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Comparto con mis lectores este interesante capítulo del libro de la historiadora Josefina L. Martínez, ¡No somos esclavas! Huelgas de mujeres trabajadoras, ayer y hoy . Esta obra analiza el papel que han jugado las mujeres en el desarrollo del movimiento obrero y, en especial, en huelgas a nivel global. En el caso específico del capítulo que comparto, Martínez enfoca una huelga en Lawrence (Massachussets) llevada a cabo en marzo de 1912. Aquellos interesados en la historia obrera, de género y de la intersección entre ambas, podrían encontrar muy útil este capítulo.


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Manifestación en Lawrence (Massachusetts) durante la huelga de 1912.
LAWRENCE HISTORY CENTER PHOTOGRAPH COLLECTION

La huelga de Pan y Rosas

Josefina L. Martínez

Ctxt.com     16/01/2021

Desde que comenzó la pandemia hemos visto en varios países la irrupción de luchas de mujeres trabajadoras cruzadas por la explotación y los agravios del racismo y las migraciones. El grito de las jornaleras contra los abusos en el campo, la protesta de las enfermeras y limpiadoras en los hospitales, las trabajadoras del hogar contra la esclavitud moderna o las vecinas autoorganizadas para frenar los desahucios. Estas experiencias muestran la potencialidad de apostar por la construcción de un feminismo de clase, alejado tanto del punitivismo moralista de las disputas en redes sociales como de los techos de cristal del feminismo meritocrático.

El libro ¡No somos esclavas! Huelgas de mujeres trabajadoras, ayer y hoy recupera algunas de estas luchas, sus dolores y también sus deseos de emancipación. Pero el hilo rojo y morado que entrevera género y clase no comienza hoy. Por eso la primera parte está dedicada a huelgas de mujeres en la historia: la huelga de Pan y Rosas en 1912 en EE.UU., la revuelta de las mujeres contra el aumento de los precios en Barcelona, Málaga y Alicante en 1918, las huelgas de las inquilinas en las primeras décadas del siglo XX o las luchas de las trabajadoras textiles contra el Corte Inglés en la Transición española. Varios capítulos están basados en artículos publicados en los últimos años en CTXT, ahora reeditados, junto con historias nuevas. Para la publicación del libro, ilustrado por Emma Gascó, se ha lanzado una campaña de crowdfunding en Verkami. Presentamos aquí, como adelanto editorial, el capítulo sobre la huelga de Pan y Rosas, una de las más importantes de la historia de la clase obrera en Estados Unidos. Protagonizada por decenas de miles de trabajadoras textiles, jóvenes, inmigrantes y precarias, se desarrolló en Lawrence entre el 11 de enero y el 14 de marzo de 1912.

La mañana del 11 de enero el frío cortaba la respiración en Lawrence, Massachusetts. Antes de las 6 de la mañana, miles de bocas tragaron pequeños trozos de pan en cocinas oscuras, las mujeres alimentaron a los niños y se calzaron los abrigos. Minutos después, los portales escupían figuras que se multiplicaban al doblar la esquina; polleras, sombreros y botines cruzaban puentes y aceleraban el paso, mientras el humo de las chimeneas y el chillido de los silbatos indicaba el camino de tan temprana procesión. El torrente se precipitaba por calles y avenidas, bifurcándose en los portones de cada fábrica: la Everett Mills, la Pacific Mills, la Washington Mills, unas 30 en total. Lawrence abría sus fauces, enormes mandíbulas mecánicas, trituradoras de ladrillo y metal, para engullir esa masa de carne y nervios, músculos y cerebros. En cada taller, los hilos se tensaban y los brazos se acoplaban a las máquinas, iniciando el traqueteo infernal que iba a martillear los tímpanos durante 10 horas.

Portada del libro. Ilustración: Emma Gascó

La ciudad había sido fundada en 1845 por la Asociación de empresarios de Boston en un lote de tierras despobladas de Nueva Inglaterra. Abbot Lawrence la había imaginado como un modelo ideal de laboriosidad y puritanismo donde las jóvenes solo se ocuparían unos años en la confección, hasta que llegara la edad de casarse y estuvieran listas para engendrar hijos devotos. Cuarenta años después, las ‘chicas de Lawrence’ seguían trabajando con la espalda doblada 14 horas al día en talleres mugrientos, pariendo hijos que entraban a trabajar antes de tener un solo pelo en la caraHacia 1910, Lawrence se transformó en uno de los centros de la industria textil norteamericana –sus fábricas procesaban el 25% del total del tejido de lana en Estados Unidos–, una urbe de casi 86.000 habitantes, en su mayoría trabajadores y trabajadoras no cualificadas que llegaban en oleadas desde el sur de Italia, Polonia, Lituania, Grecia, Francia, Bélgica, Alemania y Rusia para abastecer la creciente demanda de mano de obra. En su Informe sobre la huelga de los trabajadores textiles de Lawrence de 1912, el Gobierno Federal indicaba que al menos la mitad de la población mayor de 14 años se ocupaba en la industria textil de lana y algodón y más del 80% de la población era extranjera.

Ese día invernal, sin embargo, debajo de la rutina aparente, circulaba una potente corriente subterránea, una tensión que se transmitía en las miradas, en frases intercambiadas en diferentes lenguas, en rostros endurecidos. Las polacas fueron las primeras. 200 mujeres que, al recibir la paga semanal y comprobar que les habían bajado el salario, estallaron con furia y pararon la producción. Bajaron los brazos y con esa declaración de inmovilidad, dejando caer hilos y agujas, condenaron a las máquinas a su impotencia de cacharros sin alma. Con ese gesto, iniciaron una huelga que iba a ser imparable.  Short Pay, short pay! All out! ¡Menos salario, todas afuera! Durante 63 días, trabajadoras y trabajadores inmigrantes sostuvieron una huelga que desafió a las corporaciones textiles más importantes de Estados Unidos, enfrentó a los gobiernos, a la policía y la milicia armada, a los medios de comunicación conservadores y al clero reaccionario, hasta conseguir un triunfo.

