History from Below
Group 4 - Workers
Instructions:
The non-elite can speak to us in many 'voices': letters, lyrics, images, court records ... the list of possible sources is endless. When examining sources don't settle for the obvious, look for context, allegory (a story, poem, or picture that can be interpreted to reveal a hidden meaning), and remember that the absence of something can also be important.
Using your source analysis skills examine each of these sources.
Feel free to use your devices to further research the documents.
The non-elite can speak to us in many 'voices': letters, lyrics, images, court records ... the list of possible sources is endless. When examining sources don't settle for the obvious, look for context, allegory (a story, poem, or picture that can be interpreted to reveal a hidden meaning), and remember that the absence of something can also be important.
Using your source analysis skills examine each of these sources.
Feel free to use your devices to further research the documents.
Document 1 - The Ballad of John Henry. A legendary figure of unknown origin.
The ballad has many forms and was composed sometime in the 1880s -1890s.
The ballad has many forms and was composed sometime in the 1880s -1890s.
"John Henry"
Well John Henry was a little baby
Sittin' on his daddy's knee
He picked up a hammer and
a little piece of steel
And cried, "Hammer's gonna
be death of me, Lord, Lord
Hammer's gonna be the death of me"
Now the captain he
said to John Henry
"I'm gonna bring that
steam drill around
I'm gonna bring that
steam drill out on these tracks
I'm gonna knock that
steel on down, God, God
I'm gonna knock that
steel on down"
John Henry told his captain
"Lord a man ain't noth' but a man
But before I let that steam drill
beat me down
I'm gonna die with a hammer
in my hand, Lord, Lord
I'll die with a hammer in my hand"
John Henry driving
on the right side
That steam drill driving
on the left
Says, "Fore I let your
steam drill beat me down
I'm gonna hammer
myself to death, Lord, Lord,
I'll hammer my fool self to death"
Well captain said to John Henry
"What is that storm I hear?"
John Henry said, "That
ain't no storm captain
That's just my hammer
in the air, Lord, Lord
That's just my hammer in the air"
John Henry said to his shaker
"Shaker, why don't you sing?
Cause I'm swingin' thirty pounds
from my hips on down
Yeah, listen to my cold steel
ring, Lord Lord
Listen to my cold steel ring"
John Henry he hammered
in the mountains
His hammer was striking fire
But he worked so hard;
it broke his heart
John Henry laid down his hammer
and died, Lord, Lord
John Henry laid down his hammer and died
Well, now John Henry
he had him a woman
By the name of Polly Ann
She walked out to those tracks
Picked up John Henry's hammer
Polly drove steel like a man, Lord, Lord
Polly drove that steel like a man
Well every, every Monday morning
When a blue bird he began to sing
You could hear John Henry
from a mile or more
You could hear John Henry's hammer
ring, Lord, Lord
You can hear John Henry's hammer ring
I say, You can hear John Henry's
hammer ring, Lord, Lord
You can hear John Henry's
hammer ring
Document 2 - Upton Sinclair - The Jungle - 1904
Listing of workers injuries
Listing of workers injuries
When Jurgis had first inspected the packing plants ..., he had marveled ... of all the things that were made out of the carcasses of animals, and of all the lesser industries that were maintained there; now he found that each one of these lesser industries was a separate little inferno, in its way as horrible as the killing beds
The workers in each of these had their own peculiar diseases. And the wandering visitor might be skeptical about all the swindles, but he could not be skeptical about these, for the worker bore the evidence of them about his own person – generally he had only to hold out his hand.
There were the men in the pickle rooms, for instance ...; scarce a one of these that had not some spot of horror on his person. Let a man so much as scrape his finger pushing a truck in the pickle rooms, and he might have a sore that would put him out of the world; all the joints in his fingers might be eaten by the acid, one by one.
Of the butchers and floormen, the beef boners and trimmers, and all those who used knives, you could scarcely find a person who had the use of his thumb; time and time again the base of it had been slashed, till it was a mere lump of flesh against which the man pressed the knife to hold it. The hands of these men would be criss-crossed with cuts, until you could no longer pretend to count them or to trace them. They would have no nails – they had worn them off pulling hides; their knuckles were swollen so that their fingers spread out like a fan.
