Historia Ex Machina: An Interview with Gilberto Fernandes

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“Laborem Ex Machina: A History of Operating Engineers and Heavy Machinery in Canada’s Construction Industry” is a new podcast and digital companion created by historian Gilberto Fernandes. Activehistory.ca editor Edward Dunsworth spoke with Fernandes about the project and his broader experiences in public history. Here’s an edited version of the interview.

Edward Dunsworth: Tell me a bit about Laborem Ex Machina and how the project came to be.

Gilberto Fernandes: The project results from a collaboration between the Global Labour Research Centre at York University, where I was a visiting professor, and the International Union of Operating Engineers’ Local 793, which represents workers that operate all kinds of construction machinery: cranes, bulldozers, diggers, et cetera.

The business manager of Local 793, Mike Gallagher was one of my interviewees for the documentary film series City Builders, where he spoke about his father, Gerry Gallagher, founder of the Labourers’ International Union of North America’s Local 183. He liked the work that I had done with City Builders and came in with funding for a public history project on the history of construction machinery and operating engineers in Canada.

I knew very little about this topic coming into it, but was immediately engrossed in its rich history and the ways it intersects with labour, gender, race, environment, mobility, and other topics that interest me. Beyond that, I found it very timely to be studying this history while living through what’s likely another technological revolution, where, once again, the symbiotic or antagonistic relationship between humans and machines is at the top of everyone’s minds. There are, of course, lots of differences, but also many similarities between present-day aspirations and anxieties surrounding the rise of robotics, 3D printing, AI, and all kinds of (semi-)automated technologies that threaten the livelihoods of many workers, and the way people reacted to construction machines since the Second Industrial Revolution. Mind you, unlike automatic looms and other imposing machines inside factory walls, these noisy, grimy, mobile, and deadly machines coexisted with all kinds of people in everyday urban and rural spaces. There are lots of valuable lessons that we can take away from that history.

The project had three parts. A research component, which resulted in several journal articles that I have been publishing in recent years, with a couple more coming soon. An archival component, namely advising the union on best practices for preserving their historical records, and flagging a portion of its collection for donation to the Clara Thomas Archives and Special Collections at York University. And a public history component, which included the successful application for a Heritage Toronto plaque commemorating the founding of Local 793 – unveiled on the southeast corner of Church and Shuter streets in November 2021 – and, the main deliverable, a podcast series with a website. The latter is meant as a digital companion to the podcast – although it can also stand on its own as an online exhibition – that people can scroll through as they listen, to look at the photos and footage, artwork, interactive maps, infographics, and so on.

ED: Road building was one of the major undertakings of operators and their machines. Roads are such a common part of modern life that we hardly ever think about them. What stories lie behind these seemingly boring pieces of infrastructure?

GF: When I started this project, I was concerned that the history of construction machines might be too niche a topic. Don’t get me wrong. There is a large and organized community of enthusiasts of steam-powered construction technology, somewhat similar to fans of old locomotives or vintage automobiles. Their Historical Construction Equipment Association has multiple branches across North America (including in Ontario), with their own festivals, archives, museums, and publications – it’s quite impressive actually. But as a social and cultural historian, I was interested in those intersections I mentioned earlier: how this technology was interpreted in a manner that reflected changing views on working- and middle-class masculinity; on racialized ideas about the brain power of white tradesmen versus the muscular power of non-white labourers; on ideas about childhood (especially boyhood) and their education, and so on.

I was surprised by the extensive cultural fascination with construction machines, starting with steam shovels in the late 19^th century till the mid-20^th century and later bulldozers since the Second Word War. Besides the many newspaper articles written by awe-struck reporters, who described these machines as monsters, behemoths, dragons, dinosaurs, and other fantastical creatures, there were multiple poems, children books, youth magazines, toys, artwork, and other popular culture products that kept returning to this technology. The gendered meanings attached to these cultural representations reflected changing societal views on technology, modernity, progress, and so on. For instance, power shovels went from being zoomorphic, beastly, female machines tamed by masterful masculine workers; to anthropomorphic, motherly, collaborative machines operated by workers in a marriage-like symbiosis; to boyish machines in need of guidance from fatherly operators; and eventually to soulless or spirited automatons who subsumed, replaced, or destroyed workers.  

So, while there are lots of interesting stories that the history of construction machinery sheds new light on, especially when it comes to the building of Canada’s mobility infrastructure and its cities – for instance, the history of “sidewalk superintendents” and how it relates to the automobile industry’s “jaywalker;” or the provincial government’s educational campaigns with municipal officials promoting labour-saving road building machines in partnership with manufacturers; or how the military application of bulldozers and war propaganda prepared North Americans for the massive postwar building boom, with its environmental devastation and slum clearance – the changing tropes used in the telling of those stories are just as fascinating.

ED: One of the wonderful things about this podcast and the accompanying website is your attention not only to labour, business, and technology, but also to the cultural meaning of heavy machinery and construction. Tell us a bit about this aspect of the project.

GF: One thing that was interesting to me was the way that people made sense of these machines when they first encountered them. Take steam shovels, for example. A railroad shovel was massive. If you look at the footage on the project’s website of shovels working on the Panama Canal or the Welland Canal, for instance, you can easily see how they resemble some sort of fantastical creature, like a dragon or a dinosaur, with their articulated arms, jaw-like scrapper buckets, and puffing smoke. When these machines were introduced, first in the countryside – and this is a good example of how the Second Industrial Revolution was not just an urban phenomenon – people used a familiar zoomorphic language to make sense of them. The machines were described as something like man-made animals, not dissimilar from the enviro-technical descriptions of the railroads, roadways, hydro dams, and other large civil engineering projects they built.

