21, 22, 28 steel workers, 11-30, 89, 92, 94-103; and Steel Workers Organizing Council 12, 14, 17, 26. See also Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steelworkers, 12, 14 Steinbeck, John, 107-8 stratification, 33-34, 41, 43, 112, 167, 195 strike pageant, 64 strikes, 11-30, 32, 39, 42-43, 47-66, 84. See also strikes by name suffrage, 57, 65 symbolic convergence theory, 128-30, 141 Taft-Hartley Act, 43 techne, 2 television, 203-22, 238-54. See also reality television telos, 2 textile industry, 53-58 thematic analysis, 113 topoi, 70, 231 Trafficant, James, 90, 94, 102 transportation, 130 truck drivers, 127-42; deregulation of, 132; movies about, 131, 132, 133-35; stereotyping of, 133-37 truck stops, 139-40 Truman, Harry, 43 unemployment, 99-102 unions. See organized labor United Auto Workers, 164 294 INDEX United Farm Workers of America, 111, 114 United Mine Workers of America, 36, 43 Vietnam Veterans' Memorial, 91 West Virgnia Mine Workers, 32, 37, 43 With These Hands (Rothenberg), 113 Women's Trade Union League, 55-56, 65 worker education, 38, 79 workers' compensation, 164, 176 work ethic, 186 working-class ethos, 164, 176 working-class voices, 96-97, 1oo-101, 108, 111-12, 121, 124-25; silencing of, 11-12 workplace risk, 164-76, 186, 188, 189-92; assess- ment and control, 170-75; communication, 165-66 work songs, 38-40 Youngstown Historical Center of Industry and Labor, 88-103 ARTICULATING THE VALUES OF LABOR AND LABORING 19 less, it remains within the realm of what might be called the traditional monu- ment. The Pump House and the Bost Building are on another scale entirely. The mere size of the structures is its own rhetorical statement (as is true of Carnegie's library). But the most significant difference lies in the nature of the labor rhetoric that these larger buildings enable. Both the Pump House and Bost Building are owned by SIHC, now more reg- ularly represented as the "Rivers of Steel Heritage Area." The Pump House, how- ever, is leased to BHF, a small group of dedicated labor activists intent upon see- ing the site not as a preserved memorial but as a focal point for contemporary labor rhetoric.3 Their civic and rhetorical goals are made explicit in a joint mem- orandum of understanding with SIHC, which declares that the "major focus of the BHF and SIHC missions are to promote the Pump House as a labor history monument and meeting place that will attract labor groups, out-of-town visitors, students, and the general public interested in Western Pennsylvania's industrial and labor heritage" (qtd. in McCollester 14; Battle ofHomestead). Key to the memorandum is the phrase "meeting place that will attract labor groups." Clearly, for BHF, the Pump House is to be a visual enactment of an ac- tive, even activist, labor rhetoric, and not just a building to look at, to preserve or apotheosize. As Russell Gibbons, president of BHF, declares: I think people who get into this business, ... have all their own terminology, you know ... living memorial or whatever. I see it as an opportunity to talk about the past in its relevance to today.... [T]o stand outside the Pump House or to be in the Pump House and look out those windows and see that trestle bridge ... and to know those abutments were there in 1892 and underneath those abutments and that bridge ... the Pinkertons came and landed down below ... and they were repulsed. They were repulsed ... not just by the workers but by the townspeople.... This was a clarion call to say "Hey, we have a stake in this mill; we have something to say about our economic destiny, as well as the owners." ... and this was a confrontation that took place and the management had ab- solutely no sympathy .., .with workers asserting themselves to say they could make deci- sions about their lives. Now, this is not an archaic concept that has gone down the way. It's still there; we're still fighting those battles in so many ways, and what better way to tell about it than to say "This is where it happened"?4 Ed Salaj echoes that concern for an activist labor rhetoric when he states his distaste for "cobweb museums," buildings that house some "device sitting out there getting cobwebs on it and they can say that was from a steel mill. But how do you explain it. How do you show that in relation to the man? There's no way." This concern for a rhetoric of labor activity, if not of direct labor activism, 20 JAMES V. CATANO is one that constantly appears when ex-workers are discussing heritage tourism. Sheryl Sears, today a community activist and organizer in Pittsburgh, argues for using the abandoned Carrie Furnace in a polymodal rhetoric that will make the building "a live place": "You know you just can't ask [visitors] to walk through a cold building, with no action, and understand what went on during that time. So there's going to have to be some type of visual and verbal thing going on the whole time these things are going on. [If restored buildings are just used] as a place for artifacts, then they could have just given them to a museum .... You know, just put them right beside the dinosaurs, because that's what they'll soon become." What all these statements voice is a concern that the workers' herit- age-the activities in which they were engaged-will be consigned to a rhetoric of representation rather than one of enactment. Mike Stout is very clear on this danger. "I think," he remarks, "there could come a day within the next ten years where people in the United States don't even know what a steel mill is, and don't even know what the steel industry is." These ex-steelworkers are arguing for a rhetoric that does more than merely keep their past available. They want heritage tourism and its rhetoric to speak of the ongoing nature of that heritage, on what it means to have it, not just what it means to have had it. To that end, Stout speaks in the rhetoric of the labor activ- ist when he calls the United Steelworkers of America (USW) "the main force that needs to be at the center" of plans to use the remnants of the industry for herit- age tourism. It is, he argues, "the only force out there that, I think, is aware ofjust how important this history is. "It is the only force out there that has the financial and the other resources to pull such a coalition together." Stout refuses to put paid to the rhetoric of labor activism embodied by the battle at Homestead, the monument that commemorates it, and the remnants of the industry that are now the basis for a rhetoric of heritage tourism. His belief is well founded if you listen to Leo Gerard, president of the USW, speak on the sub- ject. In Gerard's heritage rhetoric, the union "is supporting the memorialization of [Homestead's] history." But more important, in his view, are the connections of the rhetoric of memorialization with "what our activists are doing today and what our union is doing today to make sure there's a future for our members- past and present." Like Gibbons when he speaks of the Pump House, Gerard sees the building not as an inviolate artifact, but a rhetorical opportunity. "As impor- tant as the Pump House is," he suggests, "we're fighting today's battles too.... The battle didn't end with the battle of Homestead. The battle continues every day. And so we support the kinds of things that will use the word memorialize ARTICULATING THE VALUES OF LABOR AND LABORING 21 in this kind of... way. The Pump House is a symbol of the past and a symbol of the future." Gerard's rhetoric, which speaks labor heritage and labor activism in unified, dynamic ways, underlies Stout's own. But it is important not to lose sight of Stout's second reason for looking to the USW to draw on its "financial and the other re- sources" to gather together a coalition of preservationists, activists, and commu- nity members. The "other resources" in this mix are, of course, the political and organizing powers that are central to any heritage rhetoric, including labor. Speaking Politics These political resources are visible in the rhetoric and activities centered on the revitalization of Homestead itself and the relation of that revitalization to heritage tourism. As Mayor Betty Esper, herself an ex-steelworker, candidly notes: "[Heritage] wasn't important to me in the '90s because we were starving in this town, we were bleeding to death. Nothing was important other than trying to save the town. But, OK, now we have time to breathe, . . . to appreciate the his- torical part of the town." This is the rhetoric of political pragmatism, of course, and given the dire economic straits of Homestead and the entire Monongahela Valley following the collapse of the steel industry, it is hard to argue against. Such concerns are not confined to the rhetoric of politicians. Similar consid- erations drift into the rhetoric and activities centered in the Bost Building, which acts as both office space for SIHC and as an interactive, but also deeply archival, museum. SIHC's emphasis on the steel industry heritage is heard in a heritage rhetoric that echoes some of Esper's political pragmatism. The past, after all, is always safely that-past. To speak not only a historical but also a contemporary rhetoric of labor activism today is to risk both governmental and foundational funding. Sears describes the situation succinctly: "[Y]ou can't get certain funding if you have any political persuasion. ... And people are very, very afraid of that, you know, these days, because they can lose their funding for, you know, doing things like that. So it sort of gets away from helping the people ... [to] staying in line with what the funders want." Helping the community is the goal of nearly all the groups involved, of course. But Sears is noting how meanings shift as political concerns are aligned with eco- nomic ones. SIHC has been very successful in attracting funding to its particular rhetorical stance, a success most visible in the nearly six million dollars spent on refurbishing the Bost Building, and in the recent award of nine hundred thou- 22 JAMES V. CATANO sand dollars to the Rivers of Steel Heritage Area from the U.S. Senate Appropria- tions Committee. Channeled through the Department of the Interior, the money is intended to aid "restoration and preservation efforts . .. by promoting aware- ness of history and attracting tourists," most specifically, according to a press re- lease from Senator Rick Santorum's office, "to conserve the industrial and cul- tural heritage of Southwestern Pennsylvania" ("Rivers of Steel"). The rhetorical emphasis in all these statements is clear to the reader, as it certainly must be to SIHC. Such rhetoric speaks civic values that are not lost on steelworkers, and many take great pleasure in preservation work and what it says regarding their herit- age. But there remains an uneasiness over how that heritage, when coupled with politics and funding, is being rhetorically embodied. There are Salaj's and Sears's concerns over the deadening effects of any museum, for one. There are also con- cerns that political and economic concerns can lead to a sanitized heritage rhet- oric. Kimberly Andrews, whose father worked and was severely injured in the mills, speaks of her concern over the SIHC tour's elision of references to the con- sent decree signed by the USW and U.S. Steel in which both organizations admit- ted to systematic discriminatory practices against African Americans. Although the decree points to a deeply negative issue in both union and corporate behav- ior, Andrews believes that it "should be part of the tour ... the African Ameri- can history and heritage in the steel industry should be explained during tours because I think that would be a more worthwhile experience; people would have more incentive to come here." Andrews is alert to the economic incentives of tourism. The tours, after all, are intended to support the activities of SIHC, and ticket sales are a source of rev- enue. But Sears's political concerns go to the very heart of how the rhetoric of heritage tourism is to be defined. "You talk about those things," she insists. "You talk about the consent decree.... That definitely needs to be known. Because there were no open arms there until that document was put in place. Because if we'd have gone to that plant lo years before we would not have gotten those jobs and no one will convince me that would've ever happened. So that was a very im- portant part of the steel history. And people should be reminded of that .. . But why remind people of that? Why risk political and economic repercussions, and the possible loss of what little heritage can be found in place such as the Bost Building? Sears's answer is rooted once again in that rhetoric of political activism in which heritage is not the "past" but the foundation of the future. "Out here in the world of reality we are still out here fighting, just as hard as we did then. ARTICULATING THE VALUES OF LABOR AND LABORING 23 Some things might have changed. The burden might be lighter, but the battle is still there." Speaking a laundered heritage rhetoric, a politically safe heritage, is not ac- ceptable for Andrews or Sears, as it is not for BHF, the USW, or other activist groups. Such choices over what the rhetoric of the steel heritage must be are not made lightly. BHF, after all, has concentrated years of effort on preserving and gaining access to the Pump House. "I love that [Bost] building," Sears notes in kind. "I think it's a wonderful building ... I think the different things people have brought in, that they've had: helmets, boots, signs, ... they're going to be so important when you put a museum wherever you're going to put it." But it can't be a "cobweb" museum, in which the industry and its workers become the dinosaurs of the industrial past. If an activist heritage rhetoric is dangerous, so be it. "If I tell it, it's a risk," Sears admits. "If I don't tell it, it's a risk. So which risk do you want? ... [Y]ou have to choose. I choose to get the information out there any way I possibly can." Why do so? Because people want "to ignore things, like, they'd never happened, and it's unfortunate, because that's what history is. His- tory is the things that happen." Clearly, the work of all these groups battling over the memorialization of the industry has brought the whole question of heritage tourism to the forefront. As Mayor Esper explains: "Five years ago, six years ago, I'd have told you 'Forget his- tory. I need money; I need a tax base.' Once you have a tax base ... you have the time to create the historical buildings again." Ironically, this linkage to a tax base-and the Waterfront development it implies-points to a form of heritage rhetoric that is among the most problematic for many in the community. Speaking Commerce To say that the rhetoric of heritage tourism is heavily influenced by the rhetor- ics of business and commercial development is not to reveal any great new truth, though its implications are troubling. Once again, Winter's warning about the rhet- oric of World War I memorials is apt: "[T]he business of commemoration was al- ways that," he notes, "a business, shaped by the character of the community which undertook it" (90o). That applies not only to the logistical issues involved-acquir- ing property, sculptors, designs, erection costs, and so on-but also to the very issue that lies behind heritage tourism: the paying tourist who is coming to find this heritage, a dynamic nowhere more apparent than as enacted in Homestead's newly built commercial development-the Waterfront mall and its artifacts. 24 JAMES V. CATANO Located on the very site of the steel mill that occasioned SWOC's monument to labor defeat, death, and rebirth, the mall provides its own monumental rheto- ric by incorporating twelve smokestacks from the Homestead mill into its over- all design, along with a dinkey engine, the mill's twelve-thousand-ton press, and myriad other "artifacts" scattered on the site. What is the rhetoric of such monu- ments to speak? Bruce Englehart, vice president of Continental Real Estate, sees the rhetoric of heritage and history as central to the overall site. "The stacks [that] were left over from the original Homestead Iron Works, the U.S. Steel Corpora- tion," for example, are seen as "very, very important to the overall look and feel of the Waterfront to keep some of the initial heritage of the Homestead area. They're beautifully lit at night, once again as a focal point to the Waterfront, also part of our logo, and ... as a remembrance of what was ... here for so many years, over a hundred years to be exact and a very, very strong part of the economy of Home- stead and the Pittsburgh area." This interest in history was no doubt enhanced by the political events and concerns surrounding the collapse of the industry and the anger produced in the community by the near-total leveling of the mill site by its former owner, Parks Corporation. Continental, on the other hand, points with pride to the restora- tion of the Pump House and its release to SIHC and BHF. While not speaking an activist heritage rhetoric, Continental notes that "people come from all over to know about the steel history of the Pittsburgh area, and particularly the Home- stead area, and [the Pump House] is a great opportunity to hear it." But most of the history enacted here is ultimately a de-contextualized history, both literally and figuratively. The site is, after all, a mall. In Englehart's words, the Waterfront is "a lifestyle center .... Not only do people ... live here, work here, we have light industry so it makes it a true lifestyle center. We can be enter- taining to everyone." This sense of entertainment is key to this heritage rhetoric, most immediately visible in the artifacts that have been, in most cases, brought to the site after it was leveled. This rhetorical blend of history and entertainment is clear in how one such artifact, the dinkey engine, is expected to affect visitors: The dinkey car is ... once again part of the heritage or part of the ambience that reminds you of what this once was. ... There's a lot of people that comment now when they come down [that] they'd operated it and ... they're very thrilled to show their families who maybe never had the opportunity to see the dinkey car and know what it was, to explain and show them what they once did at one time. . . . It's all once again part of that master plan, part of the waterfront, part of what makes this exciting and unique and truly an en- tertainment center. ARTICULATING THE VALUES OF LABOR AND LABORING 25 It is this slow drift from heritage to entertainment that underwrites the visual rhet- oric of the mall as a whole-and bothers many. As Russell Davis, operator of the mall's comedy club notes: "It's beautiful and it's a great place to come walk around but it's almost like an amusement park in combination with a mall setting." That faux ambience is, in fact, what the developers are after. The history pur- sued here is deeply nostalgic, and the artifacts are present to aid in that rhetori- cal effect. The dinkey engine ultimately is "more of an architectural fixture ... our decor." That reduction of the artifact's rhetorical power is precisely what up- sets many, however. Ed Salaj derides such objects as looking like "flower pots." Steve Maszle offers a bit grander rhetoric in discussing the stacks, as befits their overall mass, but his attitude concerning their visual rhetoric is the same: "The stacks remind me of the pyramids in a way. I don't know how long they're going to stand. And how many people stand and stare or stop to look and know what the purpose of those were for? How many people? Even people my age and their wives, they're not going to understand what the stacks were for, the purpose of the stacks." It is this disconnect between object and actual purpose that leads so many to see the mall's acontextual objects as speaking a rhetoric not of labor history but of acontextual "art," in the words of Ken Wilson, son of a former mill worker. Mike Stout sums up the feeling of many ex-steelworkers: [The objects] just sit there.... They don't have literature out on them, they don't have in- formation about what they are or what purpose they served in the past. They're just there. They're there like the shrubs, and the trees, and the flowers, and the glitter on the build- ings. ... [Y]ou need to learn what they were and what they represent, and ... the corpo- rate community is not going to teach people about that. They're not going to teach people what the Pump House represents. They're not going to teach them what the 12,000 ton press represents. They're just going to be there for show. ... There's going to be no sub- stance to it and we need substance. We need substance because we need to learn, and if we don't learn from history we're doomed to repeat it. For their part, the developers suggest that the heritage of the area is ade- quately alive, that the mall's objects operate in the rhetorical context of the larger communal history of the area. "Let's face it," Englehart argues, "even though we don't have signage up denoting what it is, the area knows what it is about." But, clearly, many of the town's residents dispute that sense of rhetorical context and subsequent meaning. In addition, there is a larger question of those who do not have a background that allows for direct immersion in the rhetoric of Big Steel. This issue is raised by Terry Graue, a resident of California who neverthe- 26 JAMES V. CATANO less is alert to the area's history because of her ties to the community and her fa- ther's forty-year history in the mills. "When I go to different places I like to have plaques and explanations of what I'm looking at to put it in context, because you can't just understand what those smokestacks are; ... I don't know what they are; I can't explain them to my friends. So, yes, I think that they do need to have some kind of explanation or context." Without such contextualization, the rhe- torical fails: "you just end up with a very generic mall." The mall's assumption of a shared heritage is too simplistic for many who are otherwise positively disposed to using such artifacts. "Can it be historical?" Graue wonders, and then answers, "In a sense, no, they've almost wiped it out." The developers, however, do not envision history in the same way. They pursue a generic, nostalgic past in which objects are left free of any specific context, as enacted by the visual rhetoric of the "Town Center," described this way by En- glehart: "This is a re-creation of the downtown, of what downtowns were. This could be Main Street USA, Anywhere, United States ... a recreation of a down- town or what downtowns are trying to become. This is, once again, a unique op- portunity not only of redevelopment but also recreation to give the consumer the feeling, once again, they're back in time, somewhere, someplace ... that could be Anywhere, United States." Ironically, that visual rhetoric exists on the previous site of a West Homestead residential area that was destroyed by the gov- ernment to expand the mill to meet the needs of World War II, its residents dis- persed to whatever housing they could find. Seen in its most negative light, then, the developers' co-optation of the aban- doned smoke stacks undertakes a rhetorical morphing of a job site and a job ac- tion worthy of memorialization for its laboring deaths (union and individual) into an arena of entertainment and consumption. Leo Gerard speaks of such a translation when he argues that "in my mind that whole area is a symbol of in- dustrial decay. That was the industrial heartland of America, and it's now turned into shopping centers and fast-food chains." You don't need a union card to feel that way. Speaking of the area in which he operates his entertainment business, Russell Davis admits "[It's] a service industry area that we're looking at right here and it's wonderful but if you don't have manufacturing, if you don't have things other than entertainment, then where are [the people] going to get their money to come and spend it here? This isn't something that the average person is going to come off the street and raise a family of four. It's just not going to happen." Once again, Davis speaks a rhetoric of an ongoing