There were men who worked in the cooking rooms, in the midst of steam and sickening odors, by artificial light; in these rooms the germs of tuberculosis might live for two years, but the supply was renewed every hour.
There were the beef luggers, who carried two-hundred-pound quarters into the refrigerator cars, a fearful kind of work, that began at four o’clock in the morning, and that wore out the most powerful men in a few years.
There were those who worked in the chilling rooms, and whose special disease was rheumatism; the time limit that a man could work in the chilling rooms was said to be five years.
There were the wool pluckers, whose hands went to pieces even sooner than the hands of the pickle men; for the pelts of the sheep had to be painted with acid to loosen the wool, and then the pluckers had to pull out this wool with their bare hands, till the acid had eaten their fingers off.
There were those who made the tins for the canned meat, and their hands, too, were a maze of cuts, and each cut represented a chance for blood poisoning.
Some worked at the stamping machines, and it was very seldom that one could work long there at the pace that was set, and not give out and forget himself, and have a part of his hand chopped off.
There were the “hoisters,” as they were called, whose task it was to press thelever which lifted the dead cattle off the floor. They ran along upon a rafter, peering down through the damp and the steam, and as old Durham’s architects had not built the killing room for the convenience of the hoisters, at every few feet they would have to stoop under a beam, say four feet above the one they ran on which got them in the habit of stooping, so that in a few years they would be walking like chimpanzees.
The workers in each of these had their own peculiar diseases. And the wandering visitor might be skeptical about all the swindles, but he could not be skeptical about these, for the worker bore the evidence of them about his own person – generally he had only to hold out his hand.
There were the men in the pickle rooms, for instance ...; scarce a one of these that had not some spot of horror on his person. Let a man so much as scrape his finger pushing a truck in the pickle rooms, and he might have a sore that would put him out of the world; all the joints in his fingers might be eaten by the acid, one by one.
Of the butchers and floormen, the beef boners and trimmers, and all those who used knives, you could scarcely find a person who had the use of his thumb; time and time again the base of it had been slashed, till it was a mere lump of flesh against which the man pressed the knife to hold it. The hands of these men would be criss-crossed with cuts, until you could no longer pretend to count them or to trace them. They would have no nails – they had worn them off pulling hides; their knuckles were swollen so that their fingers spread out like a fan.
There were men who worked in the cooking rooms, in the midst of steam and sickening odors, by artificial light; in these rooms the germs of tuberculosis might live for two years, but the supply was renewed every hour.
There were the beef luggers, who carried two-hundred-pound quarters into the refrigerator cars, a fearful kind of work, that began at four o’clock in the morning, and that wore out the most powerful men in a few years.
There were those who worked in the chilling rooms, and whose special disease was rheumatism; the time limit that a man could work in the chilling rooms was said to be five years.
There were the wool pluckers, whose hands went to pieces even sooner than the hands of the pickle men; for the pelts of the sheep had to be painted with acid to loosen the wool, and then the pluckers had to pull out this wool with their bare hands, till the acid had eaten their fingers off.
There were those who made the tins for the canned meat, and their hands, too, were a maze of cuts, and each cut represented a chance for blood poisoning.
Some worked at the stamping machines, and it was very seldom that one could work long there at the pace that was set, and not give out and forget himself, and have a part of his hand chopped off.
There were the “hoisters,” as they were called, whose task it was to press thelever which lifted the dead cattle off the floor. They ran along upon a rafter, peering down through the damp and the steam, and as old Durham’s architects had not built the killing room for the convenience of the hoisters, at every few feet they would have to stoop under a beam, say four feet above the one they ran on which got them in the habit of stooping, so that in a few years they would be walking like chimpanzees.
Document 3 - There is Power in Union (Joe Hill) - 1913
Document 4 - Elia Kazan - On the Waterfront - 1950. This is my church- Karl Malden.
Document 5 -Billy Bragg - There is Power in Union - 2012