La lucha tuvo varios hitos: la creación de un comité de huelga, con 56 miembros, donde estaban representadas más de veinte comunidades étnicas y nacionales; la organización de cocinas populares que garantizaron dos comidas diarias a miles de huelguistas y sus familias; una caja de resistencia que recibió aportes desde todo el país; los piquetes móviles de las mujeres para burlar a la policía. Y lo que quizás sea el evento más conocido: el “éxodo de los niños”, cuando las trabajadoras enviaron en tren a cientos de sus hijos hacia otras ciudades, para ser alimentados y cuidados por familias solidarias durante la huelga.

Al parecer, los días previos al 11 de enero ya había circulado el rumor de la huelga en varios idiomas. El disparador fue una reducción salarial de unos pocos centavos en las nóminas. Una ley reciente establecía la reducción de la jornada laboral para mujeres y menores de edad, que debía pasar de 56 a 54 horas semanales. Y como en la industria textil la mayoría eran mujeres, tenía un gran impacto en la ciudad. Los empresarios aceptaron recortar la jornada de trabajo, pero a cambio redujeron también los salarios, no pensaban perder ni un céntimo en esta operación.

20 centavos equivalían a varias barras de pan, pero fue mucho más que eso lo que desencadenó el conflicto. Según la Comisión del Trabajo de Massachusetts, el salario mínimo que necesitaba una familia obrera para sobrevivir era de 8,28 dólares por semana, mientras un tercio de los hogares cobraba por debajo de esa cifra, menos de siete dólares. Por un piso con tres piezas, se pagaba entre dos y tres dólares semanales; el salario no alcanzaba. Si eras abogado o cura, tenías una esperanza de vida de 64 años, pero si eras una trabajadora textil, con suerte podías superar los 40 años. Eran frecuentes las enfermedades respiratorias, provocadas por la inhalación de partículas de algodón y productos tóxicos. A esto se sumaba un récord nacional de accidentes laborales: brazos amputados, dedos arrancados, piernas machacadas. La pujante industria norteamericana se alimentaba de sangre fresca, y no era una metáfora.

Cuando se supo que las polacas habían bloqueado la producción, miles de trabajadoras se reunieron espontáneamente fuera de las plantas, gritando: “¡Todas afuera!”. En minutos, una lluvia de piedras y trozos de hielo volaron hacia las ventanas, una buena forma de llamar la atención de quienes todavía dudaban. Al día siguiente, las trabajadoras se dirigieron al salón de la asociación franco-belga, constituyeron el comité de huelga y pidieron ayuda a la IWW (Industrial Workers of the World). Este era un sindicato militante y combativo que, a diferencia de la conservadora central AFL, organizaba a los trabajadores no cualificados, los más precarios, los afroamericanos y las mujeres. La IWW enviaba a sus mejores organizadores, los wobblys, a todos los puntos del país para apoyar las huelgas y organizar las cajas de resistencia.

Enseguida, el comité de huelga lanzó un mensaje a las trabajadoras y trabajadores de Lawrence: “Ahora que la asociación de los capitalistas ha mostrado la unidad de todos nuestros adversarios, os llamamos como hermanos y hermanas a unir vuestras manos junto con nosotros en este gran movimiento. Nuestra causa es justa… Trabajadores y trabajadoras, dejad vuestros martillos, tirad vuestras herramientas, dejad que las máquinas se paren, que la energía deje de hacer girar las ruedas y los telares, dejad la maquinaria, apagad los fuegos, paralizad las plantas, paralizad la ciudad”.

Pájaros de fuego, chicas rebeldes

Las investigadoras Anne F. Mattina y Domenique Ciavattone señalan que los tres ingredientes claves para el triunfo de la huelga fueron el papel de la IWW, las redes de solidaridad creadas por las organizaciones nacionales de inmigrantes y el activismo militante de las mujeres obreras.

One Big Union: Ireland and the Wobbly World | Irish Centre for the  Histories of Labour & Class, NUI GalwayElizabeth Gurley Flinn fue una de las principales organizadoras de la huelga. La ‘Chica Rebelde’, como se la conocía popularmente, tenía 21 años cuando llegó a Lawrence, enviada por la IWW. Hija de socialistas irlandeses, militaba desde muy joven. Durante la huelga de Lawrence, organizó reuniones especiales para las mujeres, tomando en cuenta las dificultades que tenían para organizarse. Lo explicaba así: “Las mujeres querían hacer piquetes. Eran huelguistas, tanto como esposas y valientes luchadoras”. Otra organizadora destacada era Annie Walzenback, de 34 años. Había ingresado en las fábricas textiles cuando tenía 14. Hablaba inglés, alemán, polaco y yiddish. Era una agitadora y organizadora de los piquetes diarios, junto a sus dos hermanas. Se dice que una noche, 2.000 mujeres la acompañaron hasta su casa después de una manifestación, solo para asegurarse de que llegara bien y no fuera detenida por la policía, que la tenía fichada. Finalmente, la noche del 15 de febrero fue trasladada directamente desde su cama a la cárcel por las fuerzas policiales.

El papel de estos experimentados organizadores y organizadoras de la IWW fue fundamental para la lucha que sacudió a Lawrence, pero la fuerza de propulsión brotaba de la rebelión de las trabajadoras inmigrantes. Esas mujeres jugaron un papel crucial por su presencia en múltiples espacios: en las fábricas, en los piquetes callejeros y en los barrios. Allí mantenían redes, tejidas durante años, cuando intercambiaban con sus vecinas un poco de comida o se ayudaban para cuidar a los niños. Durante la huelga, aquellos contactos permitieron que la información diaria circulara de casa en casa, en tiempos en que no había redes sociales ni teléfonos móviles.

Tan solo un año antes, muchas trabajadoras habían comentado entre ellas, con los ojos llenos de rabia y dolor, los acontecimientos ocurridos en la fábrica Triangle Shirwaist de Nueva York, cuando un incendio causó la muerte de 146 trabajadoras. Cuando comenzó ese incendio, las operarias que estaban en el octavo piso pudieron escapar, pero en el noveno las mujeres se dieron cuenta demasiado tarde de lo que ocurría. 50 trabajadoras se lanzaron por las ventanas huyendo del humo abrasador y murieron por el impacto: pájaros de fuego. Otras fueron aplastadas en las escaleras de incendio o en el hueco del ascensor. Y el resto murieron asfixiadas y quemadas. Todo esto ocurrió en menos de media hora. Una verdadera tragedia causada por la codicia patronal, que conmovió a la clase trabajadora de este a oeste. Días después, 400.000 personas marcharon en una procesión de homenaje a las mujeres de Triangle. En su mayoría, se trataba de jóvenes trabajadoras e inmigrantes, muy parecidas a las que unos meses después se lanzarían a la huelga en Massachusetts. Parecía como si todo ese dolor acumulado hubiera explotado en Lawrence, desatando la huelga.

