shcallaway – American Disasters

April 30, 2014December 16, 2020

Competing Narratives

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Blog Post 10 (for Tuesday, 5/6)

In “A Place for Stories: Nature, History, and Narrative,” William Cronon juxtaposes contrasting accounts of the Dust Bowl. Bonnifield argues that settlers of the Great Plains demonstrated determination in the face of adversity, and the “nation today enjoys a better standard of living” as a result (1348). Worster argues that settlers of the Great Plains precipitated ecological and economic disaster by engaging in a culture that “deliberately, self-consciously, set itself [the] task of dominating and exploiting the land” (1348). Both authors considered many of the same materials, but reached drastically different conclusions. Wells writes: “there seems to be a fundamental tension in interpretations of the Dust Bowl.” Certainly there is. But competing narratives are not particular to this event— rather, they form the fiber of all good history.

For example, last week we watched a 1937 film about the rise and fall of the Great Plains farmers. By celebrating the advent of World War I as a “day of new causes, new profits, new hope,” the film offers a different perspective on the question of whether war is disaster. WWI demanded resources. In particular, large quantities of wheat were necessary to feed allied troops overseas. Settlers of the Great Plains contributed to the war effort by satisfying this market. The film represents them patriotically by proclaiming: “wheat will win the war.” WWI briefly rescued farmers from destitution and established the Great Plains as the breadbasket of the world. However, it also resulted in over 16 million deaths. My classmates seemed to favor the humanist perspective, which categorizes war as disaster, but both histories contribute to our understanding of WWI.

Cronon concludes that “to try to escape the value judgments that accompany storytelling is to miss the point of history itself.” Historians should be exploring perspectives, not eliminating them. Diversity enriches the process through which stories both contextualize our past and guide our future.

April 2, 2014December 16, 2020

Research Proposal Update: Finding The “Five Points”

Blog Post 9 (for Thursday, 4/3)

In his book “The Cholera Years”, which I reviewed, Charles Rosenberg demonstrates an interesting meta-narrative about disease and public health in America during the 19^th century. Reading “The Cholera Years” helped me realize that the 1832 Cholera epidemic in New York is part of a much bigger story; as a result, I decided it was necessary to narrow down my topic.

Almost all of my sources have mentioned a place called the Five Points in some capacity. Today, the Five Points is situated on Worth Street in lower Manhattan, between the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges. During the 19^th century, however, this convergence formed the heart of New York City. It was a melting pot inhabited by individuals of various races, religions and nationalities, all of whom struggled to survive in complete destitution.

The Five Points played an important role in the 1832 Cholera epidemic, and its experience implicates many of the meta-narrative themes that Rosenberg described. This quagmire of filth and poverty represented a serious threat to the public health of the entire city: it was the perfect incubator for disease. Records from the 1832 epidemic attribute the greatest number of Cholera cases to the Five Points (Rosenberg, 33). I plan to explore the specific ways in which poverty contributed the remarkable virulence there— shared water sources, unsanitary methods of food preparation, etc. I also plan to describe the social effects of disease in such a densely populated and culturally diverse area.

Furthermore, I plan to demonstrate how perceptions of the Five Points demonstrated the extent to which epidemiology and morality were intellectually associated during the early 19^th century. Well-to-do New Yorkers understood epidemiology through the lens of morality. Lacking sufficient medical explanation for the spread of Cholera, they reasoned that Cholera was a form of divine retribution, and that inhabitants of the Five Points had exposed themselves by succumbing to vice. The Five Points had a reputation for immorality, after all; Rosenberg called it a “the city’s red light district” (33). Violent crime, unemployment and prostitution were commonplace. Gangs such as the Dead Rabbits and Bowery Boys famously clashed here during the 1860s.

In short, I’ve found a great case study, which I can use to make generalizations about the 1832 Cholera epidemic, its social effects, and its implications about the intersection of morality, medical science and public health in 19^th century American thought.