But perhaps even more interesting is that, unlike many other sublime technologies that inspired awe and fear on its contemporaries, the cultural allure of construction machines has not waned, even if it has changed in important ways. I’m the father of two young boys. Now when I shop for clothing and story books, or watch their shows, I notice how ubiquitous construction machines are in boy culture. They are everywhere! Every kid knows what a bulldozer, a digger, or a crane is. Yet, if you ask kids, or most adults for that matter, what an operating engineer is, the vast majority has no clue. But they know Rubble or DinoTrux! Why isn’t there an endless amount of kids’ pajamas, socks, backpacks, or whatever about farmers, teachers, waiters, or some other occupation? The fact that we seldom question the ubiquity of these machines and their associated ideas of progress and technology is proof of how successfully they have occupied our physical and mental worlds.

The podcast also talks extensively about the history of their manufacturing, legal codification, military use, the labour history of operating engineers, and other topics. But the cultural history of these machines is my favorite part.

ED: You’ve led a range of fascinating public history projects in addition to your scholarly work. I wonder if you might reflect a bit on these two sides of your historical work.

GF: I could not have done the more traditional academic work without the public history work. The Portuguese Canadian History Project (PCHP) is a good example. When I started my master’s program, I decided to research the social and political history of Portuguese immigrants. There was very little in Canadian archives at the time; there was a lot more in the archives of the Portuguese Ministry of Foreign Affairs – as I like to point out to my fellow Canadian historians, much of our country’s history is preserved in foreign archives. The records that were available here were those collected or created by government officials, who tended to have a top-down, multiculturalist view of immigrant communities, in that they saw them as relatively homogenous tiles in the mosaic. These records hinted at the diversity and political tensions within the community, but did not possibly get into the grassroots, with its vibrant dynamics that were mostly expressed in Portuguese, of course. So, much of that reality wasn’t accessible to Canadian record keepers.

Through oral history, I realized that there are many individuals and organizations holding on to boxes of historical records that reflect these rich dynamics, which extend well beyond ethnic identities and solidarities; in other words, immigrant communities are more like rubik’s cubes than tiles in a mosaic. It was in conversation with some of these interviewees that Susana Miranda and I decided to start the PCHP back in 2008. We have since facilitated the donation of ten records collections (with more to come) to the Clara Thomas Archives at York University. These records were critical for my doctoral dissertation and subsequent book and articles. With those records, we’ve also developed or contributed to all manner of public history initiatives —walking tours, websites, exhibitions, documentaries, et cetera.

ED: Your public history work must also allow you to reach new audiences.

GF: Absolutely, and that’s the biggest reward and motivator for me personally. The number of people that read a journal article or an academic book is fairly small compared to the number of visitors to my websites or exhibitions. For instance, one of the projects that I was involved with was a mural in the Little Portugal neighbourhood in West downtown Toronto, created by the renowned street artist Vhils (Alexandre Farto), unveiled in October 2021. The organizers asked me for input on who should be featured in the mural and I suggested the Portuguese “cleaning ladies” and their labour activism through the Cleaners’ Action movement of the 1970s–80s.

Susana and I participated in that project through interviews and by connecting the artist with photos and newspapers in the PCHP’s archives, which are featured in the mural. I loved doing that work, and it didn’t take much time at all. Now, there’s this amazing mural by an international artist; one of the few memorials in the city that prominently features unions and strikes. Probably hundreds of people walk by and look at it every day.

What is also so rewarding is when my public history work inspires other creators. For instance, the Cleaners’ mural has been referenced in Susana Miranda and Franca Iacovetta’s book Cleaning Up (it’s on its cover), in a theatrical play by the Toronto Workers History Project, in a TV documentary currently in production that will be shown on the Portuguese national broadcaster. Another great example, the author Anthony de Sa told me that he sometimes looked at photos of Toronto’s Portuguese community in the 1970s-80s that we posted on the PCHP’s website for inspiration when writing his book Barnacle Love.

Another reason why I love doing public history is that, in addition to writing and researching, which I very much enjoy, it enables me to be creative in multiple formats and explore different ways of telling stories This, in turn, helps me think of new questions and perspectives to consider in my academic work. Public history has also allowed me to meet amazing people and visit sites that would be otherwise inaccessible. Finally, it has also made me a better educator. Being able to bring to the classroom all these cool and different ways of thinking through and presenting history is invaluable. Knowing what goes into designing a website, filming a documentary, recording a podcast, curating an exhibition, writing a play, or leading a walking tour gives me a much bigger appreciation for conventional formats, likes books and articles. Each medium has its own biases, challenges, and benefits – public history tends to privilege the visual and the short form, which brings its own complications, including ethical considerations. Having experience with a variety of outlets,  communication channels, and audiences has significantly enhanced my ability as an academic historian and educator.

Gilberto Fernandes is a visiting scholar in the Department of History at York University, lead director of the Portuguese Canadian History Project, and an award-winning public historian. He is the author of This Pilgrim Nation: The Making of the Portuguese Diaspora in North America (University of Toronto Press, 2019) and several journal articles on the history of the Portuguese diaspora, construction technology, and the building trades in Ontario.

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