Flashback Photo: The 1912 Bread and Roses Strike - New England Historical  Society

Los mítines multitudinarios se traducían en simultáneo a 30 idiomas, superando las divisiones étnicas y nacionales al interior de la clase obrera. Desde siempre, las patronales habían utilizado esas diferencias para enemistar a unos trabajadores contra otros, debilitando su fuerza colectiva. Pero ahora eso ya no funcionaba. Las mujeres descubrieron la táctica de formar piquetes móviles para desbordar a las fuerzas policiales y a las milicias armadas. Todos los días marchaban en largas cadenas humanas, con los brazos entrelazados, cortejos de miles de personas, cantando y gritando. Se cuenta que un grupo de mujeres italianas desarmó a un policía; entre varias le quitaron la placa, la porra y hasta los pantalones, antes de arrojarlo al río helado. Uno de los empresarios dijo, horrorizado, acerca de aquellas mujeres: “Tienen demasiada astucia y demasiado carácter. Están por todos lados, y se está poniendo cada vez peor”. El intendente también dejó caer una frase que se hizo famosa: “Un policía puede controlar a diez hombres, mientras que hacen falta 10 policías para controlar a una sola mujer”.

Durante la primera semana de huelga hubo una tormenta de nieve y la temperatura llegó a 10 grados bajo cero. El 15 de enero, miles de huelguistas montaron un piquete para impedir la entrada de rompehuelgas en las instalaciones de la Washington and Wood Mills. Cuando llegaron hasta la Prospect Mill, lanzaron piedras y bolas de hielo. Se dirigían hacia la Atlantic y Pacific Mills cuando la policía los interceptó, lanzando agua helada a los manifestantes con mangueras de apagar incendios.

“Pueden usar su manguera, pero se está encendiendo en el corazón de los trabajadores una llama de revuelta proletaria que ninguna manguera de incendios en el mundo puede apagar”, declaró después Joseph Ettor. En los barrios, los panaderos polacos bajaron los precios para los huelguistas, mientras que los peluqueros se negaban a atender a los rompehuelgas. En las calles, miles de personas cruzaban miradas cómplices, se reconocían fácilmente porque llevaban insignias con el lema: “No seas rompehuelgas” o con las siglas de la IWW.

Amazon.com: Lawrence Strike 1912 Ncartoon 1912 By Art Young On The Lawrence  Massachusetts Textile Worker Strike Of That Year Poster Print by (24 x 36):  Posters & PrintsLa represión y la batalla por la opinión pública

La jornada del 29 de enero fue un punto de inflexión. Ese día la policía asesinó a la trabajadora Anna LoPizzo durante una concentración y varios dirigentes de la huelga fueron detenidos.

La ofensiva represiva iba creciendo semana a semana. El alcalde Michael Scanlon había desplegado a la policía local, pero al tomar nota de la determinación de las huelguistas, el 15 de enero convocó a la milicia armada y llegó a declarar la ley marcial. Varios escuadrones de la milicia (antecesora de la Guardia Nacional) se establecieron en Lawrence, reforzados por la policía de Boston y francotiradores de los Marines.

Así trascurrían las semanas, las fuerzas se tensaban y las huelguistas no daban el brazo a torcer, a pesar del hambre y el frío. Pero lo que terminó de definir el futuro de la huelga fue el “éxodo de los niños” y la feroz represión. Entonces se logró ganar la batalla por la opinión pública. A principios de febrero apareció un aviso en el periódico socialista de Nueva York, The Call:

RECIBID A LOS NIÑOS

Los niños de Lawrence tienen hambre. Su padres y madres están luchando, pero el hambre puede romper la huelga. Estas mujeres y hombres están dispuestos a sufrir, pero no pueden ver el dolor de sus hijos o soportar sus llantos pidiendo comida. Se solicita a aquellos trabajadores y simpatizantes de la huelga que puedan acoger al hijo de un huelguista hasta que la huelga termine, que envíen con urgencia su nombre y domicilio al Call. Hacedlo de inmediato.

En pocas horas hubo cientos de llamados y cartas ofreciendo un lugar para los niños de Lawrence. La táctica se había inspirado en tradiciones de lucha del movimiento obrero europeo, a propuesta de varios activistas. En pocos días, la enfermera Margaret Sanger junto con Elizabeth Gurley Flinn y otros miembros del comité organizaron todo. Un primer grupo de 119 niños viajó a Nueva York el 10 de febrero. Un millar de personas recibió a los pequeños con euforia en la Estación Central. Cuando un segundo grupo llegó a Nueva York, el 17 de febrero, se organizó una manifestación. En las fotos vemos los pequeños rostros orgullosos. Una pancarta decía: “Piden pan, reciben bayonetas”. La noticia seguía corriendo en toda la prensa nacional y otras ciudades también querían recibir a los niños de Lawrence. Su “éxodo” representaba todo lo humano de esta lucha contra la codicia de los empresarios. Y para tratar de frenar esa corriente de simpatía, el alcalde de Lawrence no tuvo mejor idea que prohibir los viajes de niños. Pero una nueva delegación de 200 pequeños ya estaba preparada para montar al tren, el 24 de febrero. Ese día, decenas de madres con sus hijos se dirigieron a la estación, donde se encontraron con un inmenso dispositivo policial.

Cuando el tren se acercaba a los andenes, las mujeres trataron de avanzar. Entonces llovieron los palos, golpes y empujones, la policía cargando contra mujeres y niños. –¡Tened cuidado con los niños, los estáis matando! –gritó Tema Camitta, del comité de solidaridad de Philadelphia. Minutos después, se produjeron más de 50 arrestos y una docena de niños fue trasladada en coches de la milicia. Una multitud de huelguistas se lanzó sobre ellos, muchos eran los padres desesperados buscando a sus hijos. Y la represión continuó.