March 25, 2014December 16, 2020

How Capitalism Can Shape Disaster Narratives

Blog Post 8 (for Thursday, 3/27)

In his article “Smoke and Mirrors,” Ted Steinberg describes a struggle between “those seeking to capitalize on the disaster’s entertainment value against California’s business class” (104). The former hoped to capitalize on peoples’ fascination with disaster by distributing reports, images and videos. One of the videos we watched in class on Tuesday was a dramatic recreation of the San Francisco fire, meant for consumers’ viewing across the country, for example. The latter hoped to preserve San Francisco’s reputation as a center of economic activity, worthy of investment. To that end, they sought to deemphasize the destructive capability of earthquakes in the Bay Area, and emphasize the many opportunities it offered in rebuilding. For example, John Marsh wrote in his blog post: “Rozario quotes a writer for the Times who noted that San Francisco’s natural advantages (its location as a hub of trade for the entire west coast) ensured its recovery.”

During the 19^th century we often think of capitalism as driving towards a single, specific goal— perhaps Machiavellian utilitarianism, or just ruthless efficiency? I’m not really sure how to sum it up. But in most narratives, capitalism seems uniformly against something, whether it be workers’ rights, environmental preservation, or something else. In the Johnstown Flood, for example, the poorly maintained dam was symbolic of the lack of concern that capitalists had for their workers, and their disinterest in quality, so long as the job got done. Interestingly enough, the struggle that Steinberg describes demonstrates capitalism at odds with itself— both groups had money on their minds, but their means of acquiring it conflicted. It is apparent that there wasn’t a single way to capitalize on the destruction in San Francisco.

I’m not quite convinced of Steinberg’s argument— or “conspiracy theory”— that the San Francisco earthquake and fire has been memorialized incorrectly because of some scheming businessmen. But this article has merit because it demonstrates how disaster narratives during the 19^th century were shaped by the push and pull of economic forces. With two distinct groups struggling to warp the San Francisco earthquake and fire into vastly different stories makes this phenomenon particularly clear.

March 12, 2014December 16, 2020

Bouncing Back

Blog Post 7 (for Thursday, 3/12)

In the aftermath of the Johnstown flood, the surviving inhabitants of Johnstown reacted much more methodically than I had imagined they would, considering how traumatic the event was. They were preoccupied with establishing order, and with conducting the business of rebuilding in a disciplined manner.

Almost immediately, the survivors gathered to elect temporary leadership; Arthur Moxham and his partner Tom Johnson were chosen. Under their guidance, committees were formed to gather food and drinkable water, as well as to locate other survivors and gather the dead. These actions represent an interesting contradiction, however— while food and water were pressing deficiencies, and other survivors ought to be sought out, what practical use does a body count have? None, other than to quantify the destruction of the flood.

And even though collecting and observing the brutalized bodies of their neighbors was an emotionally demanding task, it was done with organization and careful planning. The dead were carried back to established morgues, where they were either identified, or categorized with extreme detail. Record entries describe their gender, height, weight, age, hair, dress, and the items they carried. Furthermore, graves were dug rather unnecessarily for each of the deceased, despite the trouble.

I would have expected more looting and robbery, a greater sense of religiosity, and an increase in personal interests as opposed to community interests amongst the survivors. McCullough mentions some of this, but mostly emphasizes a much more uplifting narrative. In the aftermath of the flood, individuals were inclined to cooperate, much like the cogs of the industrial machines they had once operated. Furthermore, Molly describes how members of the press and other visitors came from all around to assist in the relief effort while compiling their stories. I can only wonder whether the sense of community and desire for order that these individuals showed, even after having been reduced to utter chaos, was particular to those who lived during the Gilded Age and Progressive Era.

March 10, 2014December 16, 2020

How the Viaduct Exemplifies Gilded-Age Disaster

Sherwood Callaway

Blog Post 6 (for Tuesday, 3/11)

The Johnstown Flood contains all the elements of a Gilded-Age disaster archetype. The dam itself was gilded. The circumstances under which it burst exposed the dam for what it was— shoddily built and poorly maintained. Fatalities were mostly immigrant laborers who lived in the valley below. As much as they were victims of the flood, they were the victims of negligence. Wealthy businessmen, who perpetuated the poor conditions that these laborers worked in and lived in, had been careless in allowing the dam to exist in disrepair. Catherine points out in her post that the “capitalists, who commanded and encouraged construction of the dam, were not physically affected with the eventual collapse of the dam.” They were confident that nature could not overcome human architectural achievements. This story of class struggle, industrialism, tragic negligence, Machiavellian capitalism and arrogance during the Gilded-Age is a familiar one.