rather than a past heritage, rooted in workers' lives, which other monuments (such as the SWOC monument) were ostensibly to commemorate for all time, rather than a heritage viewed nos- ARTICULATING THE VALUES OF LABOR AND LABORING 27 talgically and generically as "the past." Such rhetoric is equally rooted in activist, political, and economic terms-united by a vision of future labor possibilities and a revitalized labor rhetoric connecting steelworkers' heritage and the economic future of the Homestead area. Leo Gerard enacts that unifying rhetoric by noting, "if you have a battle to save the Pump House that was the cornerstone of the Bat- tle of Homestead, it's a symbol of the past struggle, and it's also a symbol of the future struggles we need to have. And for those reasons alone, our union wants to preserve workers' history, union history, and the industry's history." Speaking Identity, Anger, and Loss It remains to be seen, however, whether a renewed rhetoric of labor and la- bor memorialization will dominate the area. One group resistant to the entire project is worth noting: ex-steelworkers. The rhetoric embraced by these labor voices has a double edge, both sides of which have been sharpened by the ex- perience of having and then losing a job and its related identity. Such workers are torn between the memory of what the mill was in their lives and the sense that the rhetoric of heritage tourism is mere sentimentalism. It is this belief that breaks out in Maszle's bitter desire to take down the mill's remnants-a desire rooted in more than just dissatisfaction with the failure of heritage rhetoric to express the past accurately. The anger expressed in his statement also argues that heritage rhetoric cannot recreate the identity that laboring in a steel mill so strongly provided-precisely because it speaks of heritage, that is, the past. This is also the sensibility spoken in Salaj's equally bitter complaints about the visual rhetoric spoken via the relics that now dot the Waterfront landscape. These statements emphasize the ultimate paradox or oxymoron within the ostensibly shared rhetoric of heritage tourism and the rhetoric of memorializa- tion. In many ways, the rhetoric of heritage tourism is that of uplift and praise, even of "entertainment." The rhetoric of memorialization, however, is regularly that of bereavement, sorrow, loss. Certainly, these two emphases can come to- gether. But there is a necessary tension between them that requires memorial rhetoric to prove adequate to the note of bereavement. Such is what Blair and Michel note in attempting to understand the "failure" of the Astronauts' Memo- rial at Cape Canaveral, a failure due in large part because many of its viewers have also recently experienced Orlando's Disney World and its own particular brand of polymodal rhetoric. In such a context, the memorial site becomes dis- engaged from its rhetoric of bereavement and even remembrance and becomes something else, perhaps only entertainment. Pittsburgh Series in Composition, Literacy, and Culture David Bartholomae and Jean Ferguson Carr, Editors 28 JAMES V. CATANO Emphasis on bereavement, on what is lost, thus remains a key issue in the attempt to introduce any heritage rhetoric or, even more explicitly, any rhetoric of memorialization. Ironically, the drive to provide an active, polymodal, experi- ential rhetoric that moves beyond static object and into activity can exacerbate this dynamic. Shifting the meaning of particular objects or buildings from the source of and opportunity for work into memorials to that work runs directly into that difficulty-especially for workers whose sense of identity has been lost along with their jobs and their job site. Maszle brings this complex response to- gether when he talks about Carrie Furnace, an artifact seen by many as the key element in enacting a viable heritage rhetoric. Maszle does not see it that way: "I shouldn't say [Carrie Furnace is a] pile ofjunk, but it is a pile ofjunk. ... If, in the future, they're gonna need that land for something else like over here, they'll tear it down, and care less about it. . . . What you can utilize and use, fine. If you can't use it, might as well scrap it .... When they can't use you, they give you the boot, right?" In this rhetoric lies the sense of disconnect between past and present, previous labor identity and current loss of self that produces an angry rejection of heritage rhetoric as a whole. In Pierre Nora's words, "There are ... sites of memory, because there are no longer . . . real environments of memory" places where daily rituals and performances enacted an identity, a heritage (7). In that vein George Stofik, a former worker at the Homestead mills, rejects not simply the visual rhetoric of the Waterfront and its artifacts, but that of SIHC and BHF as well. Speaking angrily of the six-million-dollar renovation of the Bost Building, he flatly rejects any idea of providing "a museum at the people's, at the public's expense. All they had to do to satisfy this story is to put not one line in the ... history books, but two lines and [do] away with this." For his part, Salaj derisively refers to the Bost Building as "that hotdog shop" (a former incarnation before its 1892 history was uncovered in the 198os), displaying an anger similar to that he holds for the Waterfront mall and its use of the smokestacks: I see what's left of the mill down there, the stacks, people go down there and look at them, and they're clean, and standing and lighted-look great. [But] nobody knows what they hell they are. If I try to explain to them you can see a cloud come over their eyes as if 'Fine, we don't know what the hell you're talking about, we don't care, those big stacks look fine.' There's a 12,000 ton press down there, hidden in a parking lot, you'd almost have to take somebody by the hand to show them where it's at, and again there's not really an explanation of "What is this thing?" There's a gantry crane down there next to an upscale restaurant, a fish place as I recall. The sense of marginalization, of being separated by heritage tourism from the very objects with which they labored and earned their living, produces the ARTICULATING THE VALUES OF LABOR AND LABORING 29 anger in these former workers' rhetoric. Such shifted usage denies workers the opportunity to properly reconnect to the identity provided by their labor or, more realistically, to mourn its loss. Sears notes the impact of such removal of job and identity. "It saddens me to know," she admits, "that my daughters will never be given the opportunity to be in that position that I was in;... my daugh- ters will not have those jobs. Or be in that atmosphere. Or learn what I learned in there. So that sort of saddens me." At the same time, she remains employed and active in community organizing, a position that enables her to characterize re- tired workers' rhetoric of loss and bereavement: I associate that [desire to tear everything down] with being in Duquesne the day that they were going to implode Big Dorothy at Duquesne mill.... Just to see the hurt, you'd've thought they were dynamiting their houses. There was so much put into those mills by those older guys who had been in those mills for years and years and years and years. And you could just see the hurt on them as Dorothy fell over. I think it was like their whole life just went over, over. . . . It's like "Just go away. It happened. Let it go. . . . If it's not there I don't have to look at it, you know, don't have to be reminded." For retired workers the only proper memorial rhetoric for such devastation is that of bereavement or, if not that, then erasure of the source of the trauma. All other heritage rhetorics-historical, activist, political, commercial-attempt to keep the past alive and are thus untrue to the experience of the loss. Speaking the Future It remains to be seen what civic rhetoric will be voiced within and through all these memorializations. But it is clear that Plato was right, albeit for the wrong rea- sons. Memory and indeed reality are fluid, rooted in our decidedly non-Platonic, neo-Sophistic sense of context and performance, a function of an expansive kai- ros. To say so is not, however, to fall victim to despair over the economics and politics of public memorialization. Rather, it is further incentive to understand the ironically non-fixed civic rhetoric that surrounds our tentatively fixed monu- ments. For her part, Sears refuses to accept either a de-contextualized, generic heritage rhetoric or the removal of her labor heritage from the community. As an ex-steelworker, she understands the trauma felt by some retired workers. But she also disagrees, seeing a need for a renewed civic rhetoric: "the difference in us and them," she notes, "is that we see it through another set of eyes than they saw it. And I think we sort of have to respect how they feel about it. Just like they should respect how we feel about it. But I definitely think it's a necessity that we have a heritage of the steel industry." Nora notes the necessary fluidity of that 30 JAMES V. CATANO heritage and its rhetoric, arguing that memorial sites "only exist because of their capacity for metamorphosis, an endless recycling of their meaning and an unpre- dictable proliferation of their ramifications" (19). Ultimately, then, we need to recognize labor monuments and memorials for what they are: sites of rhetorical activity in which labor values and voices are not to be given over but to be bat- tled over. NOTES 1. Unless otherwise noted, all unattributed comments by ex-steelworkers, developers, politi- cians, and so on are taken, with permission, from interviews conducted by Gerard Byrne of Viaduck Inc. over a two-year period from 2001 to 2003 for a documentary currently in post-production and presently titled Steel Voices: From Mills to Malls and Movies. 2. Loewen even provides a blueprint to help begin the process: a series often questions to be asked regarding any historic site: (1) When did this location become an historic site? (2) Who sponsored it? (3) What were the sponsors' motives? (4) Who is the intended audience for the site? (5) Did the sponsors have government support? (6) Who is left out? (7) Are there problematic words or symbols ... that would not be used today, or by other groups? (8) How is the site used today? (9) Is the presentation accurate? (1o) How does the site fit in with others that treat the same era? (459) 3. The supporters of both sites suggest possible differences in the rhetoric of and in both structures. Supporters of the Pump House look to the United Steelworkers of America, specifically the president of that union, Leo Gerard, for assistance. Advocates for the Bost Building look to governmental and corporate sources. BHF, which not surprisingly lacks funding equivalent to that of SIHC, has managed to negotiate their lease deal through tenacity and an unwillingness to let their voices go unnoticed. Part of the organization's rhetorical power resides in the newsletter that it produces. 4. The rhetorical activities of BHF are visible in its 2003 annual conference program, which has a title that is a verbal indication of a rhetoric of activism-"Free Speech in Homestead! Civil Liberties Then and Now." The programmed activities includes: "State Historical Marker Dedications" and "Wreath Laying: 1941 Steel Workers Organizing Committee Memorial- Remembrance of Fannie Sellins-8th Ave and High Level Bridge." WORKS CITED Battle ofHomestead: Preserving the Pump House. "Memorandum of Understanding between the Bat- tle ofHomestead Foundation and the Steel Industry Heritage Corporation." January 2003. Bat- ARTICULATING THE VALUES OF LABOR AND LABORING 31 tie of Homestead Foundation. July lo, 2006 . Blair, Carol, and Neil Michel. "Commemorating in the Theme Park Zone: Reading the Astronauts' Memorial." Rosteck 25-83. Demarest, David. The River Ran Red: Homestead 1892. Pittsburgh: U of Pittsburgh P, 1992. Derrida, Jacques. Disseminations. Trans. Barbara Johnson. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1981. Loewen, James W. Lies Across America: What Our Historic Sites Get Wrong. New York: New P, 1999. McCollester, Charles, ed. Pennsylvania Labor HistoryJournal 24 (2002): 14. Nora, Pierre. "Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Memoire." Representations 26 (1989): 7-25. Powers, George. Cradle of Steel Unionism: Monongahela Valley, PA. East Chicago: Figueroa P, 1972. "Rivers of Steel Gets $900,ooo," McKeesport Daily News, July 12, 2003. May 11, 2oo6 . Rivers of Steel National Heritage Area. 23 December 2003 . Rosteck, Thomas, ed. At the Intersection: Cultural Studies and Rhetorical Studies. New York: Guil- ford, 1999. Winter, Jay. Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1995. Judith D. Hoover "Miners Starve, Idle or Working" Working-Class Rhetoric of the Early Twentieth Century n t1931, a West Virginia Mine Workers press release called "Charleston," written by Helen Norton, illustrated the most compelling issues facing coal miners and their families during the Great Depression. It read: Mrs. Chris Devitta's baby is dead. Three weeks ago a constable kicked Mrs. De- vitta and threw her to the floor when she objected to being thrown out of her house at Hugheston with her two little children and all the household furniture at the order of the Hugheston Gas Coal Company. The doctor who attended her at the birth of the child said it had been injured by the assault. . . . The fa- ther never saw his infant daughter alive. He was in jail in Charleston, picked up by a state trooper the week before and given a five day sentence and a $10o fine because a pen knife was found in his pocket. Sunday morning ... Devitta went out and dug a little hole in the pasture where the tent colony of evicted strik- ers is, and buried his baby daughter. The cemetery at Hugheston is a company cemetery and there is no place there for strikers' babies. There will be other lit- tle graves at the tent colony soon if the union cannot buy milk for the babies and nourishing food for their mothers. This article was part of a fundraising effort by the West Virginia Mine Workers to aid strikers in the southern part of that state. Such primary sources, woven together with theoretical perspectives, are the basis of my "working" working-class rhetoric-"working" in the sense of providing a means by which working-class voices can be legitimated both in the general culture and in the academic realm. Many sociolo- gists and other theorists of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries as- 32 "MINERS STARVE, IDLE OR WORKING" 33 sert that working-class communication reflects support for and acquiescence to a capitalist status quo; this study challenges those assertions. It is critically im- portant to hear the words of those struggling for survival during this nation's greatest internal economic crisis, struggling long before the significant changes wrought first by the New Deal and then by World War II. Once large numbers of women entered the workforce and once the post-war era's GI Bill of Rights allowed education to be sought by more working-class men, the crisis situation faced by the working class was somewhat alleviated. Primary source documents from the early years of the twentieth century may, therefore, be unique in their contribution to the study of working-class rhetoric.1 Theoretical Perspectives Theoretical perspectives that relate to the concepts of ideology, hierarchy, and hegemony all present a rather dismal outlook for identity creation among members of the working class. In his chapter titled "Class: The Presence That Dare Not Speak Its Name," Donald Ellis contends that each of the separate groups in a society "acquires and expresses its identity in social interaction." He delineates "communication" as a "ubiquitous social activity that is the build- ing block of all collectivities formal and informal alike." His goal is to "under- stand how the concepts that are used to describe certain commonalities among people (e.g., ethnicity, class, education, etc.) are grounded in the real communi- cative experiences of human beings" (177). He explores the "language and com- munication patterns associated with various social groups" in order to deter- mine "how members of various social classes, ethnic groups, and substrata of society communicate and thereby reflect and reproduce their own social condi- tions" (181). Ellis distinguishes between social differentiation and social stratification, which he defines as "the institutionalized social arrangement that determines who gets what and why," and he notes that "rank and status are associated with these arrangements." In the United States, he claims, "Americanism is equated with support for the business community." That equation results in inequality among social classes in terms of tax, finance, and inheritance laws that allow the society's goods to be held by the same class generation after generation (181). In a class system, of course, people are not compelled to remain in a lower caste to which they were born. However, Ellis shows that because people of lower sta- tus must rationalize their position, blaming it on "the economic system, history, 34 JUDITH D. HOOVER or some other group," their "[c]ommunication patterns solidify the boundaries between groups" (183). In addition, racial and sexual stereotypes are often used to "place group members in particular social strata," thus denying members of some groups opportunities to move upward through their own achievements (184). According to Ellis, the most potent force that perpetuates the hierarchical so- cial stratification system is ideology, and he notes that "[f]or an ideological sys- tem to legitimate a particular stratification system, it must be perceived as fair" (184). The truism that individuals are responsible for their own success or fail- ure, common in the United States, supports stratification. When we communi- cate that truism, when we thus create "a sense of objective reality" about success, "this becomes a justification for the fact that some people are wealthy"; indeed, Ellis notes, "because of the positive reactions to their success by others," success- ful people "believe that their own actions brought about that success" (185). Others have described this relationship between ideology and social class in the United States. Berger, for instance, defines ideology as "a systematic and com- prehensive set of ideas relating to and explaining social and political life. Ideolo- gies 'explain' to people why things happen and, in so doing, tend to justify the status quo" (58). He asserts that capitalist ideology creates "a sense that things are the way they have to be, that success is a function of willpower (the American Dream), and that matters of socioeconomic class in the United States, an egali- tarian nation, are relatively unimportant" (60o). Hooks claims that those who re- ceive low wages or no wages see themselves as having failed personally and con- sequently "internalize the powerful's definition of themselves and the powerful's estimation of the value of their labor" (104). Various writers have used the term "hegemonic domination" to describe the ability of the powerful classes to "convince those who were being exploited that their situation was natural and thus universal, which meant that things could not be changed" (Berger 63). Raymond Williams, for example, showed that he- gemony "both includes and goes beyond [... . culture" and "beyond ideology" in its ability to dominate everyday life (108-9). Whereas an ideology can be re- vealed and understood and thus countered, hegemony can not be detected be- cause it is "ubiquitous and amorphous," and because it "pervades the social and cultural realms" in "hidden and disguised" forms (Williams 110). The role of communication in this pernicious circular process must be un- derstood. Ellis shows that the images commonly held regarding social groups or classes result from the language choices applied to those groups. He claims: "MINERS STARVE, IDLE OR WORKING" 35 "Those in control of linguistic and communicative resources use these to manage the impressions of others. Those not in control of linguistic resources have this used against them by way of negative attributions" (185). Control of resources equates to power, which results in respect. Conversely, lack of resources, lack of power, and lack of respect result in justification of one's lower place in the hier- archy. Ellis utilizes Bourdieu's explanation of the uses of "symbolic power" to de- construct the relationship between "linguistically deprived" individuals who come to believe in the legitimacy of "superior" forms of communication and those in command of those superior forms. The power differential created by this relationship is "invisible" yet "legitimate" and results in members of lower social groups' "actively contributing to their own social, political, and economic disadvantage" (Bordieu 127 qtd. in Ellis 185). This process is enhanced, of course, by the presence of an educational system that "sanctifies and perpetuates an es- tablished order" and that endows some with "credentials, titles or qualifications" that allow them to "exploit differences," which themselves "become more fixed to the extent that they appear more objective" (Ellis 187). Those who lack lan- guage facility and credentials may also "learn ways of thinking about themselves that reduce their self-esteem and control, and increase their alienation and dis- trust." Further, they lack the connections of "marriage, kinship, private schools, universities, and clubs" already at the disposal of upper-class members (189). Ellis refers to a much-cited study of British working-class communication by Willis, which showed that attitudes reflected in common word usages became a "class code" that prevented the young men being studied from taking advantage of educational opportunities that could have potentially moved them out of the working class. The word school, for instance, took on meanings such as "'resent- ment,' 'waste of time,' and 'conflicting authority,"' which prevented the young men from seeing their school as a positive environment and from gleaning any of the benefits of education (Willis 11-14 qtd. in Ellis 192). Class consciousness, Ellis shows, is "shaped" by the work environment "where language and relationships are regulated in ways that maintain differences in power, and differences be- tween the dominant and knowledgeable individuals and those with little power and symbolic resources." This work environment features unequal knowledge distribution, a lack of opportunities for decision making, "monitor[ing]" of one's work, "reprisals," and "class-based attitudes about work and leisure." If working- class members also respect and voice their support for such values as "accom- plishment" and "competition," they further disadvantage themselves (Ellis 193). 36 JUDITH D. HOOVER Working-Class Rhetoric of the Early Twentieth Century Helen Norton, who wrote the article at the start of this chapter, also penned a contemporary press release that described twelve families' daily living condi- tions: "a battered old tent through which the rain comes in waterfalls into the beds, the dresser, the best rocker covered with a rug." One mother of a little girl, Mrs. Kelly, "crouches under a quilt on the bed and coughs. She is far gone with tuberculosis and the rainy weather has brought on bronchitis." Her daughter "stirs a pot of beans, but the stove smokes and wood is wet-wood, in a land rich with coal!" Children "paddle around in the mud underfoot and try to dam up the water that wants to make a creek bed straight through the tent." Babies, "the chief sufferers in the strike," may "die unless their fathers go back to work under the same old conditions," unless "the rest of America will give dimes and dollars to buy milk" ("When Miners Are Evicted"). A housing contract made between the Raymond City Coal Company and an employee, Charley Null, in 1931 helps to illustrate the plight of the homeless tent dwellers. In March of that year, Charley Null was given "permission" to "garden ... 