Barre, the Socialist Labor Party Hall, and the Lawrence Strike of 1912 -  Old Labor Hall

El New York Times informó al día siguiente que para “desanimar cualquier intento de los huelguistas de rescatar a los niños, cuatro compañías de infantería y un escuadrón de caballería rodearon la estación de trenes”. Lo que no sabían aquellas mujeres, cuando resistieron como leonas para que la policía no les arrancara de los brazos a sus pequeños, era que, en ese preciso instante, habían ganado la huelga. Después de la represión se produjo tal escándalo a nivel nacional, que los empresarios se vieron obligados a ceder. Pocos días después, una asamblea multitudinaria aprobó por aclamación el acuerdo alcanzado.

Josefina L. Martinez

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Eugene V. Debs (1855-1926) es uno de los personajes más fascinantes de la historia estadounidense. Líder sindical, socialista convencido, candidato a la presidencia de Estados Unidos en cinco ocasiones y víctima de la intolerancia fanática, Debs encarna las luchas sociopoliticas de la sociedad estadounidense posterior a la guerra civil . Comparto con los seguidores de esta bitácora este execelente artículo de la historiadora Jill Lepore sobre la vida y legado Eugene V. Debs.

Eugene Victor Debs left school at the age of fourteen, to scrape paint and grease off the cars of the Vandalia Railroad, in Indiana, for fifty cents a day. He got a raise when he was promoted to fireman, which meant working in the locomotive next to the engineer, shovelling coal into a firebox—as much as two tons an hour, sixteen hours a day, six days a week. Firemen, caked in coal dust, blinded by wind and smoke, had to make sure that the engine didn’t explode, an eventuality they weren’t always able to forestall. If they were lucky, and lived long enough, firemen usually became engineers, which was safer than being a switchman or a brakeman, jobs that involved working on the tracks next to a moving train, or racing across its top, in any weather, at the risk of toppling off and getting run over. All these men reported to the conductors, who had the top job, and, on trains owned by George Mortimer Pullman, one of the richest men in the United States, all of them—the engineers, the firemen, the brakemen, the switchmen, and even the scrapers—outranked the porters. Pullman porters were almost always black men, and ex-slaves, and, at the start, were paid nothing except the tips they could earn by bowing before the fancy passengers who could afford the sleeping car, and who liked very much to be served with a shuffle and a grin, Dixie style.

Every man who worked on the American railroad in the last decades of the nineteenth century became, of necessity, a scholar of the relations between the rich and the poor, the haves and the have-nots, the masters and the slaves, the riders and the ridden upon. No student of this subject is more important to American history than Debs, half man, half myth, who founded the American Railway Union, turned that into the Social Democratic Party, and ran for President of the United States five times, including once from prison.

Debs, who wrote a lot about manliness, always said that the best kind of man was a sand man. “ ‘Sand’ means grit,” he wrote in 1882, in Firemen’s Magazine. “It means the power to hold on.” When a train stalled from the steepness of the incline or the weight of the freight, railroad men poured sand on the tracks, to improve the grip of the wheels. Men need sand, too, Debs said: “Men who have plenty of ‘sand’ in their boxes never slip on the path of duty.” Debs had plenty of sand in his box. He had, though, something of a morbid fear of ashes. Maybe that’s a fireman’s phobia, a tending-the-engine man’s idea of doom. In prison—having been sentenced, brutally, to ten years of hard time at the age of sixty-three—he had a nightmare. “I was walking by the house where I was born,” he wrote. “The house was gone and nothing left but ashes . . . only ashes—ashes!” The question today for socialism in the United States, which appears to be stoking its engines, is whether it’s got enough sand. Or whether it’ll soon be ashes, only ashes, all over again.

Debs was born in Terre Haute, Indiana, in 1855, seven years after Marx and Engels published “The Communist Manifesto.” His parents were Alsatian immigrants who ran a small grocery store. Debs worked for the railroads a little more than four years. In the wake of the Panic of 1873, he lost his job at Vandalia and tramped to East St. Louis looking for work; then, homesick, he tramped back to Terre Haute, where, in 1875, he took a job as a labor organizer, and, later, as a magazine editor, for the Brotherhood of Locomotive Firemen. He hung his old scraper on the wall, part relic, part badge, part talisman, of his life as a manual laborer.

Debs was a tall man, lanky and rubbery, like a noodle. He had deep-set blue eyes and lost his hair early, and he talked with his hands. When he gave speeches, he leaned toward the crowd, and the veins of his temples bulged. He was clean-shaven and favored bow ties and sometimes looked lost in crumpled, baggy suits. He had a way of hunching his shoulders that you often see, and admire, in tall men who don’t like to tower over other people. In a new book, “Eugene V. Debs: A Graphic Biography” (Verso), drawn by Noah Van Sciver and written by Paul Buhle and Steve Max, Debs looks like an R. Crumb character, though not so bedraggled and neurotic.

People could listen to him talk for hours. “Debs! Debs! Debs!” they’d cry, when his train pulled into a station. Crowds massed to hear him by the tens of thousands. But even though Debs lived until 1926, well into the age of archival sound, no one has ever found a recording of his voice. When Nick Salvatore wrote, in his comprehensive biography, “Eugene V. Debs: Citizen and Socialist,” in 1982, “His voice ran a gamut of tones: mock whisper to normal conversation to full stentorian power,” you wonder how he knew. Debs could speak French and German and was raised in the Midwest, so maybe he talked like the Ohio-born Clarence Darrow, with a rasp and a drawl. Some of Debs’s early essays and speeches have just been published in the first of six volumes of “The Selected Works of Eugene V. Debs” (Haymarket), edited by Tim Davenport and David Walters. Really, he wasn’t much of a writer. The most delightful way to hear Debs is to listen to a recording made in 1979 by Bernie Sanders, in an audio documentary that he wrote and produced when he was thirty-seven years old and was the director of the American People’s Historical Society, in Burlington, Vermont, two years before he became that city’s mayor. In the documentary—available on YouTube and Spotify—Sanders, the Brooklyn-born son of a Polish Jew, performs parts of Debs’s most famous speeches, sounding, more or less, like Larry David. It is not to be missed.