David McCullough writes in The Johnstown Flood that the “viaduct was one of the landmarks of the country” (107). I would venture to say that the viaduct was also a temporal landmark representing the Gilded-Age, and exemplary of many of the elements that comprise a Gilded-Age disaster archetype. This particular viaduct was built for train usage, making it distinct from similar structures that have existed since antiquity, and uniquely industrial— fitting for Gilded-Age use. McCullough also explains that it was an especially impressive architectural achievement, standing “seventy-five feet high and [bridging] the river gap with one single eight-foot arch” (107). The concept of a viaduct, or any other bridge for that matter, demonstrates an inherent conflict between humans and their environments. Human convenience is often at odds with the circumstances of natural world. The viaduct allowed trains to go over the river, rather than having to go around it. During the flood, the viaduct’s arch became clogged with debris, forming a second damn. It collapsed under the pressure of the water and was destroyed. Makes me think of a Blue Oyster Cult lyric that aptly describes the moment: “history shows again and again how nature points out the folly of man.”

Except that was about Godzilla.

February 25, 2014December 16, 2020

Research Proposal: The Cholera Epidemic of 1832

Research Proposal

Blog Post 5 (for Thursday, 2/27)

Tentative title: “Disease in the Modern World: The Cholera Epidemic of 1832”

The cholera epidemic of 1832 killed thousands of people and caused panic cross multiple continents. Seemingly healthy individuals could become diseased and die within hours. The circumstances of modernity— industrialization, urbanization, globalization and immigration — especially exacerbated the outbreak of cholera in New York City. Industrialization eroded the air and water in urban environments. Urbanization resulted in areas of highly concentrated population. Globalization connected the world in unprecedented ways, allowing for the transfer of goods and people. Immigrants brought disease along with them. The cholera epidemic of 1832 exemplified the relationship between modernity and disaster during the Gilded Age. It also demonstrated class disparity. Because the disease was spread through water supplies, members of the lower class were far more susceptible. Wealthy residents had access to cleaner water and better medical attention. Those who had the means fled the city seeking refuge.

The cholera epidemic of 1832 suggests the following historical questions: what was the relationship between American industrialization, immigration, globalization and the conditions that led to the cholera epidemic of 1832? What was the significance of class disparity during the cholera epidemic? To what extent was nature responsible for the cholera epidemic, and to what extent was mankind? What makes a Gilded Age/Progressive Era disaster different from other kinds of disaster, and in what ways does the cholera panic demonstrate this distinction? How do reactions to this particular epidemic illuminate contemporary perspectives of disaster?

There are many different angles from which to view the cholera epidemic of 1832, and as a result, there are many different types of relevant sources. Secondary sources are useful for gaining context for some of the larger themes surrounding the disaster, such as industrialization, urbanization, globalization, immigration and class disparity. I wasn’t able to find any articles that synthesized these broad but indisputably linked themes, unfortunately. Certain books, however, seemed promising. For example, Silent Travelers by Alan Kraut examines the connection between immigration and the transfer of disease during the Gilded Age/Progressive Era, and how this connection contributed to xenophobia. Primary sources would be useful to tease out the tones with which people spoke about immigration and class disparity. Medical journals would be useful to explain how the disease works, how it is transmitted, and the processes for treating it. A study of relationship between modernity and the cholera epidemic of 1832 would necessarily include a wide range of sources.

February 4, 2014December 16, 2020

“The City’s Place in Nature”

Blog Post 4 (for Thursday, 2/6)

Sarah Walters points out in her post that “as a child, Cronon inherently called the rural farms “natural” and the city “unnatural.” Except for the sake of tradition, it doesn’t seem to make sense that urbanity is constantly juxtaposed with nature. We’ve touched on this in class— if cities are made by humans, and humans are natural, aren’t cities also natural? William Cronon identifies this problem in his book Nature’s Metropolis, writing: “putting the city outside nature meant sending humanity into the same exile” (8).

Perhaps we juxtapose urbanity and nature because the notion of “naturalness” with regards to one’s surroundings was much less prominent before the industrial revolution. This period of capitalism, technological advancement and urbanization created unprecedented environments. Smoggy and crowded, industrial era cities did not resemble anything that had existed before.

It was much easier to recognize cities during the middle ages or early modern period as part of a “natural” trajectory of human progress than it was for industrialized cities. Basically, these new cities were considered mutated versions of the cleaner, less crowded urban environments that existed before.