1/4 acres at House #37." By signing the agreement, he authorized the company to deduct an unnamed amount from his first paycheck. He also agreed to the fol- lowing: "Should the undersigned lay off from his work to work or till the above described ground, [...] it is understood and agreed he forfeits all his rights un- der this permit, and forfeits to the Company all growing or grown produce ther- eon, [. . .] and further in case the Company serve notice on me for any reason, to vacate the house I am now or may be living in at the time of said notice" ("Copy"). Since the document is signed by the tenant in the same hand as that of the com- pany official, I speculate that Charley Null could not read or write and thus, per- haps, missed the significance of the words "in case the Company serve notice on me for any reason, to vacate the house." Another sort of agreement bears mention here. In order to be hired by the Hatfield-Campbell Creek Coal Company during the 1920s, one had to sign a con- tract that not only included questions about one's age, weight, height, color, and scars or deformities, but also required an oath about the "rightness" of nonun- ion shops. First the applicant had to agree that he was "not now a member of the United Mine Workers of America, the IWW, or any other organization of mine workers, and will not, during this employment, join or affiliate with any such mine labor organization." Then the applicant had to agree that he was will- ing to sign because he "believe[d] the preservation of the right of individual con- "MINERS STARVE, IDLE OR WORKING" 37 tract, free from interference or regulation by others, and payment in proportion to service rendered, to be in my interest, to the best interest of the public and of all industry." Finally, the applicant had to agree that the company could "make deductions on pay roll for Medical Attention, Hospital and Burial Fund" ("Con- tract"). No amounts were listed for any of these deductions; the employee simply had to trust the company to decide on a reasonable fee. "Miners Starve, Idle or Working" is one of many potential slogans listed for use by miners during Depression-era strikes or other worker actions. Others on the list include the following: "Coal operators' kids never cry for food." "Why should we starve quietly?" "We want work or food." "The Red Cross won't help us." "We won't starve amidst plenty." "We'll raise Hell for our kids." "We'll vote in friendly law-makers in 1932." "Hoover can call Congress." "What ifyour kids were hungry?" "Let us have the surplus wheat." ("Slogans") A number of these slogans appear throughout 1930s sources and are reported to have been seen on the picket signs and parade banners described in strike bulle- tins distributed by the West Virginia Mine Workers in the early 1930s. Tom Tippett, a union organizer who had himself been a coal miner, also wrote Depression-era accounts of miners' living conditions. This "largely self-taught in- tellectual" had worked at Brookwood Labor College in the 1920s with Katherine Ellickson, a self-labeled "unionist and labor economist"2 (Ellickson 1), and was ap- pointed head of the Worker Education Division of the New Deal Works Progress Administration in the 1930s (Rodden). Tippett described a wintry scene in the Coal River area of West Virginia, saying "I am pretty well aware of poverty and hu- man suffering-after the textile strikes in the Carolinas-but I think I have never seen before quite so intense misery." He wrote of a miner's family that lived in a shack in the town of Whitesville [. . .] situated on the edge of coal river that bounds down through the valley lying at the feet of very high mountains covered with pine trees and as I write buried in snow. On either side of the camp and puncturing the shimmer- ing beauty of the mountain side is the mouth of a coal mine. From this great black spot coal comes forth and slides down a 6oo foot incline to railroad cars. As it goes the coal dust rumbles forth, settling down on every thing below. The house and yard [. .. are] like a slack pile. Sno 11 Class I EDITE William I Univers raro Press 38 JUDITH D. HOOVER Tippett's narrative includes a description of life inside the shack. He wrote: Some coals were burning in a grate and around it were huddled Mrs. Walker and three small children. All of them were without shoes. On the bed in the same room was a tiny baby-three months old. Still another child died this year. From where I stood I could eas- ily see through the house in a crack that marks every board in the wall. It was just as easy to see the sky through the roof. All of them were hungry and have been underfed for months. Tippett made a point of Mr. Walker's work ethic. He said, "Walker is not a shiftless fellow. He gathered up his pay envelopes, which he proudly has kept for 10 years. A bunch of them lie before me as I write. His record for steady work over the years is perfect." The difference, Tippett explained, was that Walker had lost his job be- cause of his union membership. When the union was active in that region, Walk- er's pay envelope had shown he earned $99.43 in two weeks. Once the union had been outlawed, Walker's two-week pay was $8.43. "Now," noted Tippett, "he lives on a much lower standard than the mine mules." An unsigned document titled "Launching a Workers' Class in West Virginia," contains a description of Tippett himself at work educating miners and their fam- ilies a few months after he wrote the above narration. Close to a hundred people were crowded in the school house at Ward-men crouched on the floor, women with babies in their arms, small children watching attentively. A Negro had vaulted onto the top of a six-foot cupboard and lay in a half-sitting posture close to the speaker. The class had started outdoors on the grassy stretch near the school house. [... .] Then the rain had come and the crowd had been forced into the small hot school room, lighted by two gas mantles, where there were not nearly enough benches to go around. On the blackboard was printed neatly: 'Please do not spit on the floor or use pro- fane language."' The writer turned next to Tippett's message to the class. He spoke of "their daily problems, of the influence of wages on marriage and children, of how the job causes quarrels between man and wife." He "explained the purpose of work- ers' education, told them of the book, Your Job and Your Pay, [. ..] explained how he and Katherine Pollak [later Ellickson] were both teachers at Brookwood and how they were interested in developing workers' education in West Virginia." Then he told of the "singing of the Marion textile strikers and suggested that [they] might practice the song 'We are building a strong union, Workers in the mine."' The writer concluded, "Thus on June 4, 1931, was launched the first work- ers' class in the West Virginia coal field." This reference to singing indicates the significance of music in working-class rhetorical campaigns. In the tradition of the Industrial Workers of the World's (IWW) "little red songbook," songs of local interest and understanding to min- "MINERS STARVE, IDLE OR WORKING" 39 ers in West Virginia were given new lyrics to fit each occasion. The official state song, "The West Virginia Hills," was changed from: Oh the West Virginia hills, how majestic and how grand, With their summits bathed in glory like our Prince Emmanuel's land, Is it any wonder then that my heart with rapture fills When I stand again with loved ones on the West Virginia hills. Chorus: Oh the hills, beautiful hills, How I love those West Virginia hills, If o'er sea or land I roam, still I'll think of happy home, And my friends among the West Virginia hills. (King and Engle) The new lyrics became: Oh the West Virginia hills, how majestic and how grand With their miners standing loyal like a union man should stand Is it any wonder then that our heart with rapture thrills For again we have a union in these West Virginia hills. Chorus: Over the hills, beautiful hills, There's a union in these West Virginia hills. If o'er scab field I should roam, still I'll think of happy home And the red necks in the West Virginia hills. (Seacrist) Civil War era chants such as "Freedom" and songs such as "Tenting Tonight" were reworded to become union marching songs. An old folk song became the newly refurbished "Kanawha County Jail," with defiant words for "tinhorn courts" and "noble turnkeys" alike. It literally invited "all you jolly red necks" to "listen to my tale" the story of "the boarding house they call the county jail," where "when you get your breakfast, your bread is hard and stale, your coffee looks like tobacco juice in Kanawha County Jail" (Seacrist). Within the one-page "Strike Bulletins" issued by the West Virginia Mine Workers in 1931 are news items, slogans, pleas, messages from the leadership, meeting announcements, poems, humorous asides, promises of help to strik- ers' families, explanations about miners' rights, accounts of confrontations be- tween strikers and coal operators, admonitions against violence, and stories of successes meant to help the strikers maintain a united front. The July 8 bulletin ended with the story of a "grand parade" of miners and their wives marching "up Sand Creek way" and "carrying the American flag." Although forty-four miners had worked July 6, only seven worked on July 7, and "today [July 8] the mine is tied up tight as an operator's pocketbook" ("Strike Bulletin No. 1"). In the July to bulletin, two stories were told to tie together the idea that "it takes miners to mine coal." First, it said, "bums and loafers" were being brought 40 JUDITH D. HOOVER in to mine the coal at Gallagher. Then it reminded readers that the governor of Kansas had once called in the National Guard to break a strike there. The conclu- sion to that story was that those "soldier boys got their faces all dirty and their hands all blistered and their backs all lame, but as for getting out coal-well, you couldn't have kept a kitchen stove going with it" ("Strike Bulletin No. 2"). The July 14 bulletin provided a short feature about the "Labor Chautauqua," which had put on a play that "showed how the bosses work their men over time until they have too much goods on hand and then lay them off and let them starve." They had also taught the crowd some songs, such as "Solidarity Forever" to the tune of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," and "On the Picket Line" to "Polly Wolly Doodle." The writer urged that "some of you fellows with mouth or- gans or banjos might practice up on these tunes" ("Strike Bulletin No. 3"). These stories, in addition to providing historical context, also have a theoretical value. The Narrative Paradigm In explaining his concept of the narrative paradigm, Walter Fisher clari- fies that by "narration" he means "a theory of symbolic actions-words and/ or deeds-that have sequence and meaning for those who live, create, or inter- pret them," rather than "a fictive composition whose propositions may be true or false." Indeed, he shows, the narrative paradigm "can be considered a dialecti- cal synthesis of two traditional strands in the history of rhetoric: the argumenta- tive, persuasive theme and the literary, aesthetic theme." To Fisher, the commu- nication practices of human beings "should be viewed as [. . .] stories competing with other stories constituted by good reasons" (2). Fisher claims that the narrative paradigm "challenges the notions that hu- man communication-if it is to be considered rhetorical-must be an argumen- tative form, that reason is to be attributed only to discourse marked by clearly identifiable modes of inference and/or implication, and that the norms for eval- uation of rhetorical communication must be rational standards taken essentially from informal or formal logic." However, the paradigm "does not deny reason and rationality; it reconstitutes them, making them amenable to all forms of hu- man communication" (2). Fisher contrasts his narrative paradigm with the "ra- tional world paradigm," which "presupposes that": (1) humans are essentially rational beings; (2) the paradigmatic mode of human decision- making and communication is argument-clear-cut inferential (implicative) structures; (3) the conduct of argument is ruled by the dictates of situations-legal, scientific, legis- "MINERS STARVE, IDLE OR WORKING" 41 lative, public, and so on; (4) rationality is determined by subject matter knowledge, argu- mentative ability, and skill in employing the rules of advocacy in given fields; and (5) the world is a set of logical puzzles which can be resolved through appropriate analysis and application of reason conceived as an argumentative construct. (4) Fisher provides the "presuppositions" of the narrative paradigm as follows: (1) humans are essentially storytellers; (2) the paradigmatic mode of human decision- making and communication is "good reasons" which vary in form among communication situations, genres, and media; (3) the production and practice of good reasons is ruled by matters of history, biography, culture, and character [...]; (4) rationality is determined by the nature of persons as narrative beings-their inherent awareness of narrative prob- ability, what constitutes a coherent story, and their constant habit of testing narrativefi- delity, whether the stories they experience ring true with the stories they know to be true in their lives; [. ..] and (5) the world is a set of stories which must be chosen among to live the good life in a process of continual recreation. (7-8) In contrasting the rational world paradigm and the narrative paradigm, Fisher shows that whereas the rational world paradigm "essentially held that rationality was a matter of argumentative competence: knowledge of issues, modes of reason- ing, appropriate tests, and rules of advocacy in given fields, [. .. and] as such, ra- tionality was something to be learned, depended on deliberation, and required a high degree of self-consciousness [... .], [n]arrative rationality does not make these demands." Rather, the "operative principle of narrative rationality is identification rather than deliberation" (Burke 20 qtd in Fisher 9). In regard to the concept of hierarchy, inherent in any system of social stratifi- cation, Fisher notes that the rational world paradigm "implies some sort of hier- archical system, a community in which some persons are qualified to judge and to lead and some other persons are to follow." Although the narrative paradigm "does not deny the legitimacy (the inevitability) of hierarchy," it condemns "the sort that is marked by the will to power, the kind [. . .] in which elites struggle to dominate and to use the people for their own ends [ ...]" (9). When some narra- tives meet the criteria of narrative fidelity and narrative probability better than others, then a narrative hierarchy has come into existence; however, since all per- sons are capable of storytelling, "all [. . .] have the capacity to be rational in the narrative paradigm" (io). Because we reflect on our own lives, we learn to make judgments about the stories others tell about us based on our own experiences. No teaching is required for this process to occur. For rational argument to be learned, however, we must acquire "specialized knowledge of issues, reasoning, rules of rationality, and so on" (15). 42 JUDITH D. HOOVER Analysis ofNarrative Discourse Miners used slogan suggestions, rewritten songs and chants, and strike bulle- tins both to seek identification with other miners and to differentiate themselves from "others." These examples may be thought of as typifying "class codes." In the slogan, the miners sought to identify themselves as those who "dig your coal," and those who "created America's wealth." They blamed the "operators," and assorted political leaders such as President Herbert Hoover, Congress, the national government, the Farm Board, and the Red Cross for their plight ("Slo- gans"). The codes used in the songs were much more graphic. The miners iden- tified themselves as "red necks" and as "Christian hobos," as heroes "noble and brave" who as "union sons and daughters" have "gone to an early grave." They were opposed in these lyrics by "lawless tyrants and ruffians" and by "scabs" who tried to take their jobs (Seacrist). The strike bulletins took the terms for the "oth- ers" another step by labeling them as not only "scabs," but as "flunkies," "bums and loafers," "soldier boys," and "lapdogs" who wear "ice cream pants and stick candy neckties" or "stiff collars" ("Strike Bulletin No. 1"; "Strike Bulletin No. 2"; "Strike Bulletin No. 3"). All three kinds of documents contain references to the values sought by the miners. In the slogans, the miners speak most of feeding their children, but they also ask for solutions to their plight, such as giving them the nation's surplus wheat or providing unemployment insurance. In the songs, they speak of "free- dom from bondage and political chains," of liberty and peace, of their own "no- ble land," and of "free elections." In the strike bulletins, they speak most often of rights-the right to keep their jobs, their rights as taxpayers, the right to picket peacefully, and their "American birthright" that includes "liberty and economic independence" (Seacrist). Although the slogans and songs contained genuine threats, the strike bulle- tins countered the threats with ridicule of the mine operators and strong sugges- tions that miners not resort to violence. Slogans suggested that the miners would "keep coming," that they "must have food," that they "won't starve," that they would "raise Hell," and that they would vote. The songs, similarly, indicated that the miners were "not afraid" and that they would "lay down arms" only when agreements could be reached "on union terms." Calls to arms were made in song, along with references to the "union sword"; one song ended with the phrase "un- ion or death" (Seacrist). The strike bulletins provided statistics and other informational messages to reassure the miners that help was on the way and that the strikes were work- "MINERS STARVE, IDLE OR WORKING" 43 ing. They reported the number of mines shut down and the number of miners on strike, as well as data on food distribution efforts, sites, and amounts. Their attacks on the operators came in the form of name-calling and ridicule. Their instructions to miners suggested that they should stop production by walking off their own jobs and "picketing every mine." They advised miners to "swal- low your wrath" and avoid "being provoked to violence," but to try to "get to the scabs somehow" ("Strike Bulletin No. 1"; "Strike Bulletin No. 2"; "Strike Bulletin No. 3"). Many of the words found in this account of working-class rhetoric are harsh and unpleasant to the sensibilities of academics as well as the general public. Talk of red necks and scabs is not appealing to the reader. Why was it necessary? Why should we be interested in these words and the people who used them? How do their efforts expand our concept of rhetorical discourse? If we look back at our theorists' contentions, perhaps we will begin to see the relevance of not only the ugly words, but also the heartbreaking stories and the sense of righteous resist- ance to the inhuman treatment accorded the working class in general and West Virginia coal miners specifically. Ellis claims that the working class disadvantages itself to the extent that its at- titudes conform to the values of capitalism. This concept is not new. In fact, Karl Mannheim, writing during the heart of the Depression, noted, "in certain situ- ations the collective unconscious of certain groups obscures the real condition of society both to itself and to others and thereby stabilizes it" (40). If the work- ers, the coal miners in this instance, had acquiesced to the rationale of the coal operators that the economic system and they themselves would be best served by closed shops, then they would certainly have disadvantaged themselves. Al- though a recounting of the long history of coal mining is beyond the limits of this study, suffice it to say that at various times miners did disadvantage themselves in the way Mannheim suggests. Miners in West Virginia were first attracted to the United Mine Workers (UMW), then disillusioned by that same group; they turned to the West Virginia Mine Workers and then, during the Great Depres- sion, membership in that organization languished. They returned to the UMW, but were deterred by the closed shop provisions of the Taft-Hartley Act, which was vetoed by President Harry Truman, but upheld (through a veto override) by the Republican-controlled House and Senate in the 1940s (see Rodden). Still, a careful look at the kinds of discourse practiced by the miners in this study indicates defiance rather than acquiescence, resistance rather than ideo- logical legitimation of social stratification. Indeed, there are class codes present in this discourse that blame the troubles of one group on the privileges of the 44 JUDITH D. HOOVER other and solidify the boundaries between those groups, but these codes do not acknowledge "fairness" in any way. They never suggest that the coal operators "deserve" their condition in life because they have "succeeded," whereas the min- ers have not worked hard enough to succeed. So what do these miners say instead? They sing songs, they recite poems, they tell tales. All the while, they give support and encouragement; they seek funds and empathy; they offer narrative evidence of the woeful world of the working class during the Depression era, asking for understanding and for a so- lution to the misery that accompanies their lives. They do not seem to believe that they are linguistically deprived. They speak in their own voices and attempt to convey their meanings in tried-and-true methods of "the people." Some of their messages are argumentative and persuasive, while others are literary and aesthetic-in other words, they exploit the narrative paradigm in both of its manifestations. These narrators may not have been trained in the ways of attorneys or judges, but they "know" and can explain how human beings ought to be treated. Their stories possess narrative fidelity, or faithfulness to experience, because those whom they address have lived these stories, too. Their stories possess narrative probability because they present coherent accounts that retain their character and integrity from time to time and location to location. Perhaps the single most powerful force operating in these narratives is that of identification. Analysis of the miners' narratives is enriched by ideas utilized in the field of women's studies. For example, bell hooks asserts: "Much feminist theory emerges from privileged women who live at the center, whose perspectives on reality rarely include knowledge and awareness of the lives of women and men who live in the margin." The result of that limited perspective is that "feminist theory lacks wholeness, lacks the broad analysis that could encompass a variety of human experiences" ("Preface" x). Although hooks wrote in terms of race and gender, rhetorical theories also lack a class component, indeed a class conscious- ness. How difficult it must be for those who have been neither hungry nor home- less to comprehend or identify with working-class rhetoric of the Depression era. The closest current scholars may have ever come to such talk is, perhaps, the Polish Solidarity Movement of the early 198os. Academics typically study the rhetorical discourse of those in power rather than those with less authority and less education. After all, those in power got there, we assume, because they were persuasive. So the study of the rhetoric of the powerless has been put aside, not consciously, perhaps, as not worthy of study. This putting aside, or never taking up, has further legitimated the power structure. "MINERS STARVE, IDLE OR WORKING" 45 I agree with Ellis that these samples of Depression-era working-class rhetoric provide evidence of blaming that would certainly seem to reinforce class bound- aries. But what if the villains actually are villains, actually are responsible for the starvation and homelessness experienced by the West Virginia miners and their families? To speak such a simple truth does not conversely admit equal blame for their plight on the part of those who were suffering. Indeed, these desper- ate times finally brought American society to the recognition that people could work as long and hard as humanly possible and yet not earn a "living wage." Mannheim illustrates that even during the Depression, theorists understood the power of ideology to blind us to that reality. He said, "ruling groups can in their thinking become so intensively interest-bound to a situation that they are simply no longer able to see certain facts which would undermine their sense of domi- nation" (40). Speaking of the oppressed, hooks asks, "Who defines them? Who creates their realities? How are they defined?" Speaking to those who may be blinded by ideology or hegemony, she says, "Resistance and strength can come to even the poor and weak if they perceive that they can," if they are able to "reject the reali- ties projected on them by others" (90-91). Primary source documents by miners reveal their efforts to define themselves and others, efforts to resist ideology and control over their own realities, and rejection of the idea that as Americans they had no rights other than those given to them by their employers. Their commu- nicative methods consisted mostly of stories, some harsh, some poignant, but all rhetorical in the best sense of the narrative paradigm. They rejected the "rational world" assumptions inherent in capitalist ideology and relied instead on "good reasons" why change was needed. NOTES 1. The primary sources used for research in this chapter come primarily from the Katherine Ellickson Collection at the Wayne State University Archives of Labor and Urban Affairs in Detroit and from the West Virginia University archives. In order to isolate the rhetorical artifacts of the working class, I have selected items distributed by unions, for instance, such as press releases, lists of suggested slogans, accounts of contemporary events and contemporary living conditions, strike bulletins, and familiar songs rewritten to feature labor issues. The Ellickson Collection, as well as those of Mary van Kleeck and Ann Blankenhorn, also contain materials related to the history of the CIO and AFL, publications that show the point of view of the mine owners, contracts that forbade union membership, contracts that pertained to living in a company house, and legal documents, such as a martial law proclamation issued by the governor of West Virginia in 1921 during a strike which he described as a "state of war, insurrection and riot" (Morgan 1). 