debs1912

Debs began his political career as a Democrat. In 1879, when he was only twenty-three, he was elected city clerk of Terre Haute, as a Democrat; the city’s Democratic newspaper called him “one of the rising young men of Terre Haute,” and the Republican paper agreed, dubbing him “the blue-eyed boy of destiny.” Debs looked back on these days less fondly. “There was a time in my life, before I became a Socialist, when I permitted myself as a member of the Democratic party to be elected to a state legislature,” he later said. “I have been trying to live it down. I am as much ashamed of that as I am proud of having gone to jail.” Throughout his life, he believed in individual striving, and he believed in the power of machines. “A railroad is the architect of progress,” he said in a speech at the Grand Lodge of the Brotherhood of Locomotive Firemen in 1877, the year the President of the United States sent federal troops to crush a railroad workers’ strike. The firemen’s brotherhood was less a labor union than a benevolent society. “The first object of the association is to provide for the widows and orphans who are daily left penniless and at the mercy of public charity by the death of a brother,” Debs explained. At the time, he was opposed to strikes. “Does the brotherhood encourage strikers?” he asked. “No—brotherhood.”

For a long time, Debs disavowed socialism. He placed his faith in democracy, the franchise, and the two-party system. “The conflict is not between capital and labor,” he insisted. “It is between the man who holds the office and the man who holds the ballot.” But in the eighteen-eighties, when railroad workers struck time and time again, and as many as two thousand railroad men a year were killed on the job, while another twenty thousand were injured, Debs began to wonder whether the power of benevolence and fraternity was adequate protection from the avarice and ruthlessness of corporations backed up by armed men. “The strike is the weapon of the oppressed,” Debs wrote in 1888. Even then he didn’t talk about socialism. For Debs, this was Americanism, a tradition that had begun with the American Revolution. “The Nation had for its cornerstone a strike,” he said. He also spent some time with a pencil, doing sums. Imagine, he wrote in an editorial, that a grandson of Cornelius Vanderbilt started out with two million dollars—a million from his grandfather and another million from his father. “If a locomotive fireman could work 4,444 years, 300 days each year, at $1.50 per day,” Debs went on, “he would be in a position to bet Mr. Vanderbilt $2.50 that all men are born equal.”

In 1889, Debs argued for an industrial union, a federation of all the brotherhoods of railroad workers, from brakemen to conductors, as equals. Samuel Gompers wanted those men to join his far less radical trade union, the American Federation of Labor, which he’d founded three years earlier, but in 1893 Debs pulled them into the American Railway Union. Soon it had nearly a hundred and fifty thousand members, with Debs, at its head, as their Moses. That’s what got him into a battle with George Pullman, in 1894, and landed him, for the first time, in prison, where he read “Das Kapital.”

Debs once said that George Pullman was “as greedy as a horse leech,” but that was unfair to leeches. In the aftermath of the Panic of 1893, Pullman slashed his workers’ wages by as much as fifty per cent and, even though they lived in housing he provided, he didn’t cut rents or the price of the food he sold them. Three thousand workers from the Pullman Palace Car Company, many of them American Railway Union members, had already begun a wildcat strike in May of 1894, a month before the A.R.U.’s first annual meeting, in Chicago. As Jack Kelly recounts, in “The Edge of Anarchy: The Railroad Barons, the Gilded Age, and the Greatest Labor Uprising in America” (St. Martin’s), Debs hadn’t wanted the A.R.U. to get involved, but the members of his union found the Pullman workers’ plight impossible to ignore, especially after nineteen-year-old Jennie Curtis, who’d worked in the Pullman sewing department for five years, upholstering and making curtains, addressed the convention. Curtis explained that she was often paid nine or ten dollars for two weeks’ work, out of which she paid Pullman seven dollars for her board and two or three more for rent. “We ask you to come along with us,” she told Debs’s men, because working for Pullman was little better than slavery. After hearing from her, the A.R.U. voted for a boycott, refusing “to handle Pullman cars and equipment.”

That Curtis had a voice at all that day was thanks in part to Debs, who had supported the admission of women to the A.R.U. He also argued for the admission of African-Americans. “I am not here to advocate association with the negro, but I am ready to stand side by side with him,” he told the convention. But, by a vote of 112 to 110, the assembled members decided that the union would be for whites only. If two votes had gone the other way, the history of the labor movement in the United States might have turned out very differently.

Black men, closed out of the A.R.U., formed the Anti-Strikers Railroad Union, to fill positions opened by striking whites. If working on a Pullman car was degrading, it was also, for decades, one of the best jobs available to African-American men. Its perks included safe travel at a time when it was difficult for black people to make their way between any two American cities without threat or harm. George Pullman’s company was the nation’s single largest employer of African-American men. Thurgood Marshall’s father was a Pullman porter. The A.R.U. vote in 1894 set back the cause of labor for decades. The Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters achieved recognition from the Pullman Company only in 1937, after years of organizing by A. Philip Randolph.

The Pullman strike of 1894, one of the single biggest labor actions in American history, stalled trains in twenty-seven states. Debs’s American Railway Union all but halted transportation by rail west of Detroit for more than a month—either by refusing to touch Pullman cars or by actively unhitching them from the trains. Whatever Debs’s initial misgivings about the boycott, once his union voted for it he dedicated himself to the confrontation between “the producing classes and the money power.” In the end, after a great deal of violence, George Pullman, aided by President Grover Cleveland, defeated the strikers. Pursued by a U.S. Attorney General who had long served as a lawyer for the railroads, Debs and other A.R.U. leaders were indicted and convicted of violating a federal injunction to stop “ordering, directing, aiding, assisting, or abetting” the uprising. The U.S. Supreme Court upheld Debs’s conviction. He and seven other organizers were sentenced to time behind bars—Debs to six months, the others to three—and served that time in Woodstock, Illinois, in a county jail that was less a prison than a suite of rooms in the back of the elegant two-story Victorian home of the county sheriff, who had his inmates over for supper every night.