The urbanity/nature juxtaposition, it seems, is not for distinguishing between cities and non-cities, as it is usually used, but rather for distinguishing between industrial era urban environments and whatever preceded them.

Undermining this juxtaposition, Cronon suggests that the city itself is maybe a natural entity for other reasons that its association with humanity: “by massing the combined energies and destines of hundreds of thousands of people, the city, despite its human origins, seemed to express a natural power” (13). The massive, growing, energized urban environment seemed to posses a mind of its own. Furthermore, it seemed to be out of human control in the same way that natural forces are out of human control: “it seemed at times to radiate an energy that could only be superhuman” (13).

So perhaps the city is unjustly opposed to nature after all.

Aside: what makes a rural environment any more “natural” than an urban one? Both places have been shaped in ways that do not represent a natural state. Cronon describes the rural landscape surrounding Chicago as “yielding not grass and red-winged blackbirds but wheat, corn, and hogs” (7). These symbols of cultivation demonstrate that, in the making of both rural and urban environments, the landscape has been transformed— though perhaps unequally.

January 27, 2014December 16, 2020

A Positive Understanding of Disaster: New Confidence From Gilded-Age “Innovation”

Blog Post 3 (for Tuesday, 1/28)

In his introduction to American Disasters, Steven Biel reinforces a notion that our class has grown familiar with over the last few weeks: the category of disaster is a seemingly arbitrary catchall for unusual destructive events. The essays that follow further demonstrate how the study of disaster can be approached from almost any angle.

Sheila Hones, in “Distant Disasters, Local Fears”, describes how local characterizations of distant disasters can illuminate “areas of immediate cultural or social concern” (171). In particular, she examines how a Boston publication called The Atlantic Monthly described disastrous events during late 19^th century. For example, “His Best” is the fictional tale of a working class Irishman who falls in love with an upper class girl in the midst of a flood. The narrative integrates the natural disaster as a metaphor/parallelism of the social instability that the romance represents. The working class man’s passion is a threat to societal order. Perhaps the “immediate… concern” that this particular story addresses is the problem of incorporating the immigrants that were “flooding” America during the late 19^th century. Additionally, Hones also explains that distance makes the event feel like a “safe theater” for social introspection (171). Because “His Best” is set in fictional Virginia, rather than real Boston, the author is free to explore the issues of class in a non-confrontational manner.

Kevin Rozario, in his essay “What Comes Down Must Go Up”, writes about the economic opportunities that result from disasters. Just as disasters promote social progress by revealing the “challenges to established ways”, they also promote economic progress through “creative destruction”—the idea that outdated systems must be eliminated to make way for more modern replacements (Biel 3, Rozario 73). For example, a businessman named George Harvey who witnessed the San Francisco earthquake and fire of 1906 expressed excitement for the “resuscitated capital” (73). By this he meant the physically rebuilt capital city, but also alluded to “the revitalizing role of the calamity for American capitalism” (73). Inevitably, innovation and progress would replace what was destroyed by the quake. For Harvey, the San Francisco quake was an economic opportunity. This philosophy seems particularly well paired with the rapid industrialization that characterized the Gilded Age. And on a deeper level, the notion that “destruction breeds progress” is consistent with the Gilded Age’s lack of policy regarding industry regulation. Eli Caldwell describes how Gilded Age businessmen were hardly concerned with the ethics of industrialization, saying: “the so-called progressives of San Francisco cared as little about the effect of their plans on the working class as did Haussmann, though at least they did not blast away their housing with cannon.”

These two articles illuminate the cultural and social milieu of the Gilded Age while also demonstrating the manner in which disasters were understood during this period. Personally, I think that “His Best” and George Harvey both show that people who lived during the late 19^th and early 20^th century felt more confident in the face of disaster, because of social, intellectual, economic, and technological changes that they believed were “innovations.” The fictional story seems comfortable utilizing the disaster as a literary metaphor, and Harvey views disaster as an economic opportunity.