2. Katherine Ellickson was first a "Vassar College and [... .] Columbia University" graduate. She became a teacher at the "Affiliated Summer Schools for Women Workers" and then at 46 JUDITH D. HOOVER Brookwood Labor College. Ellickson was a fieldworker, along with Tom Tippet, in organizing "Southern textile communities" and later an organizer with the West Virginia Mine Workers. She helped organize the "young Socialists in New York City" and was a member of the American Federation of Teachers, helping organize in North Dakota in 1934-1935. She was the "assistant to CIO Director John Brophy when the national office was opened," then "assistant director of the ALF-CIO social security department"; and in 1938 she became an analyst for the National Labor Relations Board (Ellickson 1-4). WORKS CITED Berger, Arthur Asa. Cultural Criticism. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 1995. Bordieu, Pierre. Language and Symbolic Power. Trans. G. Raymond and M. Adamson. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1991. Burke, Kenneth. A Rhetoric of Motives. New York: George Braziller, 1955. "Contract." Ellickson Collection. Box 10, Folder #5. The Archives of Labor History and Urban Af- fairs. Wayne State U, Detroit, MI. "Copy." March 25, 1931. Ellickson Collection. Box 10, Folder #6. Ellickson, Katherine P. "Explanatory Note by KPE, January, 1968." CIO Collection ofKatherine Pol- lak Ellickson, 1935-7. Box #14, Folder #1. Ellis, Donald G. Crafting Society: Ethnicity, Class, and Communication Theory. Mahwah, NJ: Erl- baum, 1999. Fisher, Walter. "Narration as a Human Communication Paradigm: The Case of Public Moral Ar- gument." Communication Monographs 51 (1984): 1-20. hooks, bell. Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center. Boston: South End, 1984. King, Ellen and H. E. Engle. "The West Virginia Hills." Sept. 22, 2003 . "Launching a Workers' Class in West Virginia." 1931. Ellickson Collection. Box 10, Folder #3. MacIntyre, A. After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory. Notre Dame: U of Notre Dame P, 1981. Mannheim, Karl. Ideology and Utopia: An Introduction to the Sociology ofKnowledge. Trans. L. Wirth and E. Shils. New York: Harcourt, 1936. Morgan, Ephriam F. "State of West Virginia, A Proclamation by the Governor." June 27, 1921. Van Kleek Collection. Box 51, Folder: Mingo Co. Martial Law Proc. The Archives of Labor History and Urban Affairs. Wayne State U. Norton, Helen G. "Charleston" Ellickson Collection. Box 11, Folder #2. -. "When Miners are Evicted." Ellickson Collection. Box 11, Folder #2. Rodden, Robert G. "The Fighting Machinists, A Century of Struggle." International Association of Machinists and Aerospace Workers. Sept. 22, 2003 . Seacrist, Walter. "Tunes/Chants." Ellickson Collection. Box 11, Folder #17. "Slogans." Ellickson Collection. Box #11, Folder #17. "Strike Bulletin No. 1." July 8, 1931. Ellickson Collection. Box 11, Folder #3. "Strike Bulletin No 2." July 10, 1931. Ellickson Collection. Box 11, Folder #3. "Strike Bulletin No 3." July 14, 1931. Ellickson Collection. Box 11, Folder #3. Tippett, Tom. "Charleston, W.Va." Ellickson Collection. Box 10, Folder #6. Williams, Raymond. Marxism and Literature. New York: Oxford UP, 1977. Willis, Paul. Learning to Labor: How Working Class Kids Get Working ClassJobs. 1977. New York: Co- lumbia UP, 1981. Anne E Mattina "Don't Let Them Step on You" Gender, Class, and Ethnicity in the Rhetoric of the Great Strikes, 1909-1913 That's one thing myfather always taught: no matter where you go to work, don't let them step on you. -Carrie Golzio, weaver in the Paterson Silk strike of 1913 rustrated by working conditions, chafing against the definition of Ameri- can womanhood, and spurred on by Socialism, thousands of im- migrant laboring women took to the streets in the early twentieth century. Their largely unexamined story represents a missing chapter in the study of American rhetoric. Resonating with class consciousness and ethnic influence, their activism provides a rich opportunity to ex- amine gendered persuasion that was defiantly unfeminine. America's working women publicly demanded better working conditions, more money, and shortened work hours from the earliest days of the Indus- trial Revolution. The "daughters of freemen" who marched and peti- tioned for justice in the early mill villages of New England left a legacy for the waves of immigrant women who took their places in factories and sweatshops. What these women had in common was more than status as workers, they also regularly violated expectations of gender- appropriate behavior and experienced intense backlash. Activists of the Progressive Era faced an additional constraint in the hostility engendered by American nativism. The fifty-year period from 1880 to 1930 was an age pulsating with change for American 47 Published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh PA 15260 Copyright © 2007, University of Pittsburgh Press All rights reserved Manufactured in the United States of America Printed on acid-free paper 10 9 87 6 5 4 3 21 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Who says?: working-class rhetoric, class consciousness, and community / edited by William DeGenaro. p. cm.- (Pittsburgh series in composition, literacy, and culture) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN O-8229-5938-o (pbk.: acid-free paper) 1. English language-Discourse analysis. 2. English language-Rhetoric. 3. English language-Social aspects. 4. English language-Variation. I. DeGenaro, William. PE1422.W56 2007 420.1'41-dc22 2oo6026044 48 ANNE F. MATTINA women. Though still disenfranchised, women contributed to public discourse and policy making through a variety of channels. The first generation of college- educated women was emerging as a powerful social force for urban reform. Work- ing women found connections in such organizations as the Knights of Labor and unions that organized on their behalf. "Big labor" came into prominence at pre- cisely the same moment as record numbers of immigrants arrived. Twenty-seven million people, including 4.6 million Italians and 3.3 million of Russian-Jewish de- scent, landed between 1880 and 1930. Many settled in urban industrial centers such as New York, Chicago, and Boston, finding employment in the textile and garment industries. Union leaders, operating under the assumption that women were "un-organizable," ignored their plight and their potential (Kenneally). None- theless, many immigrant women played essential roles in labor uprisings of the period and their experiences are rich with opportunity for rhetorical analysis. "The Great Strikes" under consideration here are the Uprising of the 30,000, a 1909 industry-wide strike of New York shirtwaist makers; the 1912 Bread and Roses Strike by textile workers in Lawrence, Massachusetts; and the Paterson, New Jersey, Silk Strike of 1913. Thousands took to the streets to protest unbear- able working conditions, constant pressure to produce more/faster, and pay re- duction. That women acted so publicly, passionately, and steadfastly connects these three events. Filled with examples of daring courage and unruly behavior, the historical records of the Great Strikes shed light on the experiences of women who fought oppressive working conditions and "Americanization" simultane- ously. These activists also represent an affront to the ideals of "American wom- anhood" and as such their rhetoric is unique in terms of most existing literature. I argue that the rhetorical form most frequently used by the laborers was one of corporeal resistance. Though they spoke and wrote passionately for and about their cause, working-class women also used their bodies and their material exist- ence in a wide range of creative protest strategies. The Paradox of Women Reformers Rhetorical analysis takes as its most basic data the discursive practices of those engaged in persuasive efforts. Those who study social movements may also consider other textual representations of ideology such as manifestoes. Very of- ten, those who analyze movement rhetoric will focus on leaders, because many have left written records of their involvement and commitment. Early feminist rhetorical critics, for the most part, followed this path to dis- "DON'T LET THEM STEP ON YOU" 49 covering and evaluating women's rhetorical experience, and a significant amount of scholarship focused on individual women. This literature highlighted the ex- treme prejudice faced by early women speakers in American history, the struggle to deal with this constraint, and the creative ways in which women responded to all that they faced (see, e.g., O'Connor; Japp; Campbell, "Rhetoric"). To understand American women's experience on the public stage, one must first address the ideology of"separate spheres." Basically, Americans held the be- lief that men would/should assume the responsibilities for governance and "af- fairs of the world" and women would/should take care of home, family, and re- ligious inculcation. However, a record number of women stepped out of their "sphere" during the antebellum period. The reform impulse engendered by the Second Great Awakening was nearly impossible to contain. Grappling with the massive upheaval of the Industrial Revolution and rapid expansionism, all man- ner of social forces responded to women's activism by clearly delineating an in- dividual's "place" based on his or her sex. The discursive creation of the "public sphere" and the "private sphere" sought to contain the blurring of boundaries brought on by massive social upheaval. The public sphere inhabited by males and governed by principles of the En- lightenment became the site of rational discourse. Reasoned men engaged in dis- passionate argument would decide public policy within and outside of legislative politics. Females inhabited the "private sphere," firmly centered in the domes- tic, governed by irrationality and emotions. Those women who stepped "out-of- bounds" earned the label "hysterical" or some variation of "unsexed" or "mascu- line." Female activists in nineteenth-century America dealt with this in various ways; many adhered to socially constructed gendered identities so that they could not be reproached. Some of the more successful women rhetors of the nineteenth century were those who did not challenge the status quo in terms of sexuality or religion. Those who confronted these identities paid an enor- mous price. Women such as Frances Wright, Abby Folsom, and Victoria Claflin Woodhull, who did not adhere as closely as possible to the ideal of the restrained and contained American woman, experienced ridicule and ostracism (see, e.g., Morris). Early activists made some progress, however, in expanding women's "place" in the nineteenth century. Indeed, Nan Johnson finds that women were included as potential readers of rhetorical instruction manuals during the postbellum period. Manifestations of the "parlor-rhetoric" movement, these manuals pro- 50 ANNE F. MATTINA moted rhetorical literacy among white, middle-class individuals (21). However, Johnson contends that rather than opening rhetorical space for women, these manuals in fact reinscribed the domestic sphere with gender-appropriate per- suasion. For example, such texts advocated "conversation" as an art and a site for feminine influence (67). Examining advice and etiquette manuals of the period, she also determines: "conduct literature of the late nineteenth-century soothed the fears of a nation that had fixed upon the ideal of the American home as a pre- cious and eternal refuge. Reigning there with wordless wisdom, the quiet woman reborn again and again ... moved silently through the house shutting the win- dows to controversy and to change" (76). Johnson's analysis adds significant in- sight and texture to our growing knowledge of American women's rhetorical ex- perience. For the purposes of this study, her work also provides a bridge in the narrative of American women's reform activities. The turn of the century saw the emergence of a new type ofAmerican woman- the Progressive reformer, who was typically a college graduate interested in social justice. Many of these women knew of the necessity to adapt to gender expecta- tions and identification in their rhetoric as they soberly assumed the responsibility for social reform. For example, contemporaries referred to Jane Addams, the proto- type for this new female activist, as "Saint Jane" (Payne 31). This is not to imply that these women were not subject to social censure (they were), but rather to demon- strate their awareness of the constraints involved and their response to those stric- tures. Female activists undertook considerable risk when they ventured from their sphere, a risk many sought to temper by demonstrating allegiance to proscribed modes of feminine decorum. Some met with more success than others did, but all faced resistance to their efforts solely based on gender. By the early twentieth century there was an uneasy acceptance surrounding upper-class activist women in the United States. Resistance, Rhetoric, and Agency There were, however, other women struggling to be heard at this juncture, who faced the added challenge being members of the working class. "The act of invention for women," assert Joy Ritchie and Kate Ronald, "begins in a different place from Aristotle's conception of invention: women must first invent a way to speak in the context of being silenced and rendered invisible as persons. This is doubly true for poor women and women of color" (xvii). Despite this recognition, "DON'T LET THEM STEP ON YOU" 51 working-class women and their experiences are largely absent from feminist rhe- torical analysis and theory. In a landmark article informing three decades of fem- inist rhetorical criticism, Karlyn Kohrs Campbell limned the barriers to getting women to see themselves as an "audience" capable of enacting change. She writes: "If a persuasive campaign directed to this audience is to be effective, it must tran- scend alienation to create 'sisterhood,' modify self-concepts to create a sense of au- tonomy, and speak to women in terms of private, concrete, individual experience, because women have little, if any, publicly shared experience" ("Rhetoric" 78). I concur with Campbell's assessment that women face distinct challenges based on gender when assuming the role of rhetor. However, working-class women repre- sent a substantively different category of American female activist than those of whom she wrote. The women of the Great Strikes shared a public life in the fac- tories, mills, and on the streets of their urban enclaves. Many also shared ethnic sensibilities around communal interdependence and a radical heritage. The site of their resistance encompassed not only their neighborhoods, but their bodies as well. Their experience is distinct from those of more privileged classes, a variable often overlooked by feminist rhetorical scholars, though there is some movement toward redressing this situation. In her analysis of the wage-earning women's activism from 1900oo to 1917, Mary Triece contends that in order to achieve the goals of identity, agency, and audience motivation, "rhetoric alone was not sufficient for struggles that sought to transform objective cultures" (243). Women who participated in strikes, Triece finds, appreciated the effects of physical confrontation in conjunction with speaking and other more traditional forms of persuasion (251). "Halting ma- chinery and engaging their power as producers of society's wealth was often the most powerful tool workers had," she argues (253). After analyzing the historical record, Triece concludes, "These accounts point to the persuasive force of com- mon material experiences-in conjunction with meetings, pamphleting, and shop-floor conversations-in shaping workers' identities and moving them to act for social betterment" (254). Working-class advocates understood the power of "extra-discursive" behaviors such as large-scale walkouts and participation on a picket line in creating agency and identification. Triece's findings speak to the work of Holloway Sparks, who offers the notion of "dissident citizenship" as a way of framing activism by marginalized citizens. Dissident citizens are defined as those who "publicly contest prevailing arrange- ments of power by means of oppositional democratic practices that augment or replace institutionalized channels of democratic opposition when those channels 52 ANNE F. MATTINA are inadequate or unavailable" (74). Challenging mainstream democratic theory, Sparks notes that while conflict between citizens is "expected and institutional- ized" and democracy is both "participatory and deliberative," not everyone is al- lowed to participate in deliberations. Though many groups historically were disenfranchised and/or marginal- ized, they were able to find ways to air their concerns. "Instead of voting, lob- bying, or petitioning," Sparks argues, "dissident citizens constitute alternative public spaces through practices such as marches, protests, and picket lines; sit- ins, slow-downs, and cleanups; speeches, strikes, and street theater" (81). Such practices could be described as extra-discursive actions and material opposition. Women's reform activities in the early twentieth century are replete with exam- ples of dissident citizenship relying on both discursive and extra-discursive ex- pression and courage. Wendy Parkins includes the trope of dissident citizenship in her analysis of the political agency of women as linked to corporeal resistance. "Subjectivity and agency arise out of the experience of embodiment located and engaged in a specific material and historical situation," she explains (62). Using the career of British suffragette Mary Leigh as a case study, Parkins ar- gues, "an emphasis on embodiment in practices of political dissent was politi- cally enabling for women" (6o). After recounting Leigh's unruly acts of protest after her ban from entering political meetings, (acts that included breaking win- dows and hurling roof slates), Parkins contends: "We might usefully consider Leigh's dispositional tendencies as the resources with which she staged political protest, resources which had accrued over a lifetime of corporeal experience and which, when acted out in the political domain, effectively contested the consti- tution of that domain. This contestation was based on the disjuncture between Leigh as embodied, dissenting, female subject and the liberal political subject, construed as rational, deliberative, and by implication, masculine. Leigh's femi- nist agency began with her body-her anchorage in the world-and the escala- tion of Leigh's tactics illustrated how the embodied subject takes up and trans- forms a given situation" (70). The relevant variable here is that of class. Leigh, it is important to note, is described by Parkins as a having a "working-class back- ground" (65). She was a "distinguished" suffragette and an "accomplished public speaker" but also capable of enacting her resistance physically (66). Emmaline Pankhurst, founder of the British Women's Social and Political Un- ion (WSPU), embraced civil disobedience as an effective rhetorical strategy. Open- air speaking, heckling, massive parades, and going to jail provided viable persuasive options to British activists. Again, class plays a role; though led by the British up- "DON'T LET THEM STEP ON YOU" 53 per class, the WSPU adopted the tactics of working-class Lancashire (Dubois 100oo). Mainstream American suffragists, who shied away from the radical tactics of their British counterparts, nonetheless began forming tenuous relationships with working-class labor leaders about 1907.1 The tension between the two groups was palpable. Working-class women used rhetorical practices that were grounded in a significantly different reality that that of upper-class reformers, coupling the ethos of enactment with physicality to create a dynamic rhetorical stance. Those privileged by class were simultaneously constrained by their "place" and all that that entailed in terms of proper feminine decorum. The workers were already positioned outside of the "sphere" and, hence, had fewer constraints. Teresa Ebert challenges postmodern critics whose work may elide differ- ences while (paradoxically) celebrating individuality. She calls for a "revolution- ary social feminism" that is based on "historical materialism": "It insists that the material is fundamentally tied to the economic sphere and to the relations of production, which have a historically necessary connection to all other social- cultural relations.... For feminism this means that issues about the 'nature of individuals'-gender, sexuality, pleasure, desire, needs-cannot be separated from the conditions producing the individuals: not just the discursive and ideo- logical conditions but most important the material conditions, the relations of production that shape discourses and ideologies" (37). Ebert's provocative thesis argues against "the reduction to discourse" and warns of the dangers of remain- ing mired in arguments over identity while ignoring the lived experiences of peo- ple. Class, she asserts, is the not a "discursive reality," it is reality. Ebert's insist- ence on the recognition of the presence of the material in feminist critique helps frame this study, the subjects of which enacted a resistance to power structures not only discursively, but physically as well-attacking the machines, the build- ings, the strikebreakers, and militia with their scorn and their scissors. Ethnicity, Nativism, and "Sisterhood" The American cultural norms of idealized femininity held little relevance for laboring women in the textile industry at the turn of the