“The Socialist Conversion” is the title of the half-page panel depicting these six months in “Eugene V. Debs: A Graphic Biography.” It shows Debs in a prisoner’s uniform, seated at a desk in a bare room, with a beady-eyed, billy-club-wielding prison guard looking on from the doorway, while a cheerful man in a suit, carrying “The Communist Manifesto,” approaches Debs, his speech bubble reading “This is a present from the Socialists of Milwaukee to you.”

 

Very little of this is true. Debs’s time in jail in Woodstock was remarkably comfortable. He ran the union office out of his cell. He was allowed to leave jail on his honor. “The other night I had to lock myself in,” he told the New York World reporter Nellie Bly, when she went to interview him. “There was no sign of the prisoner about Mr. Debs’ clothes,” Bly reported. “He wore a well-made suit of grey tweed, the coat being a cutaway, and a white starched shirt with a standing collar and a small black and white scarf tied in a bow-knot.” The Milwaukee socialist Victor Berger did bring Debs a copy of Marx’s “Das Kapital.” And Debs and his fellow labor organizers dedicated most of their daily schedule to reading. “I had heard but little of Socialism” before the Pullman strike, Debs later claimed, insisting that the reading he did in jail brought about his conversion. But it’s not clear what effect that reading really had on him. “No sir; I do not call myself a socialist,” he told a strike commission that year. While in jail, he turned away overtures from socialists. And when he got out, in 1895, and addressed a crowd of more than a hundred thousand people who met him at the train station in Chicago, he talked about “the spirit of ’76” and the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, not Marx and Engels.

The next year, Debs endorsed the Presidential candidate William Jennings Bryan, running on both the Democratic and the People’s Party tickets. Only after Bryan’s loss to William McKinley, whose campaign was funded by businessmen, did Debs abandon his devotion to the two-party system. The people elected Bryan, it was said, but money elected McKinley. On January 1, 1897, writing in the Railway Times, Debs proclaimed himself a socialist. “The result of the November election has convinced every intelligent wageworker that in politics, per se, there is no hope of emancipation from the degrading curse of wage-slavery,” he wrote. “I am for socialism because I am for humanity. . . . Money constitutes no proper basis of civilization.”

That June, at the annual meeting of the American Railway Union, Debs founded the Social Democracy of America party. When it splintered, within the year, Victor Berger and Debs joined what became the Social Democratic Party, and then, in 1901, the Socialist Party of America. For Debs, socialism meant public ownership of the means of production. “Arouse from your slavery, join the Social Democratic Party and vote with us to take possession of the mines of the country and operate them in the interest of the people,” he urged miners in Illinois and Kansas in 1899. But Debs’s socialism, which was so starry-eyed that his critics called it “impossibilism,” was decidedly American, and had less to do with Karl Marx and Communism than with Walt Whitman and Protestantism. “What is Socialism?” he asked. “Merely Christianity in action. It recognizes the equality in men.”

The myth of Debs’s Christlike suffering and socialist conversion in the county jail dates to 1900; it was a campaign strategy. At the Social Democratic Party convention that March, a Massachusetts delegate nominated Debs as the Party’s Presidential candidate and, in his nominating speech, likened Debs’s time in Woodstock to the Resurrection: “When he came forth from that tomb it was to a resurrection of life and the first message that he gave to his class as he came from his darkened cell was a message of liberty.” Debs earned nearly ninety thousand votes in that year’s election, and more than four times as many when he ran again in 1904. In 1908, he campaigned in thirty-three states, travelling on a custom train called the Red Special. As one story has it, a woman waiting for Debs at a station in Illinois asked, “Is that Debs?” to which another woman replied, “Oh, no, that ain’t Debs—when Debs comes out you’ll think it’s Jesus Christ.”

“This is our year,” Debs said in 1912, and it was, in the sense that nearly a million Americans voted for him for President. But 1912 was also socialism’s year in the sense that both the Democratic and the Republican parties embraced progressive reforms long advocated by socialists (and, for that matter, populists): women’s suffrage, trust-busting, economic reform, maximum-hour and minimum-wage laws, the abolition of child labor, and the direct election of U.S. senators. As Debs could likely perceive a couple of years later, when the Great War broke out in Europe, 1912 was to be socialism’s high-water mark in the United States. “You may hasten Socialism,” he said, “you may retard it, but you cannot stop it.” Except that socialism had already done most of what it would do in the United States in those decades: it had reformed the two major parties.

 

Debs was too sick to run in 1916. The United States declared war on Germany in April, 1917; the Bolshevik Revolution swept Russia that November. Debs spoke out against the war as soon as it began. “I am opposed to every war but one,” he said. “I am for that war with heart and soul, and that is the world-wide war of the social revolution. In that war I am prepared to fight in any way the ruling class may make necessary, even to the barricades.” Bernie Sanders recorded this speech for his 1979 documentary. And, as a member of the Senate, Sanders said it again. “There is a war going on in this country,” he declared on the floor of the Senate in 2010, in a speech of protest that lasted more than eight hours. “I am not referring to the war in Iraq or the war in Afghanistan. I am talking about a war being waged by some of the wealthiest and most powerful people against working families, against the disappearing and shrinking middle class of our country.”

After Debs, socialism endured in the six-time Presidential candidacy of his successor, Norman Thomas. But it endured far more significantly in Progressive-era reforms, in the New Deal, and in Lyndon Johnson’s Great Society. In the decades since Ronald Reagan’s election in 1980, many of those reforms have been undone, monopolies have risen again, and income inequality has spiked back up to where it was in Debs’s lifetime. Socialism has been carried into the twenty-first century by way of Sanders, a Debs disciple, and by way of the utter failure of the two-party system. Last summer, a Gallup poll found that more Democrats view socialism favorably than view capitalism favorably. This brand of socialism has its own obsession with manliness, with its “Bernie bros” and allegations by women who worked on Sanders’s 2016 Presidential campaign of widespread sexual harassment and violence. Sanders’s campaign manager, Jeff Weaver, recently addressed some of these charges: “Was it too male? Yes. Was it too white? Yes.” Hence the movement’s new face, and new voice: the former Sanders campaign worker Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.