January 24, 2014December 16, 2020

Individuality vs. Anonymity: the “Ubiquitous Yet Indescribable” Nature of Art

Blog Post #2 (for the State of Emergency exhibition)

A black and white spreadsheet envelops an entire wall, each row representing a young victim of the 2008 Sichuan earthquake. Chinese characters denoting name, gender, and birthdate fill the cells. The language prevents me from being able to speak these words, making the incident seem foreign and distant, but the length of the list alone is disturbing. A startling number of the cells have been left blank, representing unidentified victims. Ironically, what’s distinct about these victims is that nothing is known about them. They have been given their own space on the spreadsheet yet remain indistinguishable.

Ai Weiwei’s “Namelist” demonstrates a grim dichotomy between individuality and anonymity. The piece is as much a list of information as it is a work of art, and viewers are inclined to see it as both. When observed as information, viewers interpret the data and focus intensely on a small portion. But when observed as art, viewers observe the entirety of the piece and their focus is scattered. The victims are represented with individuality in the former approach, but with anonymity in the latter. “Namelist” is both commemorative monument and a provocative message in this way. I feel some reverence for the victims of this disaster, but am mostly unable to connect with them. Instead, the sanitary, apathetic presentation and sheer vastness of the piece disgust me as much as the wreckage probably would have.

A second piece accompanies the first. In “Remembrance”, voices read off the names of the victims. Each name is read by a different voice. After listening to the track play for a while, the names and voices both become indistinguishable. Much like the spreadsheet did, “Remembrance” pays homage to each victim individually, but they are all eventually forgotten in the multitude. Also like the spreadsheet, my inability to understand the language restricts my ability to feel sympathetic for each victim. Because the sounds are meaningless to me, each name blends into the next. I cannot identify one name from another, and I do not have friends or family with these names. Once again, I feel both reverence and indifference simultaneously.

In his essay “Disaster: A Useful Category for Historical Analysis”, Jonathan Bergman explains that a disaster is “ubiquitous yet indescribable” (Bergman 934). He tries to pinpoint a definition for the term by examining its origins and evolution, but ultimately determines that broadness makes the term a useful category for historical analysis. The grim dichotomy between individuality and anonymity seems consistent with Bergman’s conclusion: this dichotomy is easily recognizable in Weiwei’s work, yet escapes verbal definition.

Disasters are interdisciplinary subjects that span the fields of environmental science, sociology, history, and more. They can be quantified in terms of physical damage, casualties, or psychological impact. They can be defined as natural, unnatural, or a combination of the two. Only art can project sensations—like Weiwei’s dichotomy—that are complex enough to accurately represent the complexity of disaster. Like disaster, art is “ubiquitous yet indescribable” and therefore better suited to tell the story.

January 20, 2014December 16, 2020

The Merit of Specificity

Blog Post #1 (for Thursday, 1/23)

In his article “Bringing the City Back In”, James Connolly expresses dissatisfaction with “new urban history”, an approach to studying urban environments that emphasizes social science. Connolly explains that the “new urban history” method is too general, and seeks an “all encompassing synthesis [that is both] an unlikely and undesirable prospect” (264). He advocates bringing “the city back in” by addressing specific cultural, political, social and economic identities of different physical areas (264).

Charles Calhoun would likely agree with this approach. “Moving Beyond Stereotypes of the Gilded Age” debunks a traditionally bland conception of the period by emphasizing its significance: “the United States experienced a profound transformation during these years, with lasting implications for the century that followed” (3). Furthermore, it scolds educators for neglecting the period in favor of the “seemingly more momentous” (3). Calhoun suggests that keywords like “industrialization” and “urbanization” are not a sufficient characterization of the Gilded Age.

One of the central questions of histories of the Gilded Age is this issue of method. Is the generalized overview more illuminating than the examination of a specific instance, or vice versa? The former identifies trends and transformations on the national scale, while the latter captures the “place”—the cultural, political, social and economic identity—of a single “space”. In her post for this week, Emily Taylor writes that we study history “to better understand the present vis-à-vis the past”. But for the average student of history, there is little wisdom to be gained from the study of broad, general trends. Emily’s philosophy promotes the kind of historiography that James Connolly advocates.

Referring back to last week’s reading, Kenneth Hewitt’s writing in Regions of Risk exemplifies a poorly balanced historiography that depends on generalities. For example, Hewitt explains that progress is a double-edged sword—often responsible for causing disasters and often relied on for preventing them. He also explains that there are two types of risk: routine risk, which are widespread and recognized, and extreme events, which constitute a disaster. He mentions the Titanic and the earthquake in Kobe only for their dramatic effect.