century except in one very powerful way. Though they could not ever expect the privileges and "re- spect" garnered by the "angel of the house," they were, nonetheless, expected to act as if they could. Moreover, if they were not sure how to accomplish this ideal, those cultural mavens known as "Americanizers" could teach them. Anti-immigrant attitudes were rampant in the early twentieth century. Pow- 54 ANNE F. MATTINA erful language framing the immigrant experience provided vivid terministic screens for native-born Americans. "Increasingly," observes Kathie Friedman- Kasaba, "immigration was discussed in terms of uncontrollable natural disasters, weakened bodies, illnesses, and quasi-military invasions, for example, tide, storm, wave, flow, flood, torrent, tidal wave, fevers, hemorrhages and the like" (98). It was during this period that many American organizations employed the lan- guage of social or racial "purity" and "cleanliness" when discussing immigrants. For some, like settlement house workers, this involved benign efforts at teaching immigrant women how to be "better" housekeepers, for others, such as the KKK, this language belied an ominous intent. Immigrant women faced additional hostility based on nativist fears of unregulated births within their subcultures. Managing immigrant women's bodies and families, particularly their fertility and homemaking activities, became the preoccupation of a variety of social re- formers (104). Equally important to analysis of immigrant working women's experience is their relationship with native-born social reformers, particularly those who sought to "Americanize" them. This impulse took many forms, chief among them the inculcation of American values around housekeeping and childcare. Friedman-Kasaba suggests that the relationship between reformers and immi- grant women was analogous to that of female employers and paid domestic serv- ants. She further argues that "benevolence was based on a racial nativism" and "reflected a basic lack of respect for the mothering skills passed on to immigrant women through childhood apprenticeships to their own mothers and female kin" (108). The Americanization effort empowered some American-born reform- ers, providing them with careers and a political role (Gullett). There was also significant tension around Socialism. Many immigrant women-particularly Russian Jews, who were dominant in the garment in- dustry-openly embraced the ideology, leading to hostility on the part of their American allies. A speech by Eva McDonald Valesh, an upper-class reformer who came to lend her support to the shirtwaist strikers in 1909, succinctly captures much of the strain in the relationship: "I propose to start a campaign against so- cialism. This strike may be used to pave the way for forming clean, sensible la- bor unions, and I want to enroll every woman of leisure, every clubwoman, in the movement. Socialism is a menace. . . . It just makes those ignorant foreigners discontented, sets them against the government, makes them want to tear down. And socialists are using the strikers." When asked if suffragists might also be "us- ing" the strikers to advance their own cause, Valesh responded, "That's different. "DON'T LET THEM STEP ON YOU" 55 The suffragists have used the strikers, but they've helped them, given them spir- itual vision" ("New Trade Union"). Uprising of the 30,000 The strike is legendary: tens of thousands of female garment workers in the needle trades poured out of meeting halls throughout the Lower East Side on a November night in 1909, set to begin a historic strike. The Uprising of the 30,000 had its roots in a summer of discontent throughout the industry. Small, intense walkouts had occurred frequently in the months prior to the uprising as women struggled to unionize. "Thugs," hired by the bosses to push the women back into submission, verbally and physically harassed pickets. Many strikers were arrested, fined, and sometimes incarcerated. Restlessness prevailed throughout the fall, culminating with a mass meeting on the night of November 22, 1909. After several hours of listening to male la- bor leaders such as Samuel Gompers, one woman had had enough. "I have lis- tened to all the speakers," declared Clara Lemlich, a worker with considerable organizing experience. "I would not have further patience for talk, as I am one of those who feels and suffers from the things pictured. I move that we go on a gen- eral strike." The audience "rose en masse and cheered her to the echo" ("30,000 Waistmakers"). Thousands more walked off their jobs the next day, staying out for the next ten weeks. A labor legend had begun. Who were the strikers? Estimates run from twenty thousand to forty thou- sand workers, or approximately 75 percent of the shirtwaist industry. The overall strike force was 80 percent female. Fully 90o percent of those were Eastern Euro- pean Jews, primarily from Russia. Of the remaining to percent, the majority was Italian, along with a small measure of "American" women (Marot 122). The up- rising was overwhelmingly physical. The workers marched, picketed, and fought with strikebreakers and police. They listened to street-corner speeches and held dances to raise money. The strikers further used their bodies by donning sand- wich boards and patrolling the neighborhoods around the factories, looking for strikebreakers. The strike attracted attention from the mainstream press from the start, largely because of the help the New York Women's Trade Union League (WTUL) provided the strikers. The WTUL, a cross-class alliance of elite reformers and working-class labor leaders, provided much of the organizing infrastruc- ture needed to sustain the strike throughout the winter months. Early on, the 56 ANNE F. MATTINA league sent "watchers" to march with the pickets in an effort to keep the work- ers from being beaten, harassed, and arrested. The assumption was that police and "thugs" would not touch the upper-class watchers, and if they did, the result- ing publicity would be a bonus for the strikers. Other elite women, such as Anne Morgan, daughter ofJ. P. Morgan, and ardent suffragist Alva Belmont, provided money and credibility through their public and financial support of the strike ("Puts Up"). The early days of the strike were heady for most of the young workers, as attention and excitement surrounded their cause. The WTUL, with help from representatives from the American Federation of Labor, imposed order by set- ting up headquarters at their offices on Clinton Street. The New York Times re- ported on the chaos of the first day as organizers attempted to enroll strikers into the union, describing the office as being "choked up with people." "The first day is the worst," said WTUL president Margaret Direr, "after today matters will be systematized" ("Waist Strike On"). Social reformers and suffragists joined with working-class labor reformers to corral the energy into a manageable strike force. The basic demands were recognition of the union, closed shops, and an in- crease of 20 percent for piece-rate wages. The "bosses" had been advocating a switch from piecework to a weekly salary, another area of contention. Organiz- ing, motivating and keeping forty thousand workers focused on long-term goals were a daunting task. There was also the added stress of keeping the strikers in line. Early on, "rules for pickets" were distributed. Several of them speak directly to behavior: "Don't get excited and shout when you are talking" and "Don't put your hand on the person you are speaking to." Verbal instructions included: "Don't call any- one 'scab' or use abusive language of any kind." And: "Plead, persuade, appeal, but do not threaten" (Leupp 385). Evidently, not everyone got the message, as the New York Times reported the following: "Mina Bloom, 17 years old, a strik- ing waistmaker, was fined $1o yesterday ... for interfering with and assault- ing a strikebreaker on her way to work. Minnie Zorn was the complainant. She said Miss Bloom called her a scab and struck her in the face as she was going to work. ... Policeman Lowenthal was called into a shirtwaist factory yesterday to order out 300 striking girls who had gathered on the stairways there. He said it took him two hours to get them down. He arrested Sophie Kleinman, 18, for slap- ping him in the face" ("Waist Strike Grows"). The strike's supporters did not give up trying to contain the workers' zealousness; indeed, sometimes they succeeded "DON'T LET THEM STEP ON YOU" 57 in channeling it. Among the earliest major events was a "monster indignation parade" of ten thousand workers to city hall, demanding that the mayor inves- tigate police brutality ("Souvenir History" 14). Mounted police met them at City Hall. A petition delivered to the mayor, demanding an inquest into the violence, proved ineffective. Several days later, Mrs. Belmont engaged the Hippodrome for a mass meet- ing, inviting prominent suffragists and politicians to join her in support of the waistmakers. Dr. Anna Howard Shaw told the strikers, "Personally I believe in trade unions. You can't strike a blow with one finger or two fingers, but when you want to strike you put all your fingers together, clinch them hard, and then let drive" ("Throngs Cheer"). Most of the strikers agreed with this sentiment. Suffrage leaders condescended to the strikers. Belmont invited female mem- bers of the "400," New York's social elite, to a fundraising luncheon. Ten striking workers spoke of their plight to the assembled group. The Socialists voiced their disgust publicly. "I am ashamed of those poor girl strikers, taken up among the Four Hundred with Mrs. Belmont on one side and Miss Morgan on the other. It is enough to demoralize them. Poor girls who only know enough to scream when they are hurt," proclaimed one Russian-born activist ("Women Socialists"). The street, rather than a ladies' luncheon, was where the daily battle took place. The bosses hired prostitutes to engage to heckle and harass the strikers. Workers rising to the bait found themselves jailed. Undeterred, those arrested wore their experience as a badge of honor. The bosses dismissed the workers as ignorant and impressionable. One of the largest manufacturers quoted in the Times said, "We cannot understand how so many people can be swayed to join in a strike that has no merit. Our employees were perfectly satisfied, and they made no demands. It is a foolish, hysterical strike, and not 5 per cent of the strikers know what they are striking for" ("Waist Strike Grows"). "Hysterical." "fanatical," "emotional"-these labels were used liberally in many of the responses to the strikers. Originally cast by their upper-class allies as "fragile, little girls" in need of their help, the strikers proved intractable. The "girls" refused to be contained. The allies blamed much of the obstinacy on So- cialism and the temperament of the Russian Jews, who they frequently described as being "fiery" or "too ideological" (Orleck 67). The nativistic tendencies of the American-born reformers became more apparent as the strike continued. The strikers would not budge on the issue of the closed shop. The upper-class reformers, frustrated in their attempts to con- trol the "emotional foreigners," were fearful that the Socialists were exploiting Contents Acknowledgments vii Introduction: What Are Working-Class Rhetorics? 1 William DeGenaro Part I. Toward a Working-Class Rhetorical Tradition Articulating the Values of Labor and Laboring: Civic Rhetoric and Heritage Tourism 11 James V Catano "Miners Starve, Idle or Working": Working-Class Rhetoric of the Early Twentieth Century 32 Judith D. Hoover "Don't Let Them Step on You": Gender, Class, and Ethnicity in the Rhetoric of the Great Strikes, 1909-1913 47 Anne F. Mattina Unsettling Working-Class Commonplaces in Jane Addams's Settlement House Rhetoric 69 Melissa J Fiesta The Culture of Steel and Memory: A Rhetorical Analysis of the Youngstown Historical Center of Industry and Labor 88 Anthony Esposito Part 1 II.Rhetorics of the Workplace The Rhetoric of Migrant Farmworkers 107 Emily Plec Miles of Trials: The Life and Livelihood of the Long-Haul Trucker 127 Melanie Bailey Mills 58 ANNE F. MATTINA the strikers. However, it was not necessarily ideology that was fueling the strik- ers' resistance, it was likely hunger and a determination not to compromise. As Rose Pastor Stokes, a former cigar maker who became a labor activist remarked, "Starve to win, or you'll starve anyway!" ("Suffragists to Aid"). By late January 191o, the American-born allies had largely deserted the cause. The male-dominated labor unions saw little recompense in continuing their support and also withdrew from the effort. Though a few shops settled by Janu- ary, many did not. The issue of the closed shop was a flashpoint for the workers and one their supporters could not comprehend. The little support left among the allies dropped considerably throughout the next weeks, and the strike was over by March. Bread and Roses Lithuanians, Poles, Italians, Syrians, Greeks, Russian Jews, Franco-Belgians, and second-generation Irish and German workers crowded the tenements and factories in the heart of the American woolen industry in this Lawrence, Mas- sachusetts, northwest of Boston. Lawrence had been created decades earlier by the same group of men who had industrialized its sister city, Lowell. Setting their sights further along the Merrimack River, early industrialists built Lawrence from the ground up in the 1840os for the sole purpose of harnessing more of the hydropower that had served the Lowell mills so well. Coincidentally, the first large wave of Irish famine immigrants was reaching America at the same moment. The Irish, representing a cheap and desperate la- bor force, found quick employment in the textile and paper industries of Massa- chusetts. Pushed into "shanty towns" and "paddy camps," the immigrants dealt daily with the miseries of unregulated factory work and the hostility and suspi- cion of their American neighbors. They did not remain docile for long, however, as Lawrence was the scene of intense labor activity in the decades following the Civil War. Females dominated the Lawrence workforce (Cameron 33). These women, regardless of ethnic background, forged strong alliances with neighbors in their tenement blocks out of necessity born of poverty. They shared food and child- care, laundry and "papers" necessary for gaining their children employment. The strength of these networks provided the solidarity essential to sustaining the strike of 1912. The "Bread and Roses Strike" as it later became known, had its roots in the "DON'T LET THEM STEP ON YOU" 59 protective legislation enacted by the state Massachusetts that reduced the hours of labor for women and children from fifty-six per week to fifty-four, causing a de facto reduction in wages. Scheduled to go into effect in January 1912, the average wage reduction equaled the cost of four loaves of bread, a significant loss to im- poverished families. On January 11, Polish women in the Everett mills walked out when they discovered their pay was short. By the end of the next week, ten thou- sand workers had joined them; by the end of the strike, two months later, thirty thousand were striking. The strikers' stance was immediately defiant. The Law- rence Sun breathlessly reported the scene under the banner headline "Frenzied, Armed Mob Descends upon Mills": "Waving American and Italian flags, bran- dishing knives and clubs, and yelling like maniacs, 200 Italian strikers descended upon the Washington, Wood, Ayer and Duck mills Friday morning taking pos- session of the first three plants and driving the operatives from their work. ... Destruction followed the mob everywhere. ... [The strikers] forced their way into the Washington mill, stopped the motors, cut the belts, tore the cloth, threw the work on the floor, drove the operatives from their looms, broke the electric lights, and pulled down the curtains." The level of corporeal resistance was particularly intense among the women in Lawrence, both female workers and the wives of mill- hands. The article described the "hysterical" reaction of the "swooning" female operatives present during these events. Noting a distinction between native-born and immigrant women, a sidebar article reported, "Many of the English-speaking women were on the verge of a nervous breakdown when they were driven from the mill." The mob, however, contained (presumably) non-English speaking women who were "continually shouting and waving their arms, frantically urging the men on in their destruction of property." Among the arrested was a woman charged with assaulting an officer ("Scenes of Riot and Disorder"). Conventional wisdom held that the strike was doomed to fail precisely be- cause of the ethnic makeup of the force. One contemporary account suggested, "In the past the foreigners have been the element through which strikes in the textile industry have been lost. This is the first time in the history of our labor struggles that the foreigners have stood to the man to better their conditions as underpaid workers" (O'Sullivan). Workers met nightly in halls, listening to speakers and plotting strategy. The International Workers of the World sent organizers to support local ef- forts, among them Elizabeth Gurley Flynn (Cameron 126). On January 29, dur- ing a rally, a stray bullet killed Annie Lopizzo, an Italian worker. Among those arrested in response were three IWW representatives, charged with inciting the 60 ANNE F. MATTINA riot. The state militia entered the fray and another striker was killed. Quickly the city clamped down on the demonstrations and meetings, restricting access to public venues. It was here that existing communication networks of neighboring women became essential to the strike. The women of Lawrence seized the neighborhoods early in the strike. "Whether entering or exiting doorways in a rush of activity or purposefully block- ing streets, women used physical space to act out their revolt against the mills," Cameron reports (147). One common strategy was for the women to link arms and form a human chain that could not be broken by police, protecting each other from arrest. The strikers, many armed with scissors, jeered the soldiers and police, cutting suspenders and stripping the men. "They created chaotic scenes and made constant noises in the hope of confusing officers and camouflaging individual attackers" (Cameron 161). Lawrence strikers used their bodies, their voices, their networks, and their outrage to make themselves heard. "Scab mugging," another tactic, included following strikebreakers right to the gates of the factories, all the while hectoring and bringing down the wrath of strike-sympathetic people passing by. Another technique was to throw pots of scalding hot water on strikebreakers from tenement windows above the street. In response, the police doused the strikers with fire hoses, clubbing and finally arresting them. They did not retreat. Perhaps the most publicly creative action associated with the strike was the decision to send the children of the strikers out of Lawrence. The strategy, bor- rowed from European strikers, was based on the premise that the workers might be compelled to return to the mills before the strike was settled if they were wor- ried about their hungry offspring. "The Children's Exodus" occasioned a violent response from the police, the mayor, and the militia. On February 10, the first group boarded a train, bound for New York. Mar- garet Sanger accompanied 119 children on their trip. A boisterous crowd of sym- pathetic Socialists greeted them at Grand Central Station. The New York Times described the enthusiasm as contagious, noting that the "men and women and children who had gathered to welcome the little ones yelled and yelled and when they got tired of yelling they jumped up and down and threw their hats and capes into the air" ("150 Strike Waifs"). The children joined a massive parade to a local labor hall, dining with the Socialist families who had to come to "adopt" them for the strike's duration. Alva Belmont publicly voiced her approval for the strat- egy. By and large, response to the event and news coverage was favorable, save in the city of Lawrence. "DON'T LET THEM STEP ON YOU" 61 Furious, city officials called for the National Guard, and threatened the work- ers with jail if they tried to send any more children out of the city. On February 24, the strikers returned to the train station with more children. Brutal opposition met them: "A violent clash between the police authorities and women who wanted to assert what they had been told was their civil right took place here this morning," the New York Times reported. "Both sides went [to] the limit of their power and the police prevailed. Not one child got on the train. Fifty arrests were made, many of them who had fought the police savagely, and several heads were broken by the clubs of the officers" ("Police Clubs"). The fight continued as the police seized children. "Later in the day the wail- ing of fourteen of the children as they were being led down the steps of the police station to be taken to the City Home drove a crowd of 500 foreigners frantic, and a riotous scene followed" ("Police Clubs"). The strikers surrounded the vehicles carrying the children and a twenty-minute battle with the militia ensued. Rather than the safe haven of a sympathetic home, the children arrived at the city or- phanage. Clashes occurred throughout the day: "so demonstrative were they that thirty- three, twenty-seven of them women, were arrested" ("Police Clubs"). The public, along with labor and social reformers, was outraged by the events and called for an immediate investigation. Congressional hearings began on March 6 in Wash- ington, DC. Observers included First Lady Nellie Taft and Anne Morgan. One po- lice witness complained of coming upon women armed with broomsticks and a baseball bat. He denied any violence on the part of the police or militia ("Police Say"). As in the Uprising of the 30,000, the political establishment and the main- stream press could not fathom the emotional outpouring of resistance among the strikers. They were "frenzied," out of control, and needed restraining. Under mounting public pressure and unable to break the strike force, the mill owners began to settle with the strikers. By mid-March, most had capitulated to the de- mands of reduced hours without a pay reduction. The workers had won. Silk Strike On January 27, 1913, four male employees at the Doherty Silk Mill asked management for a meeting to discuss the increase of their responsibilities from two looms to four. Immediately dismissed, they, along with eight hundred of their fellow workers, walked off the job in protest, and the third Great Strike be- 62 ANNE F. MATTINA gan. As in New York and Lawrence, workers in the silk industry in Paterson were overwhelmingly non-native. The ethnic groups involved in the strike included Italians, Poles, Germans, and Eastern European Jews. The strike itself lasted six months. A total of twenty-four thousand workers went on strike, and nearly three hundred mills were idled. The city of Paterson acted swiftly, trying to close down public spaces to the strikers, echoing the response of Lawrence. Though some halls remained open for the workers' meetings, control of the streets re- mained in city officials' hands. The mill owners called the police and a private se- curity force into action to enforce laws against loitering. Unions were small and exclusive, and female workers could not be members. For the most part, women worked in semi-skilled positions in Paterson with very little hope of gaining union protection, such as it was. Unionized male workers in Paterson had considerable experience with labor activism, but the female sector of the Paterson silk industry did not remain on the sidelines. Unlike in the two previous strikes, women did not constitute the majority of the strike force or its leadership. Yet the strike represented an opening for the women of the silk in- dustry to become "historical actors" (Golin 58). Elizabeth Gurley Flynn arrived with other IWW representatives and held weekly meetings with the women throughout