Debs wrote its manifesto, but there’s a certain timidity to the new socialism. It lacks sand. In 1894, one Pullman worker stated the nature of the problem: “We are born in a Pullman house, fed from the Pullman shops, taught in the Pullman school, catechized in the Pullman Church, and when we die we shall go to the Pullman Hell.” We live in Amazon houses and eat Amazon groceries and read Amazon newspapers and when we die we shall go to an Amazon Hell. In the meantime, you can buy your Bernie 2020 hats and A.O.C. T-shirts on . . . Amazon.

Debs was arrested in Cleveland in 1918, under the terms of the 1917 Espionage Act, for a speech protesting the war that he had given two weeks earlier, on June 16th, in Canton, Ohio. “debs invites arrest,” the Washington Post announced. Most of the nation’s newspapers described him as a dictator or a traitor, or both. And, because what he had said was deemed seditious, newspapers couldn’t print it, and readers assumed the worst. But the speech was vintage Debs, from its vague blandishments and programmatic promises—“We are going to destroy all enslaving and degrading capitalist institutions and re-create them as free and humanizing institutions”—to its astute observations and forceful repetitions: “The working class who fight the battles, the working class who make the sacrifices, the working class who shed the blood, the working class who furnish the corpses, the working class have never yet had a voice in declaring war.”

Debs was one of thousands of socialists jailed during the First World War and the Red Scare that followed, when the Justice Department effectively tried to outlaw socialism. His defense attorney compared him to Christ—“You shall know him by his works”—and called no one to the stand but Debs, who, during a two-hour oration, talked less about socialism than about the First Amendment. “I believe in free speech, in war as well as in peace,” Debs told the court. “If the Espionage Law stands, then the Constitution of the United States is dead.”

The socialist Max Eastman, watching him speak that day, described Debs’s growing fervor. “His utterance became more clear and piercing, and it made the simplicity of his faith seem almost like a portent,” Eastman wrote. But it’s the speech Debs gave during his sentencing that would be his best-remembered address, his American creed: “While there is a lower class, I am in it; while there is a criminal element, I am of it; while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.”

After being sentenced to ten years, he was taken, by train, from Cleveland to a prison in West Virginia, where he was held for two months before being transferred to the much harsher Atlanta Federal Penitentiary. On the wall of a cell that he shared with five other men, he hung a picture of Jesus, wearing his crown of thorns. Refusing to ask for or accept special treatment, he was confined to his cell for fourteen hours a day and was allotted twenty minutes a day in the prison yard. He wore a rough denim uniform. He ate food barely fit to eat. He grew gaunt and weak.

Debs came to think about the men he met in prison the way he’d once thought about men he’d worked with on the railroad. “A prison is a cross section of society in which every human strain is clearly revealed,” he wrote in a memoir called “Walls and Bars.” But, if the railroad was a model of hierarchy, prison was a model of equality: “We were all on a dead level there.”

He became an American folk hero, a champion of free speech. In his “from the jail house to the White House” campaign, in 1920, he earned nearly a million votes running for President as Convict No. 9653. But a vote for Debs in 1920 was not a vote for socialism; it was a vote for free speech.

 

Convict No. 9653 refused to ask for a pardon, even as he grew sicker, and leaner, and weaker. His reputation as a twentieth-century Christ grew. (Kurt Vonnegut’s much beset narrator in “Hocus Pocus” says, “I am so powerless and despised now that the man I am named after, Eugene Debs, if he were still alive, might at last be somewhat fond of me.”) His supporters began holding Free Debs rallies. President Woodrow Wilson refused to answer calls for amnesty. Warren Harding finally released him, on Christmas Day, 1921. Debs never recovered. He lived much of what remained of his life in a sanatorium. In 1925, he said that the Socialist Party was “as near a corpse as a thing can be.” He died the next year.

Debs understood capitalism best on a train, socialism best in prison. One of the last letters he wrote was to the judge who had sentenced him in 1918, asking whether his conviction had left him disenfranchised or whether he still had the right to vote. ♦


This article appears in the print edition of the February 18 & 25, 2019, issue, with the headline “The Fireman.”

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The Ludlow Massacre Still Matters 

Ben Mauk

The New Yorker  May 19, 2014

 

 

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On April 20, 1914, members of the Colorado National Guard opened fire on a group of armed coal miners and set fire to a makeshift settlement in Ludlow, Colorado, where more than a thousand striking workers and their families were camped out. Today, the Ludlow massacre, which Caleb Crain wrote about in The New Yorker in 2009, remains one of the bloodiest episodes in the history of American industrial enterprise; at least sixty-six men, women, and children were killed in the attack and the days of rioting that followed, according to most historical accounts. Although it is less well-remembered today than other dark episodes in American labor history, such as the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire that claimed a hundred and forty-six lives, the Ludlow massacre—which Wallace Stegner once called “one of the bleakest and blackest episodes of American labor history”—changed the nation’s attitude toward labor and capital for the next several decades. Its memory continues to reverberate in contemporary political discourse.

In the summer of 1913, United Mine Workers began to organize the eleven thousand coal miners employed by the Rockefeller-owned Colorado Fuel & Iron Company. Most of the workers were first-generation immigrants from Italy, Greece, and Serbia; many had been hired, a decade prior, to replace workers who had gone on strike. In August, the union extended invitations to company representatives to meet about their grievances—including low pay, long and unregulated hours, and management practices they felt were corrupt—but they were rebuffed. A month later, eight thousand Colorado mine workers went on strike. Among their demands were a ten-per-cent pay raise, the enforcement of an eight-hour working day, and the right to live and trade outside the company-owned town. Many of the rights they sought were required by Colorado law but remained unenforced.

After getting evicted from their company-owned homes, the workers based their operations in makeshift tent cities surrounding the mines, the largest of which was the Ludlow camp. The Rockefellers responded by hiring a detective agency—comprised of “Texas desperadoes and thugs,” according to “Legacy of the Ludlow Massacre,” a sharply researched 1988 book by Howard M. Gitelman—who would periodically raid the camps, firing rifles and shotguns. In November, the state governor called in the Colorado National Guard at the company’s behest; the Guard’s wages were supplied by the Rockefeller family, and they helped to form militias whose members carried out sporadic raids and shootings in the tent cities.

The strike stretched on for months, and in April, 1914, John D. Rockefeller, Jr., appeared before Congress, where he framed the standoff as “a national issue, whether workers shall be allowed to work under such conditions as they may choose.” He balked at the possibility of allowing “outside people”—meaning union organizers—“to come in and interfere with employees who are thoroughly satisfied with their labor conditions.” The committee chairman asked Rockefeller whether he would stand by his anti-union principles even “if it costs all your property and kills all your employees.” Rockefeller replied, “It is a great principle.”

On April 20th, a day after Orthodox Easter, four militiamen brandished a machine gun at some of the striking miners. At some point, shots were fired—the accounts are predictably inconsistent as to who fired first—and a day-long gunfight ensued.

That evening, the National Guardsmen set fire to the Ludlow colony. Thirteen residents who tried to flee were shot and killed as the camp burned to the ground, and many more burned to death. Discovered among the ruins the following morning was a women’s infirmary, where four women and eleven children had sought to escape the fighting by hiding in a cellar-like pit. All the children and two of the women died. One survivor, Mary Petrucci, lost three of her own children in the infirmary. Years later, she recalled, “I came out of the hole. There was light and lots of smoke. I wandered among the ashes until a priest found me. I couldn’t feel anything. I was cold.”

News of the attack—and especially of the deaths under the infirmary tent—pulled the nation’s attention from the United States’ potential involvement in the Mexican Revolution. To many Americans, the massacre exposed the consequences of unchecked corporate might, and it roused the conscience of a country that had previously demonstrated impassive ambivalence toward organized labor. (Decades later, a song by Woody Guthrie captured the common sentiment of the event’s immediate aftermath: “We took some cement and walled the cave up where you killed these thirteen children inside / I said ‘God bless the Mine Workers Union,’ then I hung my head and cried.”)

Two days later, Congress convened to discuss the events at Ludlow, and to consider how the government might check martial power wielded by private industrialists. One senator, Iowa’s “radical Republican,” William Kenyon, decried the government’s ties to the violence, noting that “the Colorado Fuel & Iron Company, or the company controlling it, has certain of its bonds on deposit with the General Education Board of the Rockefeller Foundation, with which the Department of Agriculture of our Government seems to have been in partnership for some little time.” Another senator expressed a broader concern: “I fear that unless society can in some manner reconcile these troubled conditions as between capital and labor, Mexico is not the only country that will be torn by internecine strife.”

Rockefeller, for his part, released a memorandum in June, months after federal troops had been ordered to Colorado to quell the days of violent rioting that had followed the events of April 20th. “There was no Ludlow massacre,” he wrote. “The engagement started as a desperate fight for life by two small squads of militia … against the entire tent colony, which attacked them with over three hundred armed men.” He also offered a lengthy technical explanation of why the deaths in the infirmary were the result of inadequate ventilation and overcrowding, not of actions taken by “the defenders of law and property, who were in no slightest way responsible for it.”

Despite Rockefeller’s arguments, after Ludlow the Wild West era of company towns began to wane, and stricter labor laws began to appear on the books—and were even enforced. Support for unions reached an all-time high in the nineteen-thirties, as described by James Surowiecki in a 2011 article for the magazine. Yet, as Surowiecki also noted, the influence of trade unions, which supplanted company unions following the 1935 Wagner Act, has been declining for decades, as part of a general rightward shift in American politics which began in the sixties. Since the 2008 recession, there has been growing resentment for union members among non-unionized workers; in 2010, support for unions reached a historic low, according to a Pew poll.

Yet the struggle that Ludlow embodied—and that, historically, unions have taken up—is a contemporary one, even if unions are no longer playing as public a role. Today, some of the fiercest workers’-rights battles take place over government regulations that protect low-income workers’ access to Medicaid and other social services, and that buoy the federal minimum wage, which is currently far below its 1968 peak value. In her recently published autobiography, Senator Elizabeth Warren wrote that “Big corporations hire armies of lobbyists to get billion-dollar loopholes into the tax system and persuade their friends in Congress to support laws that keep the playing field tilted in their favor.” In this, she sounds almost exactly like the Republican senators who, in the days after Ludlow, worried about Colorado Iron & Fuel’s deep government influence.

What was at stake at Ludlow remains pertinent even within the modern coal industry. Last week, the Center for Public Integrity won a Pulitzer Prize for its investigative report on efforts to deny benefits to coal miners with black-lung disease. The seriesdescribes how industry-compensated lawyers have frequently withheld evidence from judges in order to defeat the medical claims of miners suffering from the resurgent ailment, which today affects about six per cent of miners in central Appalachia, according to government statistics reported in the series.

A different kind of violence is visited upon today’s miners. There are no overt, bloody showdowns between striking workers and armed National Guardsmen whose paychecks come from corporate barons. But industry money—in the form of fees paid by mine companies for consultant work—still appears to influence the diagnoses of doctors and radiologists, according to copious research compiled by the Center. And the coal industry’s go-to law firm withheld dissenting medical evidence that supported miners’ claims in eleven of the fifteen cases featured in the report. As a result, ailing and dying miners are denied the support they are owed.

There are eighty-five thousand coal miners left in the United States, but, while many are union members, the influence of the United Mine Workers was already waning by the early eighties, according to the Center for Public Integrity report. Today the union represents about twenty thousand active miners, according to the Wall Street Journal. Instead of union pressure, it was more likely the Center’s investigation that prompted the Department of Labor to announce, in February, a series of reforms that will make it easier for miners with black-lung disease to collect their medical benefits. A hundred years ago, it took a great and deadly injustice to spur lasting government reform. Here’s hoping we learn from it.

Photograph: Fotosearch/Getty

Ben Mauk is a writer from Baltimore, Maryland.He is a regular online contributor to The New Yorker, and his essays and stories appear in The Sun magazine, The American Reader, The Believer, The Los Angeles Review of Books, and elsewhere.

From 2007 to 2009, he was an editor at Dana Press in Washington, D.C. and New York City. He is a graduate of Cornell University and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and the recipient of a 2014-15 U.S. Fulbright Award for Young Journalists.

He lives in Iowa City, where he teaches at the University of Iowa. 

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