the strike. These gatherings em- powered the women, creating an atmosphere for female strike leaders to emerge (Golin 63). Flynn later wrote, "The life of a strike depends upon constant activi- ties" and she made sure those activities included women. "The Rebel Girl" had begun her own speaking career at sixteen. She had keen insight into what it took to empower female strikers and, after Lawrence, honed those skills with the Pa- terson strikers (Tonn and Kuhn 122). She was an inspiration to the women, both strikers and strikers' wives, a group she specifically sought out as she felt that they were essential to success. "By reaching out to the women of the community through frequent for-women-only meetings, Flynn helped them to become con- scious of their strength. They did the rest" (Golin 63). The women of Paterson equaled their sisters of the earlier strikes in both grit and determination. Transformed by their experiences, the women refused to back down, or remain silent, even in the face of sometimes violent confronta- tions with police and the bosses. Irma Lombardi, who was seventeen years old at the time of the strike, later wrote of her experience: "We thought we were going to change the world. When you're young, you do have dreams. I was always on the picket line, every single day . .. the cops came. They would start chasing us, swing with their clubs from horseback. Many of us were hurt badly and many were arrested" (Bird, Georgakas, Shaffer 70). "DON'T LET THEM STEP ON YOU" 63 Like their counterparts in New York and Lawrence, the women chose extra- discursive means to complement their speaking and organizing. Mary Gasper- ano, a twenty-three-year-old worker, was arrested five times during the strike for various infractions, which included biting the hand of a police officer and slapping the face of a female strikebreaker. Carrie Golzio, a twenty-five-year old mother of four, was a regular speaker at meetings and joined strike parades with her fellow workers (Golin 58). Teenaged Hannah Silverman was also radicalized and empowered by her activism, "spending the night in the city jail ... made her even more determined to assert her rights and more confident in doing so. She was arrested again and again" (61). On April 17, during an altercation between strikers and "scabs," private secu- rity agents fired shots into the crowd, hitting a man standing on his porch watch- ing the melee. Valentino Modestino died three days later. His funeral cortege was one of the largest public gatherings witnessed in the city, wave upon wave of workers silently following the casket, red ribbons of solidarity firmly pinned to their chests. In June another worker, Vincenzo Madonna, died as the result of a fight with a strikebreaker. Madonna's attacker claimed self-defense and a jury ac- quitted him (Golin 18o). The strike continued throughout the spring, as the workers remained stead- fast in their conviction. Pressure from the manufacturers caused the police and the private security forces to increase their aggressiveness with the strikers. By the end of May, everyone was labeling the strike a "deadlock" (Golin 107). Work- ers were starving and recalcitrant but manufacturers were not desperate for their return, as they had the option to send the work over state lines into Pennsylva- nia. They did, however, want to maintain control over their workforce and did so by any means necessary. The deadlock compelled the strikers to become more creative in their protests (108). A series of Sunday meetings, held at the home of Pietro and Maria Botto in nearby Haledon, New Jersey, became an integral part of the strike. The Bottos' home sat across from a field where the strikers gathered. The home had a second- floor porch that served as a platform for the speakers. These rallies were enor- mously important to the solidarity of the strikers. Groups of workers, carrying picnic baskets, crammed the trolley lines each week. Once at the Botto home, a festive atmosphere would ensue. Songs, speeches, and camaraderie served to unite the workers. Bilingual translators helped the strikers to understand the words of Haywood, Flynn, and others. The crowds grew weekly as the strike dragged on in Paterson. The Sundays at Haledon drew many curious observers as well, including reporter John Reed, who brought word of the events back to 64 ANNE F. MATTINA New York. Later, Elizabeth Gurley Flynn remembered: "Sunday after Sunday, as the days became pleasanter, we spoke there to enormous crowds of thousands of people-the strikers and their families, workers from other Paterson industries, people from nearby New Jersey cities, delegations from New York of trade union- ists, students and others. Visitors came from all over America and from foreign countries. People who saw these Haledon meetings never forgot them." The location of the strike was less than thirty miles from Greenwich Village, home to many (in)famous Socialists of the period, including Reed, who spread the word of the events to his comrades in New York. Margaret Sanger and Rose Pastor Stokes traveled to Paterson to help the strikers. Sanger, reprising her role in Lawrence, accompanied over seventy children from Paterson to sympathetic homes in New York City. "The Strike Pageant" was an idea born of frustration and starvation. Hay- wood had complained to Mabel Dodge, a wealthy and influential feminist, of his inability to get press coverage for the strike and support from union workers in other states. "Why don't you bring the strike to New York and show it to the workers?" she asked (qtd. in Golin 59). Dodge, Reed, Haywood, and others de- cided to stage a huge pageant, a dramatic retelling of the events of the strike us- ing the strikers themselves as "actors." On June 7, a crowd of nearly of fifteen thousand people thronged to Madison Square Garden to witness the spectacle. One thousand workers took part in the show, which chronicled the events of the previous months in Paterson, including the murder and funeral of Modes- tino. A contemporary report offered this description: "a scene that, with all the accessories of somber realism, worked the actors themselves and their thousands of sympathizers in the audience up to a high pitch of emotion, punctuated with moans, groans and sobs" ("Pageant" 3). The verdict on the efficacy of the pageant was a mixed one, at best. The New York Times reported: Under the direction of a destructive organization opposed in spirit and antagonistic in ac- tion to all the forces which have upbuilded [sic] this republic, a series of pictures in action were shown with the design of stimulating mad passion against law and order and prom- ulgating a gospel of discontent. The sordid and cruel incidents of an industrial strike were depicted by many of the poor strikers themselves, but with dominating and vociferous as- sistance from members of the IWW ... the motive was to inspire hatred, to induce vio- lence which may lead to the tearing down of the civil state and the institution of anarchy. The pageant did not turn a profit, and many historians have pointed to it as the reason why the strike ultimately failed. Golin argues convincingly that this explanation fails to examine the political transformation that occurred (177). "DON'T LET THEM STEP ON YOU" 65 By creating and participating in the telling of their own story, he asserts, they "transformed the telling into a political action" (178). The physical reenactment, combined with the public spectacle of the pageant, provided yet another outlet for dissent. The strike fund however, was no richer for the effort and solidarity began to fray. Additional resistance would need sustenance. In a move reminiscent of the waistmaker's strike, a group of teenaged strik- ers wearing white dresses with red sashes and IWW buttons journeyed to Coney Island on a fundraising trip. Other female strikers visited the Lower East Side, driven there in trucks hired by New York garment workers, accepting donations of money, food, and shoes (Golin 161-62). Food was becoming an increasingly scarce commodity, and though the organizers worked desperately to sustain the workers, they could not. By the end of June the strike was beginning to fall apart; by early August, it was over. The workers had gained nothing from the mill own- ers, but they had empowered themselves to fight again another day. The Rhetorical Synergy of Class, Gender, and Ethnicity The women of the Lower East Side, Lawrence, and Paterson were vital par- ticipants in large-scale efforts to better their lives. They proved to all observers that they had the ability and the strength to fight for themselves. They were not "ladies" according to the commonly accepted definition of the term. They were effective rhetors availing themselves of all means of persuasion. They also de- serve to be called dissident citizens, as they left their sewing machines and looms and claimed public space as their own, creatively responding to the constraints engendered by a world largely hostile to their existence. They served a purpose for the suffragists, the WTUL, the men of the IWW, the men with whom they shared picket duty, and the women who spoke for them in the larger arena such as Flynn and Stokes. Nevertheless, they empowered themselves in a way distinct from women in higher social strata, utilizing their bodies and physical resistance as rhetorical strategies. "I had no choice about becoming a rebel," recalled Pater- son striker Sophie Cohen. "If you are not a rebel, it is easy to be pessimistic. How can people live with themselves? I fought whenever I could" (Bird, Georgakas, and Shaffer 68-69). In answering the question "is there a 'woman's' or a 'feminine' rhetoric?" Cheryl Glenn contends that the rhetoric of the disenfranchised and the disem- powered is gendered feminine and usually "comes out of the mouths of bodies sexed female" but that "it has surely come out of the mouths of men as well, of 66 ANNE F. MATTINA African Americans, of political prisoners, of the poor, the uneducated, the weak." She also notes that such rhetoric of "the (seemingly) disempowered could and does continually incite such powerful response . .. those in power are all too of- ten enraged by such rhetoric" (qtd. in Lunsford 321, emphasis in original). The re- action of the larger communities in New York, Lawrence, and Paterson provide substantive evidence for this claim. Karlyn Kohrs Campbell further asserts that marginalized voices are more in- teresting "precisely because the obstacles such groups confront force them to be more ingenious, to rise to imaginative heights required of the powerful only in moments of crisis" (Inventing Women 116). The female rhetors in the preceding case studies demonstrate just that ability. Theirs is a unique rhetoric, represent- ing the synergy of class, gender, and ethnicity. Moreover, the inclusion of their material responses is absolutely necessary when considering their efficacy as well as their legacy. Their persuasion cannot and should not be separated from their material existence. In the evolution of feminist rhetorical criticism, analysis of these working- class rebels adds nuance to our understanding of women's persuasive practices. Their experiences, so distinct from those of upper-class reformers, deserve fur- ther study as they assume their place in the literature. Freed from the constraints of middle-class "ladyhood," they demonstrated their dissatisfaction with the sta- tus quo not by adapting to those confines but by shouting, signing, and pushing back against them with all of their might. NOTE 1. For a thorough discussion on the distinctions between "suffragettes" and "suffragists" and their discursive practices, see Kowal. WORKS CITED Bird, Stewart, Dan Georgakas, and Deborah Shaffer. Solidarity Forever: An Oral History ofthe IWW. Chicago: Lakeview, 1995. Cameron, Ardis. Radicals of the Worst Sort: Laboring Women in Lawrence, Massachusetts, 1860-1912. Urbana: U of Illinois P, 1995. Campbell, Karlyn Kohrs. "Inventing Women: From Amateurs to Virginia Woolf." Women Studies in Communication 21 (1998): 111-26. - . Man Cannot Speak for Her: A Critical Study of Early Feminist Rhetoric. Vols. I and II. New York: Praeger, 1988. . "The Rhetoric of Women's Liberation: An Oxymoron." Quarterly Journal of Speech 49 (1973): 75-86. "DON'T LET THEM STEP ON YOU" 67 Dubois, Ellen C. Harriot Stanton Blatch and the Winning of Woman Suffrage. New Haven: Yale UP, 1997. Ebert, Teresa L. Ludic Feminism andAfter: Postmodernism, Desire and Labor in Late Capitalism. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan P, 1996. Flynn, Elizabeth Gurley. "Elizabeth Gurley Flynn remembers the Paterson Strike of 1913." The Rebel Girl: An Autobiography. New York: Masses and Mainstream, 1955. 165-66. Reprinted online in NewJersey Women's History. Women's Project of New Jersey. Aug. 16, 2004 . "Frenzied, Armed Mob Descends Upon Mills." Lawrence Sun, Jan. 13, 1912: 1. Friedman-Kasaba, Kathie. Memories of Migration: Gender, Ethnicity and Work in the Lives ofJewish and Italian Women in New York, 1870-1924. New York: SUNY P, 1996. Golin, Stephen. The Fragile Bridge; Paterson Silk Strike, 1913. Philadelphia: Temple UP, 1988. Gullett, Gayle. "Women Progressives and the Politics of Americanization in California, 1915-1920. Pacific Historical Review 64 (1995): 71-95. Japp, Phyllis M. "Esther or Isaiah? The Abolitionist-Feminist Rhetoric of Angelina Grimke. Quar- terly Journal of Speech 71 (1985): 335-48. Jaret, Charles. "Troubled by Newcomers: Anti-immigrant Attitudes and Action during Two Eras of Mass Immigration to the United States." Journal of American Ethnic History 18 (1999): 9- 30. Johnson, Nan. Gender and Rhetorical Space in American Life, 1866-191o. Carbondale: Southern Il- linois UP, 2002. Kenneally, James J. "Women and Trade Unions 1870-1920: The Quandary of the Reformer." Labor History 14 (1973): 43-55. Kowal, Donna. "One Cause, Two Paths: Militant vs. Adjustive Strategies in the British and Ameri- can Women's Suffrage Movement." Communication Quarterly 48 (2000): 240-56. Leupp, Constance. "The Shirtwaist Makers' Strike." Survey, Dec. 18, 1909: 383-86. Lunsford, Andrea A., ed. Reclaiming Rhetorica: Women in the Rhetorical Tradition. Pittsburgh: U of Pittsburgh P, 1995. Marot, Helen. "A Woman's Strike: An Appreciation of the Shirtwaist Makers of New York." Pro- ceedings ofthe Academy ofPolitical Science. New York: Columbia UP, 191o. 119-28. Morris, Charles E. "'Our Capital Aversion': Abigail Folsom, Madness, and Radical Antislavery Praxis." Women's Studies in Communication 24 (2ool): 62-89. "New Trade Union: Eva McDonald Valesh Fires First Gun in Fight." New York Daily Tribune, Janu- ary 22, 1910: 9. Reprinted online as document 13 in "How Did the Perceived Threat of Social- ism Shape the Relationship between Workers and their Allies in the New York City Shirtwaist Strike, 1909-1910?" in Kathryn Sklar and Thomas Dublin, eds., Women and Social Movements in the United States, 16oo-2000, vol. 4 (2000). June 19, 2oo6 . O'Connor, Lillian. Pioneer Women Orators. New York: Columbia UP, 1954. "150 Strike Waifs Find Homes Here." New York Times, February 11, 1912: 1. Reprinted online as document 12A in "How Did Immigrant Textile Workers Struggle to Achieve an Ameri- can Standard of Living? The 1912 Strike in Lawrence, Massachusetts," in Kathryn Sklar and Thomas Dublin, eds., Women and Social Movements in the United States, 1600-2000, vol. 4 (2000). July lo, 2oo6 Orleck, Annalise. Common Sense and a Little Fire. Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 1995. O'Sullivan, Mary Kenney. "The Labor War at Lawrence." Survey, April 6, 1912: 72-74. vi CONTENTS Rhetoric on the Concrete Pour: The Dance of Decision Making 144 Dale Cyphert Workplace Risk Communication: A Look at Literate Practice within Rhetorical Frameworks 164 Lew Caccia Problematized Providing and Protecting: The Occupational Narrative of the Working Class 180 Kristen Lucas Part 111. Rhetorical Critiques of Working-Class Pop Culture The Rhetorics of Reality TV and the Feminization of Working-Class Identity 203 Catherine Chaput The Rhetoric of"I Have a Dream": The Remix 226 Kermit Campbell Fatness as the Embodiment of Working-Class Rhetoric 238 Kathleen LeBesco Establishing Counterhegemony through Narrative: The Comic Books of the Congress of Industrial Organizations 256 Steve Martin Conclusion: Working-Class Rhetoric as Ethnographic Subject 271 Julie Lindquist List of Contributors 287 Index 291 68 ANNE F. MATTINA "The Pageant as a Form ofPropaganda": Reviews ofthe Paterson Strike Pageant. History Matters. Aug. 16, 2004 . Parkins, Wendy. "Protesting Like a Girl: Embodiment, Dissent, and Feminist Agency." Feminist Theory 1 (2000): 59-77. Payne, Elizabeth. Reform, Labor, and Feminism: Margaret Price Robins and the National Women's Trade Union League. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1988. "Police Clubs Keep Lawrence Waifs In." New York Times, February 25, 1912: 2. Reprinted online as document 12B in "How Did Immigrant Textile Workers Struggle to Achieve an Ameri- can Standard of Living? The 1912 Strike in Lawrence, Massachusetts," in Kathryn Sklar and Thomas Dublin, eds., Women and Social Movements in the United States, 1600-2000, vol. 4 (2000). June 19, 2oo6 . "Police Say Women Led Lawrence Mobs." New York Times, March 3, 1912: 6. Reprinted online as document 13 in "How Did Immigrant Textile Workers Struggle to Achieve an American Stand- ard of Living? The 1912 Strike in Lawrence, Massachusetts," in Kathryn Sklar and Thomas Dublin, eds., Women and Social Movements in the United States, 16oo-2000, vol. 4 (2ooo). June 19, 2oo6 . "Puts Up Her Mansion: Mrs. Belmont Goes Security for the Striking Shirt Waist Makers." New York Citizen, December 20, 1909. Reprinted online as document 6 in "How Did the Perceived Threat of Socialism Shape the Relationship between Workers and their Allies in the New York City Shirtwaist Strike, 1909-1910?" in Kathryn Sklar and Thomas Dublin, eds., Women and Social Movements in the United States, 16oo-2000, vol. 4 (2ooo). June 19, 2oo6 . Ritchie, Joy, and Kate Ronald. Available Means, An Anthology of Women's Rhetoric(s). Pittsburgh: U of Pittsburgh P, 2001ool. "Scenes of Riot and Disorder." Lawrence Sun, Jan. 13, 1912: 1. "Souvenir History of the Strike." The Papers of the Women's Trade Union League and Its Leaders. Documents of the League, Strikes to World War I. Women's Trade Union League, New York: 1910. Sparks, Holloway. "Dissident Citizenship: Democratic Theory, Political Courage, and Activist Women." Hypatia 12 (1997): 74-101. "Suffragists to Aid Girl Waist Strikers." New York Times, Dec. 2, 1909: 3. "30,000 Waist Makers Declare Big Strike." Call, Nov. 23, 1909: 1. "Throngs Cheer on the Girl Strikers." New York Times, Dec. 6, 19o9: 1. Tonn, Mari Boor, and Mark Kuhn. "Elizabeth Gurley Flynn." Women Public Speakers in the United States, 1925-1993. Ed. Karlyn Kohrs Campbell. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1994. 221-37. Triece, Mary. "Rhetoric and Social Change: Women's Struggles for Economic and Political Equal- ity, 1900-1917." Women's Studies in Communication 23 (2000): 239-56. "Waist Strike Grows." New York Times, Nov. 25, 1909: 20. "Waist Strike On." New York Times, Nov. 24, 1909: 3. "Women Socialists Rebuff Suffragists." New York Times, December 20, 1909: 5. Reprinted online as document 7 in "How Did the Perceived Threat of Socialism Shape the Relationship be- tween Workers and their Allies in the New York City Shirtwaist Strike, 19o9-1910o?" in Kath- ryn Sklar and Thomas Dublin, eds., Women and Social Movements in the United States, 16oo- 2000, vol. 4 (2ooo). June 19, 2oo6 . MelissaJ. Fiesta Unsettling Working-Class Commonplaces in Jane Addams's Settlement House Rhetoric est knowfn as founder of the most influential American settlement house (Hull-House in Chicago), Jane Addams has often been heralded as a champion of the working class. For example, a 1999 Los Angeles Times book review of Gioia Diliberto's A Useful Woman, the first of two recent biographies on Addams, takes simply "Working-Class Hero" as its title (see also Elshtain). In this review, Ruth Rosen emphasizes how Add- ams as a progressive (rather than as a socialist) "constantly criticized un- regulated capitalism, rejected profit as the measure of social and moral worth and blamed social and economic forces, rather than individuals, for the urban poverty that blighted America's cities" (5). But as politi- cal scientist Gwendolyn Mink has found, "maternalists" such as Add- ams both taught literacy as a means of assimilation and perpetuated conformity among working women (and men) of different cultures and races: "The maternalists' war against illiteracy was not culturally neu- tral .... Analytically and prescriptively, reformers thus tied illiteracy to cultural difference and literacy to cultural reform among Blacks and new immigrants alike" (103). Thus the settlement house promise of an equalizing education for working-class people was based on sameness not difference: "As the antidote to multiplicity, school reform offered a common 'American' and Americanizing curriculum in which principles of domesticity and industry figured prominently" (110). 69 70 MELISSA J. FIESTA While social scientists have begun to recognize both the contributions and limitations of Addams's work for working-class people, rhetoricians have yet to analyze how her settlement rhetoric has historically constituted and limited so- cial action. This oversight is remarkable because Addams's commonplaces con- tinue to circulate in the field of rhetoric and composition, particularly in discus- sions of community and extracurricular literacy (see Peck, Flower, and Higgins; Gere). Simultaneously, feminist historiography in rhetoric has been particularly interested in deriving theory from the primary sources of influential women rhetors who also theorized from practice (see Campbell). Addams's rhetorical practice significantly contributes to a working-class rhe- torical tradition despite her elite affiliations. Her rhetorical commonplaces cir- culated within a larger reform movement that formed the working class as a per- suasive, collective force for social action in the United States, and constituted working-class consciousness in a particular and important historical place and time for the working class.1 More specifically, the strategies that circulated in Addams's rhetoric contribute a method for achieving working-class conscious- ness even for those who have never been the working class. This method de- pends on transcending personal experience in order to experience empathy for divergent cultural locations. But Addams's rhetoric also illustrates how purpose- ful commonplaces that do not allow for difference may limit liberatory possibili- ties for a diverse and educated working class. Rhetorical Commonplacesfor Social Action First defined by Aristotle as "the line of argument" (1395b20-25) and later by Cicero as "the very homes of proofs" (2.39.162), the rhetorical commonplace (oth- erwise known as topoi in Greek and loci in Latin) has a long and varied history, which Richard McKeon notes: "Places, topics, commonplaces and proper places have had long paradoxical histories since they entered into the languages of the West" (25). While McKeon does not explicitly treat class as a category for analy- sis, his twentieth-century rhetorical theory concerns itself with how rhetoric may advance humanity in the highly evolved technological societies arising from in- dustrialization: "In a technological age all men should have an art of creativity, of judgment, of disposition, and of organization" (24). Importantly, commonplaces of invention not only allow for difference but depend on difference as "it cannot be a philosophy established by consensus." McKeon seeks to resuscitate the ac- tivity of Ciceronian commonplaces as sites for invention and difference rather JANE ADDAMS'S SETTLEMENT HOUSE RHETORIC 71 than as "collections of fixed and established, communicable cliches" (34). These "fixed" commonplaces may be so persuasive for select audiences that they pre- clude new lines of argument based on what has been previously excluded. Previ- ous exclusions may act as new sites for knowledge production. Because "the com- monplaces which innovate and transform, invent and discover, may be detected in their effective use but can never be stated univocally, clearly, or distinctly," histories of commonplaces must be performed in order to "determine the vari- eties of meanings [the commonplace] assumes in statements about it and the variety of ways in which it functions in exploring the old and constructing the new" (35). In this way, McKeon attempts to (re)value commonplaces as inven- tional sites where values may be collectively negotiated: "if questions of value are raised, they are reduced to commonplace disputes concerning the relative worth of the new and the conventional, or the relative attractiveness of revolution and tradition, or the relative effectiveness of innovation and revival" (33). In The New Rhetoric, Chaim Perelman and Lucie Olbrechts-Tyteca similarly seek to identify both the available means of persuasion and new possibilities for persuasion in inventional commonplaces, sites where values are collectively (re)constructed. They explain relationships between values, value hierarchies, and loci, which they name as the modern equivalent to Aristotle's "storehouses for arguments" (83). In such new rhetorics, where knowledge is epistemic, val- ues are understood as rhetorical, negotiated "objects of meaning" (74). The way in which values are prioritized distinguishes one audience from another, how- ever: "Most values are indeed shared by a great number of audiences, and a par- ticular audience is characterized less by which values it accepts than by the way it grades them" (81). Loci provide the implicit justification for why a particular audience accepts the superiority or importance of one value over another: "loci form an indispensable arsenal on which a person wishing to persuade another will have to draw, whether he likes it or not." This justification may be thought of as an enthymeme whose premises are taken for granted: "It is debatable whether it would be possible to draw up a list of the loci representing primary agreements in the sphere of the preferable, from which all others could be deduced, and con- sequently in terms that could be justified" (84). Preferred loci are those that par- ticular audiences with certain community allegiances favor, so a definitive list cannot be written. But loci can be categorized under these general headings: "loci of quantity, quality, order, the existing, essence, and the person" (85). Loci of the preferable persuade particular audiences who accept the same value hierarchy as a given truth. Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca contrast the loci of clas- 72 MELISSA J. FIESTA sicists to that of romanticists, for example: "To the classical virtues of truth and justice, the Romanticist opposes the virtues of love, charity, and loyalty. The Clas- sicists are attached to abstract or, at least, universal values, while the Romanticists advocate particular, concrete values" (98). For Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca, though, the "dominant values" of audiences necessarily rely on both "abstract" and "concrete values" (77). Loci, then, as the justification of value hierarchies, de- pend on abstraction, and agency resides in this abstraction: "Abstract values can readily be used for criticism ... and seem to provide criteria for one trying to change the established order. On the other hand, where change is not wanted, there is no reason to raise incompatibilities" (79). The rhetorical theory of Perel- man and Olbrechts-Tyteca suggests a method for challenging readily accepted value hierarchies by making the justification for these hierarchies explicit both to those who readily accept their premises and to those who do not, by interrogat- ing this justification, and by exposing places (places that have become all too com- mon) where this justification may exclude others from different cultural groups. Competing Commonplaces in Addams's Rhetoric There has been disagreement over whose interests Jane Addams's "progres- sive" commonplaces serve dating from her own time and place. As Addams re- lates in her most well-known book, Twenty Years at Hull-House, "I remember one socialist who habitually opened a very telling address he was in the habit of giv- ing on street corners, by holding me up as an awful example to his fellow social- ists, as one of their number 'who had been caught in the toils of capitalism"' (37). As a result of her pacifism and public arguments against World War I, many dis- missed Addams as a socialist until she won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1931, four years before her death. In the 196os, as political activism grew, so did criticism of Addams's liberal-progressive commonplaces. Against this criticism, Daniel Lev- ine asserts in a biography titled Jane Addams and the Liberal Tradition, "Jane Add- ams was not simply melioristic; she was radical, and a part of the radical tradi- tion in America" (xiv). Levine further explains that she was radical for her time in the sense that she "want[ed] to change a lot of important things rapidly" (xv). Quoting Addams, Levine further defends Addams as a different "sort of social- ist": "She did not want victory for one side in the class war; she wanted to elimi- nate class warfare. She did not believe that one's relation to the means of pro- duction determined one's ideology, but that changed moral ideas could alter the means of production .... She was simply a utopian or Christian socialist, in an JANE ADDAMS'S SETTLEMENT HOUSE RHETORIC 73 American version. She asked for moral change before anything else. She asked for a 'social ethic' to take the place of an individualistic ethic" (xvii). In other words, Addams called on higher principles to make her argument, and moral ideals would necessarily lead to social reform according to the lines of this pro- gressive argument. Instead of Levine defining exactly what "sort of socialist" Addams is, he names some of her liberal commonplaces: "Human beings had to be redefined as basically Good-not in the Lockean sense of being rationally able to perceive their own self-interest, but in the Rousseauean sense of possessing a fundamen- tal nature which ought to be nurtured rather than repressed." Out of this tenet, Addams's "social ethic" emerges "in which each person would feel a sense of re- sponsibility, not just towards himself and his immediate family but towards society as a whole." These commonplaces lead to Addams's focus on the envi- ronment in which individuals live: "society had a responsibility to provide an en- vironment in which human beings could flourish" (91). In this way, Levine un- derstands Addams's liberalism as both transformative and radical: "What could be more radical in the United States than a challenge to individual self-seeking? What could be more radical than a challenge to Lockean liberalism?" Levine fi- nally argues that Addams is an integral part of "an American radical tradition" that cannot look to "European Marxism" for its defining terms: "When one ap- proaches the matter correctly, one finds radicalism in the most unlikely of places: within the American liberal tradition" (245). In Pluralism and Progressives, Hull House and the New Immigrants, 1890-1919, Rivka Shpak Lissak finds that though Addams's liberalism was better than its contemporary alternatives in social thought and practice, it relies on the same prejudicial premise, "an attempt to present a humanistic and democratic alter- native to what Liberal Progressives considered to be the Americanizers' inhuman and undemocratic concept of assimilation." Lissak identifies the most thorough articulation of the liberal progressivism that Addams also represents in Old World Traits Transplanted by sociologist William I. Thomas (7). Thomas was among the men of the Chicago School who shared social ideals with Addams, and he was also her personal friend (see Deegan). Thomas expresses the somewhat contra- dictory view that even though assimilation is both "inevitable" and "desirable," immigrants have "the right to preserve [cultural] values" (qtd. in Lissak 25, 27). But "their languages, customs, and traditions" properly belong "within the fam- ily circle" (27). Both Thomas and Addams advocate assimilation as necessary for equality: "For Thomas as for Addams social democracy meant eliminating so- 74 MELISSA J. FIESTA cial, national, and cultural barriers among newcomers and between them and native-born Americans" (26). Like Americanizers who found no place for cultur- ally different citizens in America, then, liberal progressives rely on "an underly- ing cultural consensus" (176). Against Americanizers, however, liberal progres- sives challenge the premise that immigrants can become fully enfranchised as American citizens: "In the absence of essential cultural differences, no contradic- tion existed" (27). These early-twentieth-century liberal progressives sought to integrate immigrants into American mainstream society by "a two-stage process of assimilation: temporary segregation followed by the disintegration of the eth- nic community" (30). Thus they were not cultural pluralists in the sense that we apply this term today: "Liberal Progressive considered pluralism merely a socio- cultural fact, a description of the present situation, not a norm or their future vi- sion of America" (173). Addams's rhetoric unfortunately belies the early-twentieth-century anxiety that America would cease to cohere as the cultural constitution of the nation be- came increasingly diverse. Addams was not a cultural pluralist in the way that Wilfred M. McClay describes her contemporary, philosopher Horace Kallen: "a German-Jewish immigrant and chief proponent of 'cultural pluralism,' [who] as- serted that American culture in the 1920s was best understood as a symphony orchestra, whose musical richness was enhanced precisely by the tonal distinc- tiveness of each of its members" (76). On the other hand, in her first settlement house rhetoric, "The Subjective Necessity for Social Settlements" (1892), Addams proposes "chorus" rather than "symphony" as her guiding metaphor for Hull- House: "It aims, in a measure, to lead whatever of social life its neighborhood may afford, to focus and give form to that life, to bring to bear upon it the results of cultivation and training; but it receives in exchange for the music of isolated voices the volume and strength of the chorus" (21). Addams was more concerned with solidarity through identifying collective interests of the entire human race than cultural distinctiveness: "the effort of a settlement in securing labor leg- islation is valuable largely in proportion as it can make both the working men and the rest of the community conscious of solidarity, and insists upon similari- ties rather than differences" ("Function" 52). When Addams refers to "race," she means the entire human race: "The effort to keep the movement to some con- sciousness of its historic value in the race development is perhaps no more dif- ficult than to keep before its view the larger ethical aims" ("Labor Movement" 198). She thus erases race as a category to identify collective interests. To be sure, the invidious settlement house commonplaces that recur in Add- JANE ADDAMS'S SETTLEMENT HOUSE RHETORIC 75 ams's rhetoric revolve around an "overmastering belief that all that is noblest in life is common to men as men, in order to accentuate the likenesses and ignore the differences which are found among the people whom the Settlement constantly brings into juxtaposition" ("Subjective Necessity" 20-21). Addams idealistically believed that conflicts based on race and culture would cease as a result of the cultural mediation of Hull-House inhabitants: "Their neighbors are held apart by differences of race and language which the residents can more easily overcome" (23). People of color were at the greatest disadvantage in settlement house rhet- oric because their racial differences could not be masked simply by accepting the behavior patterns of the dominant American culture (see, e.g., Woods and Kennedy 336). When race becomes a matter of cultural behavior modification, it can be ignored as a factor in economic struggles, as Addams herself suggests with her description of "Professor DuBois at Hull-House on Lincoln's Birthday" when the community members present "listened with respect and enthusiasm to a scholarly address . .. with apparently no consciousness of that race difference which color seems to accentuate so absurdly" (Twenty Years 168). To simultaneously achieve democracy and diversity, Americans must aspire to a different kind of ideal, however, where different and often competing loci can coinhabit. The major advance in Addams's argument against nativists and Amer- icanizers, according to Lissak, is "that newcomers were motivated by the high ideals America stood for, rather than economic considerations" (26-27). McClay, similarly, sees a shift in the early twentieth century from the homogenous culture of "English-speaking Protestants" to a high culture based on abstract ideas as an advance for the emergence of a culturally diverse America, which "came to be defined increasingly in terms of large ideas for which it stands-such as liberty, equality, and economic opportunity" (75-76). These abstractions offer both lib- eratory and hegemonic potential as either inventional or static commonplaces. As abstractions, these defining American commonplaces promise more inven- tional possibilities and the sustenance of difference rather than the promotion of a uniform culture, i.e., a culture predicated on prejudice because it must as- sume a uniformity in order to define itself. But as these abstractions become in- terpreted in the same ways from elite perspectives, they, too, become uniform, static commonplaces. For this reason McClay poses the question, "How much of a uniform national culture does American society really need?" (77). In this dis- cussion McClay also distinguishes between an "older" progressive liberalism that "emphasized the cultivation of social solidarity and national consciousness and regarded the individualistic tendencies of liberalism as a potential threat to other 76 MELISSA J. FIESTA valuable goals" and "the later liberalism, which proposed that individual rights trump all other considerations" (82). Addams's rhetoric illustrates how this earlier progressive liberalism also ben- efited from pragmatism, enhancing the liberatory potential of American values as loci for invention and revision. Feminist philosopher Charlene Haddock Sei- gfried argues that the advances in Addams's social thought can only be under- stood within the tradition of American pragmatism: "because Addams's philo- sophical orientation is American pragmatism (in fact, she is one of its original theorists), she can easily be misunderstood if interpreted through other philo- sophical orientations or none at all" (xii). But Seigfried distinguishes Addams's pragmatism among that of her contemporaries for its class consciousness: "What Addams has been calling a perplexity that the democratic impulse forces upon us, others have called consciousness of capitalistic exploitation" (xxii). She attributes her class consciousness to a gendered perspective (xv). Importantly, Addams conceives of a class consciousness that recommends different courses of action, attitudes, and rhetorical strategies based on positions of power. The "atti- tude of humility that remains troubled as we journey through life with those who are less well-off" that she advocates for elite intellectuals like herself, she does not advocate for exploited workers (xxxii). As the rhetorical theory of Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca suggests, Add- ams's pragmatic loci offer inventional sites that liberal-progressive loci cannot. These loci, on the other hand, depend on an experiential method that interro- gates an individual's experience in relation to collective experience: "As beings who have memories, habits, beliefs, and values, we bring already established moral judgments to moral inquiries, but they function as resources only." Fur- ther, pragmatic loci are inventional because they promote continuous revision in response to the inclusion of more and more diverse experiences; they also justify what counts as a moral value among interlocutors who collectively arrange and rationalize the importance of particular values: "[I]t is not sufficient for some- one to claim that any particular good or moral value is universal" (Seigfried xxii). One becomes moral in this sense first by having "compassion" and identifying interests larger than oneself when "individuals ... identity their well-being with that of their social group." This identification is but a first step toward a "social morality" that means extending oneself farther and farther beyond one's imme- diate cultural group, "extending compassion for one's group to ever more distant groups" (xv). As a result, ethical individuals will continually face challenges to previously held values, value hierarchies, and loci. Pragmatists refer to this chal- JANE ADDAMS'S SETTLEMENT HOUSE RHETORIC 77 lenge as a "perplexity," which "reveals a rupture with conventional attitudes, be- liefs, and practices." They believe that in a diverse society individuals will neces- sarily experience "the perplexities we feel in the normal course of our everyday life" as we come into contact with others who hold different "beliefs, habits, and interests." These contacts will result in "clashes" that offer opportunities for the arousal of "social sympathy," which is necessary for the moral development of in- dividuals and American society (xxiii). Addams's Class-Conscious Commonplaces The disagreement over Addams's rhetoric of social justice partially results from the conflation of her liberal-progressive commonplaces with pragmatic commonplaces by post-196os scholars who understand liberal-progressive com- monplaces differently from Addams. But Addams herself also conflates working- class and liberal-progressive commonplaces to the extent that it is difficult to pin down exactly what she means by working-class consciousness. She somewhat contradictorily seeks to both establish working-class consciousness as a viable category of experience and to transcend class by valuing a "wide humanitarian- ism" over class interests. In Addams's view, only "high motives," not material interests, can drive what must be "the continuous labor for human equality" (Twenty Years 26). Importantly, then, Addams seeks a class consciousness that is not for only the working class. She simultaneously hopes to bring working- class consciousness to the intellectual elite and intellectual consciousness to the working class. Throughout her early settlement house rhetoric from its first ar- ticulation in "The Subjective Necessity for Social Settlements" (1892) to her most popular book, Twenty Years at Hull-House (1910), Addams depends on common- places of interdependency and reciprocity to define class interests, suggesting that the classes can only be defined in relation to the other: "the dependence of the classes on each other is reciprocal; and that as the social relation is essen- tially a reciprocal relation, it gives a form of expression that has peculiar value" (Twenty Years 59). Addams later describes the role of the Hull-House residents not as creating class cohesion but as promoting cultural connections among peo- ple of different classes: "They feel that they should promote a culture which will not set its possessor aside in a class with others like himself, but which will, on the contrary, connect him with all sorts of people by his ability to understand them as well as by his power to supplement their present surroundings with the historic background" (285). Acknowledgments I am grateful to the Miami University College of Arts and Sciences for providing a generous summer grant that made Who Says? possible. Specifically, Pete Martin, Lee Sanders, and John Skillings all supported this project and deemed it worthy of summer support. Thanks, also, to Lynn Bloom, Jim Catano, Cindy Lewiecki-Wilson, Tom Miller, Irv Peck- ham, Kate Ronald, John Tassoni, Tilly Warnock, Ed White, and Mor- ris Young, giving colleagues who offered guidance and advice about the writing and editing processes. Special thanks go to two friends and mentors from the Youngs- town State University Center for Working-Class Studies, Sherry Linkon and Linda Strom, who introduced me to the rich interdisciplinary field of working-class studies. The smart and dedicated participants of the CCCC Working-Class Studies Special Interest Group and its listserv provided engaging discussion and debate. Ken McAllister opened my eyes to new theoretical possibilities. Mike Rose taught me that scholar- ship can matter. Finally, Lew Caccia, my good friend and collaborator, was a constant sounding board and voice of reason. The University of Pittsburgh Press has been supportive of this project from the beginning and I owe David Bartholomae, Jean Fer- guson Carr, Deborah Meade, Cynthia Miller, Nina Sadd, and Kendra Boileau a hearty thanks. Last but certainly not least, this book would not exist without the wisdom, guidance, and red pen of Nicole Smithson. Vii 78 MELISSA J. FIESTA Thus the "common good" transcends class interest according to Addams: "The settlement is pledged to insist upon the unity of life, to gather to itself the sense of righteousness to be found in its neighborhood, and as far as possible in its city; to work towards the betterment not of one kind of people or class of peo- ple, but for the common good" (Twenty Years 203). Addams is concerned both with those who refuse to identify with class and those who only identify with class: "All sense of injury must fall away and be absorbed in the consciousness of a common brotherhood. If to insist upon the universality of the best is the func- tion of the settlement, nowhere is its influence more needed than in the labor movement, where there is constant temptation towards a class warfare" (204). Foremost, she works against class warfare and pursues higher ideals of class consciousness as the ethical principles that will make viable connections among all classes: "A class working for a class, and against another class, implies that within itself there should be trades working for trades, individuals working for individuals. The universal character of the movement is gone from the start, and cannot be caught until an all-embracing ideal is accepted" (Twenty Years 202). She idealistically wants people to give up their selfish interests to improve the status of all people and to realize democracy not only locally or nationally but globally. She describes her own consciousness as a young girl upon the death of Italian revolutionary Joseph Mazzini: "I was heartily ashamed of my meagre no- tion of patriotism, and I came out of the room exhilarated with the conscious- ness that impersonal and international relations are actual facts and not mere phrases" (14). Addams identifies the primary barrier to American class consciousness as the reluctance of American citizens to admit that we "are broken up into classes." She suggests that the reason for this denial is that American citizens hold onto the ideal of "democracy," and out of patriotism do not want to admit how class permeates democracy in practice (Twenty Years 27). She finds that class con- sciousness has historically emerged more slowly in America than in England as a result of "the early pioneer life [that] had made social distinctions impossible" (25). Addams proposes that the "prosperous people" who lived through the "pi- oneer" days as well as her "neighbors who were crowded into the city" refuse to recognize "the economic determinism" that results in "class consciousness." For both groups of people, however, the denial of class consciousness results from working conditions that prevent the study of how these conditions have been historically constituted: "The former were stoutly unconscious of any classes in America, and the class consciousness of immigrants was fast being broken into JANE ADDAMS'S SETTLEMENT HOUSE RHETORIC 79 by the necessity of making new and unprecedented connections in the industrial life all about them" (125). For Addams, class consciousness ultimately means recognizing the value of one's work and life: She wants "[t]he man in the factory, as well as the man with the hoe" to "know what it is all about." She finds that it has become more diffi- cult for the working person to recognize the value in his or her work as a result of industrialization: "We may well regret the passing of the time when the variety of work performed in the unspecialized workshop naturally stimulated the intelli- gence of the workingmen and brought them into contact both with the raw ma- terial and the finished product." The work of the laborer has become specialized to the extent that the purpose of the work cannot be ascertained by either the individual or mass. The purpose of education, then, should "give [the worker] what may be an offset from the over-specialization of his daily work, to supply him with general information and to insist that he shall be a cultivated member of society with a consciousness of his industrial and social value." Addams wants the worker to know not only the meaning of his work but also the meaning of his life: "As sad a sight as an old hand-loom worker in a factory attempting to make his clumsy machine compete with the flying shuttles about him, is a working- man equipped with knowledge so meager that he can get no meaning into his life nor sequence between his acts and the far-off results" (Democracy and Social Ethics 93). The responsibility of the class-conscious educator is to promote historic rec- ognition of one's worth. As Addams notes, however, even the "advanced educa- tor" becomes "the middle-class moralist" when he "urge[s] upon the working man the specialized virtues of thrift, industry, and sobriety-all virtues pertain- ing to the individual" (Democracy and Social Ethics 93-94). Addams seeks class- conscious educators who are willing to assist in the development in "working people," of both "a social consciousness of the value of his work" and a "historic conception of the development of industry and the relation of his individual work to it" (94). The settlement house offers an extra-institutional site to promote the con- sciousness of both working people and educators. Addams gives her most de- tailed discussion of how settlements beneficially assist in the development of working-class consciousness in "The Settlement as a Factor in the Labor Move- ment" (1895). She argues that the settlement house necessarily must involve itself in the labor movement to fulfill its mission of improving the lives of its neighbors: "If the settlement, then, is convinced that in industrial affairs lack of organiza- 80 MELISSA J. FIESTA tion tends to the helplessness of the isolated worker, and is a menace to the en- tire community, then it is bound to pledge itself to industrial organization, and to look about it for the lines upon which to work" (187). She qualifies the support of settlement houses for trade unions, however: "Trades-unionism, in spite of the many pits into which it has fallen, has the ring of altruism about it. It is clearly the duty of the settlement to keep it to its best ideal." Settlement houses, then, should promote the "altruism" of trade unions over their class interests (188). One of the trade union's best ideals, according to Addams, is "fraternal co-operation" (187). In this context, working-class consciousness means solidarity: "The trades- unions say to each workingman, 'Associate yourself with the fellow-workers in your trade."' Addams agrees with the trade unions that it is necessary for working- people to recognize their collective interests: "It is the only possible way to pre- vent cuts in the rate of wages, and to regulate the hours of work. Capital is or- ganized, and has influence with which to secure legislation in its behalf. We are scattered and feeble because we do not work together." But she also wants work- ing people to do more than work for themselves and the trade unions with which they most readily identify: "This keeping to the ideal is not so easy. .... Of the two women's unions organized at Hull-House, and of the four which have regularly held their meetings there, as well as those that come to us during strikes at vari- ous times, I should venture to say of only one of them that it is filled with the new spirit" (188). With Hull-House, Addams conceives a site where diverse people collectively organize not only for economic and social benefit but also for the progress of the human race. Furthermore, she believes that the organization of working people offers an extraordinary opportunity to further democracy because people with very different life experiences will identify with one another as a result of class interests: "Working-people among themselves are being forced into a social de- mocracy from the pressure of the economic situation. It presents an educating and broadening aspect of no small value." For example, she describes how cloak makers finally organized at Hull-House in the spring of 1892, an event she char- acterizes as "a spectacle only to be found in an American city, under the latest conditions of trade-life" ("Settlement as a Factor" 190). According to Addams, "The meeting was a revelation to all present" in that prejudices among differ- ent groups of people were confronted." Even though "[w]ages had been stead- ily falling, and there was a great depression among the workers of the trade," two different factions of workers could not find a way even to discuss collective organization. These distinct groups were made up of skilled Russian-German JANE ADDAMS'S SETTLEMENT HOUSE RHETORIC 81 tailors, "many of whom could command not even broken English," and un- trained American-Irish women "who had no conscience in regard to the wages they accepted." The women had not yet gained a working-class consciousness: "The men had urged organization for several years, but were unable to secure it among the women." Despite the exploitative working conditions they shared, cultural and gender differences had resulted in their literal inability to find an ac- ceptable meeting ground: "One apparently insurmountable obstacle had been the impossibility of securing any room, save one over a saloon, that was large enough and cheap enough for a general meeting. To a saloon hall the women had steadfastly refused to go, save once, when, under the pressure of a strike, the girls in a certain shop had met with the men from the same shop, over one of the more decent saloons, only to be upbraided by their families upon their return home. They of course refused ever to go again" (189). Hull-House provided both a literal and figurative meeting ground for "two sets of people [who] were held together only by the pressure upon their trade." As Addams notes, "They were separated by strong racial differences, by language, by nationality, by religion, by mode of life, by every possible social distinction." She characterizes their "in- terpreter," who "stood between the two sides of the room," as "somewhat help- less." The interpreter realized both "the economic necessity for combination" and "the mutual interdependence; but he was baffled by the social aspect of the situation" (19o). The Hull-House residents mediated the exigency of this situa- tion and many other similar ones in ways that the interpreter could not. Trade- union organizing at Hull-House, then, according to Addams, serves the altruistic motive of helping people from different cultural backgrounds to overcome their prejudices: "when a South Italian Catholic is forced by the very exigencies of the situation to make friends with an Austrian Jew representing another nationality and another religion, both of which cut into all the most cherished prejudices, he finds it harder to utilize them a second time and gradually loses them" (Twenty Years 202). Addams sees the inhabitants of Hull-House as standing between opposing groups and explaining various perspectives and how they emerge out of mate- rial experience. Hull-House inhabitants have an ethical obligation to understand that "no one so poignantly realizes the failures in the social structure as the man at the bottom, who has been most directly in contact with those failures and has suffered the most" (Twenty Years 122). This understanding of how material con- ditions affect consciousness arises from listening to the reasons why people are "most easily frightened," as in the case of the working girls who are "first to ca- 82 MELISSA J. FIESTA pitulate" in a strike because they are "paying board" and "afraid of being put out if they fell too far behind" (90). With Addams's assistance, Mary Kenny, who was president of the first trade union for working women in Chicago, founded the Jane Club in 1891 to support working girls during times of strike (34). Addams did not presume to know what she could do to assist the trade unions, as evi- denced by Kenny's account of their first conversation, "She asked me questions about our Trade Union. 'Is there anything I can do to help your organization?' she said. I couldn't believe I had heard right" (35). Addams was also well aware of how a working person in her audience affected her own "consciousness." For this reason, she "never addressed a Chicago audience on the subject of the Settlement and its vicinity without inviting a neighbor to go with me, that [she] might curb any hasty generalization by the consciousness that [she] had an auditor who knew the conditions more intimately than [she] could hope to do" (63). On a practical and immediate level among Addams's neighbors, working-class consciousness meant awareness of how working conditions could and should be improved. As Kenny put it, "Small wages and the meagre way Mother and I had been living had been making me grow more and more class conscious" (Twenty Years 34). Addams was making these arguments, though, among powerful elites who did not have to experience the rampant abysmal working conditions for them- selves: "I insisted that it was better to have the men work half a day for seventy-five cents than a whole day for a dollar, better that they should earn three dollars in two days than in three days." She did not hesitate to participate in her own kind of strike to make her point: "I resigned from the street-cleaning committee in despair of making the rest of the committee understand that, as our real object was not street cleaning but the help of the unemployed" (107). She suggested that the Hull- House inhabitants' "harrowing consciousness of the difference in economic condi- tion between ourselves and our neighbors" resulted from living alongside many whose experience differs as a result of class (89). Addams's stance on the material conditions of her neighbors is much clearer than her stance on the labor movement. As in the case of immigrants from dif- ferent cultures coming together to identify collective interests, Addams under- stands the role of Hull-House residents as mediating between two opposing poles in the labor movement-the capitalist "who held that 'business is business'" and "the radicals, who claimed that nothing could be done to really moralize the in- dustrial situation until society should be reorganized" (Twenty Years 122).2 Even though Addams concedes that "many shades of opinion and many modifications of philosophy" exist between "these two divergent points of view," she uses these JANE ADDAMS'S SETTLEMENT HOUSE RHETORIC 83 two sides to "illustrate how difficult a settlement finds it to be liberal in tone, and to decide what immediate measures are in the line of advantage to the labor movement and which ones are against it" ("Labor Movement" 192). Rather than adopting either of these "party" lines, Addams seeks "some underlying principle upon which the settlement can stand." She searches for a tradition with which it would be "possible to make the slow appeal to the nobler fibre in men." Addams suggests that "Christianity" in its "more primitive [form] than either Catholicism or Protestantism" offers such "a tradition of what is just and right." It is the duty of the settlement house, then, to find "a line of ethics which its action ought to follow" and identify "the moral question involved" in labor disputes (194). Although progress was evident in the cross-cultural interactions promoted at Hull-House, Addams reflects, "The fact that the Settlement maintained avenues of intercourse with both sides seemed to give it opportunity for nothing but a re- alization of the bitterness and division along class lines" (Twenty Years 142). Nev- ertheless, she maintains her conviction that "the Settlement recognizes the need of cooperation, both with the radical and the conservative, and from the very na- ture of the case the Settlement cannot limit its friends to any one political party or economic school" (295). She refuses to be bought or bullied by either side: "I did not intend to be subsidized by millionaires, neither did I propose to be bul- lied by workingmen, and that I should state my honest opinion without consult- ing either of them" ("Labor Movement" 123). Addams sees her role as larger than that of negotiator between opposing roles, however. She believes that the settle- ment house aspires to the realization of higher principles, and as a result does not count itself as the friend of either party: "This desire to bear independent witness to social righteousness often resulted in a sense of compromise difficult to endure, and at many times it seemed to me that we were destined to alienate everybody." She suggests that it would have been easier simply "to accept the tenets of socialism, and conscientiously made effort, both by reading and by dis- cussions with comrades" (123). Like the socialists, she objects to the "industrial capitalists" just as much as "the feudal lord." But she disagrees "that the social relations thus established proceeds to create principles, ideas, and categories as merely historical and transitory products" (124). Addams envisions a uniquely American class consciousness that also thwarts individualist ambitions: "There is doubtless a tendency among the working men who reach leadership in the movement to yield to individual ambition, as there is among capitalists to regard class interests" ("Labor Movement" 198). Addams hopes, "As the labor movement grows older its leaders may catch the larger ethi- 84 MELISSA J. FIESTA cal view which genuine experience always gives; they may have a chance to act free from pressure of threat or ambition. They should have nothing to gain or lose, save as they rise or fall with their fellows." Addams argues that the greatest "motive-power" comes from "raising the mass" not "individual success" (200). When "class interests" are the only "motive-power," individuals too often "jus- tify themselves in the use of base measures, saying they have learned the lessons from the other side." When class is the only interest, "the settlement can logi- cally be of no value to either side" (201-2). In particular, she criticizes the labor movement for relying on that "prepon- derating force" known as "negative action." She objects to how "[u]nions use their power to frustrate the designs of the capitalists, to make trouble for cor- porations and the public, such as is involved, for instance, in a railroad strike" even as she concedes that historically these tactics have "seemed to be the only method of arresting attention to their demands; but in America, at least, [lab- orers] have come to trust [these methods] too far." She argues that this negative "attitude" is shortsighted: "A movement cannot be carried on by negating other acts; it must have a positive force, a driving and self-sustaining motive-power." Addams finds that such a "moral revolution cannot be accomplished by men who are held together merely because they are all smarting under a sense of in- jury and injustice, although it may be begun by them" ("Labor Movement" 194). Strikes are limited in the same way if based only on "anger" against how employ- ers have wronged workers. Addams, on the other hand, emphasizes the ethical aspects of a strike as "the binding together of the strikers in the ties of associa- tion and brotherhood, and attainment of a more democratic relation to the em- ployer" (202). Addams also more positively (re)defines the labor movement as "a concerted effort among the workers in all trades to obtain a more equitable distribution of the product, and to secure a more orderly existence for the laborers" ("La- bor Movement" 187). She concerns herself with positively organizing workers to "build up, associate, and unite" and, more importantly, to share a "common, col- lective faith" in order to achieve a "moral revolution." She argues against what she sees as the labor movement's "trace of its youth and immaturity" (194). Addams hopes to "promote peaceful industrial progress" in ways that ulti- mately jeopardize diverse working-class interests, however, by effacing "differ- ences in language, religion, and political experiences" (Twenty Years 157). She unequivocally believes that altruism will simply overcome these differences, ide- alistically holding "that the position of the power-holding classes-capitalists, as JANE ADDAMS'S SETTLEMENT HOUSE RHETORIC 85 we call them just now-is being gradually undermined by the disintegrating in- fluence of the immense fund of altruistic feeling with which society has become equipped." She further finds, "that it is within this fund of altruism that we find the motive force which is slowly enfranchising all classes and gradually insisting upon equality of condition and opportunity." In this way "it is clear that the la- bor movement is at the bottom an ethical movement, and a manifestation of the orderly development of the race" ("Labor Movement" 203). In Twenty Years at Hull-House, Addams attempts to make these positive labor arguments for a mainstream American audience. Unfortunately, this American settlement house rhetoric also demonstrates how Addams's class-conscious com- monplaces settle for, rather than disrupt, mainstream commonplaces. Addams claims to follow more of a topical than a chronological order in her autobiogra- phy in order to justify her loose connections between events based on her mem- ory: "It has unfortunately been necessary to abandon the chronological order in favor of the topical, for during the early years at Hull-House time seemed to af- ford a mere framework for certain lines of activity and I have found in writing this book, that after these activities have been recorded, I can scarcely recall the scaf- folding" (xxii). Taking topics as chapter titles, Addams "endeavors to trace the experiences through which various conclusions were forced." Addams's apology here also suggests that her "activities" became more fixed over the years after be- ing "recorded" (xxii). Addams similarly understands her "earliest impressions," on the other hand, as "formless but nevertheless settling into definite lines of fu- ture development." Her loci, then, tend to settle "into definite lines" even as she promotes activity and "future development" (1). For a new rhetorician who val- ues "the topical" as inventional loci that promotes "lines of activity," this method is more unfortunate rather than fortunate, however (xxii). Problematically, Add- ams seeks to serve all groups equally with the same commonplaces; to inspire a consciousness of "wide humanitarianism," which is itself a liberal-progressive commonplace (26). She assumes that American values are higher principles to which everyone can agree and justify with the same loci. Appealing to these uni- form higher principles also suggests a fixed, rather than an inventional, sense of loci. Thus Addams's loci, her justification for how equality may be realized by calling on higher moral principles, has been disputed for good reason. Throughout her life as a pragmatist and social activist, Addams discursively pursued what elites had previously excluded from social thought. In this way she worked toward the productive sustenance of competing differences even as her commonplaces simultaneously effaced differences, particularly those of race and 86 MELISSA J. FIESTA religion. Thus, Addams's rhetorical practice on behalf of working-class people reminds us that gains and losses in social justice can result from the same social activist rhetoric. Specifically, Addams's rhetorical commonplaces contribute a class consciousness that results in social change, that materially results in higher wages and better working conditions, and that thus demonstrates how ethical rhetoric accords with just social action. Addams's progressive commonplaces of- ten overtake those that reflect her class consciousness, however. As a result, her class-conscious commonplaces ultimately serve the social class hierarchy that could be effectively disrupted with commonplaces based on difference. NOTES 1. I take my definitions of working class and class consciousness from E. P. Thompson's history The Making ofthe English Working Class: "By class I understand an historical phenomenon, unifying a number of disparate and seemingly unconnected events, both in the raw material of experience and in consciousness" (9). Further, "class is a relationship, and not a thing" (11). While Thompson suggests a rhetorical view of his working-class history, he works as more of a historian than a historiographer: "More than this, the notion of class entails the notion of historical relationship. Like any other relationship, it is a fluency which evades analysis if we attempt to stop it dead at any given moment and anatomize its structure" (9). As a historiographer, I depart from his positivistic conception of class on the grounds that humans are always necessarily interpreting the facts, and these facts must be constituted with language: "I do not see class as a 'structure,' nor even as a 'category,' but as something which in fact happens (and can be shown to have happened) in human relationships" (9). At the same time, though, I want to recover his emphasis on the importance of understanding working-class consciousness not as an essentializing phenomenon that characterizes its practice in all times and places but as relationships among people in rhetorical situations at historic moments in particular places: "The class experience is largely determined by the productive relationships into which men are born-or enter involuntarily. Class-consciousness is the way in which these experiences are handled in cultural terms: embodied in traditions, value-systems, ideas, and institutional forms. If the experience appears as determined, class-consciousness does not" (lo). Understanding the ways in which class consciousness has historically resulted in agency for the working class is the primary reason that rhetoricians need to study conceptions of the working class and working-class consciousness in many different times and places. The development of a working-class rhetorical tradition further informs a more just social practice in our own times and places. 2. Addams clearly identifies the interests and limitations of what she sees as the opposing poles of the individualist and the socialist. She describes "individualists" as those who "insist that we will never secure equal distribution until we have equality of opportunity; that all State and city franchises, all privilege of railroad, bank, and corporation, must be removed before competition will be absolutely free, and the man with his labor alone to offer will have a fair chance with the man who offers anything else." She recognizes the rhetorical appeal of the individualist: "[t]here is much in our inheritance that responds to this, and he has followers among workingmen and among capitalists." (191). She characterizes the "scientific socialist," on the other hand, who "reads his Karl Marx, and sees a gradual and inevitable absorption of all the means of production JANE ADDAMS'S SETTLEMENT HOUSE RHETORIC 87 and of all capital by one entity, called the community." She prejudicially describes the socialist as "usually a German or a Russian, with a turn for economic discussion, and widely read" (192). 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