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.
On September 11th, 1973, General Augusto Pinochet led a military coup in Chile, overthrowing the democratically-elected President Salvador Allende. This event marked the onset of a brutal dictatorship that lasted from 1974 to 1990, characterized by widespread human rights abuses including torture, kidnappings, and the exile of thousands of Chileans. Between 500,000 and 1 million Chileans fled the country. Between 10,000 and 15,000 found refuge in France from 1973 to 1989 while Canada welcomed 7,000 refugees between 1973 and 1978. The coup’s impact reverberated far beyond Chile’s borders, reshaping global diplomacy, inspiring human rights activism, and altering the lives of those who fled.
As a child of this diaspora, I was born and raised in France and Belgium with Chilean relatives who eventually resettled in Canada. I want to reflect on how the history and memory of Chile’s September 11th, 1973 have been preserved across the Atlantic. This historical moment can provide for the re-building of a transnational memory of refuge, reinforcing its continued significance in our shared understandings of democracy. But this memory offers more than just moral “lessons.” It provides an opportunity to reflect on the intersection of history, diasporic memory, and the craft of historical memoir. As French historian Ivan Jablonka discusses inhis books, blending history with personal narration helps us approach the past in unconventional ways. Rather than presenting facts as isolated elements of a distant era, this approach reveals how they actively influence our present, reflecting the wounds they have imprinted on us.
The execution of the Anglo-Canadian expansionist Thomas Scott by Louis Riel’s Red River provisional government on March 4, 1870 is one of the most calamitous acts in Canadian history. In his 1912 Reminiscences, the one-time Liberal finance minister Richard Cartwright estimated that, from a monetary point of view alone, “the volley that killed Scott cost Canada more than a hundred million of dollars,” which would be over 2.5 billion dollars today. Much more devastating, as Cartwright himself notes, was the political cost. The event split Canada in half, largely along ethnoracial and religious lines, and considerable violence ensued. One of the lesser-known casualties of the killing of Scott was his own brother Hugh.
This week, I talk with Molly Schneider, author of Gold Dust on the Air: Television Anthology Drama and Midcentury American Culture. We talk about the origins of television anthologies, the transition from radio, and their popularity among audiences. We also discuss the role of anthologies in reflecting American culture, pushback from audiences and studios, and the legacy of anthologies and what they tell us about the significance of television programs.
Historical Headline of the Week
Joshua Rothman and Erin Overbey, “How TV Became Art,” The New Yorker, August 28, 2017.
This is the second article in a series on Toronto public housing in the 1980s. All entries in the series will be collected here.
Alderman John Sewell with Eaton Centre model, between 1978 and 1987. Copyright City of Toronto Archives, Fonds 200, Series 1465, File 433, Item 16.
At the beginning of the 1970s, the Metro Toronto Housing Authority (MTHA) had a clear purpose; to house those who could not afford a home elsewhere. Over the 1970s and 1980s that mandate drifted as Community Relations Workers (CRWs) imagined grand schemes to address the many social needs of residents. This trend was in keeping with other housing authorities in Canada and the United States, and alongside the exceptional work of hundreds of independent social service agencies in Toronto. This was not the result of an overarching policy shift. It came in fits and starts. MTHA common spaces were used for childcare, extracurricular activities for teenagers, free breakfasts, and much more. In the 1980s, (CRWs) became remarkably ambitious in what they proposed, though without the resources or managerial support to set in motion their dozens of ideas.
In 1987, Metropolitan Toronto Housing Authority (MTHA) chair John Sewell struck a Committee on Social Services and Community Relations Work (CSSCRW) comprised of MTHA Community Relations Workers (CRWs) and public housing administrators. The latter included Sewell himself and director of race relations Chimbo Poe-Mutuma. The goal was to bring order to MTHA’s forays into social service provision, to create and advocate for social programs, and to figure out what exactly CRWs should be working on every day. On June 23, at the second meeting, Sewell asked four sharp questions that MTHA ought to resolve quickly. Who should determine the social needs of tenants? Who would decide on the adequacy of current services? Who would provide improved access to needed services? Should problems be solved on an individual or group basis? For years, those questions remained unanswered.
Sean Graham is joined by Eric Porter, author of A People’s History of SFO: The Making of the Bay Area and an Airport. They talk about the importance of airports, telling local stories through the airport, and how battles over airports speak to questions of power. They also get into the specifics of San Francisco’s airport, how its development shaped the city and region, and some of the major milestones in SFO’s history.
“The upholstery department is the only place where women are employed in the Durant automobile factory.” Your Future Car (film), 1922, Library and Archives Canada, ISN 185644.
By David Sobel
For three consecutive nights in November 1921, Her Own Fault, “a realistic drama in which the heroine is a factory girl” was shown at the Madison Theatre (at the corner of Bloor and Bathurst) and the Review Theatre, in the west end of Toronto.[i] Made by the Ontario Motion Picture Bureau at the Gutta Percha Factory in Parkdale, Toronto, the government production was hoping to attract female factory workers to the theatres, not only for entertainment, but for education too.
The movie was responding to concerns about the rapid growth in employment offered to single women in Canada’s cities. Women could get into trouble, make bad choices, and become unproductive employees. Her Own Fault told the tale of ‘Eileen’ a “good” factory girl, and a “bad” factory girl named Mamie. The characters couldn’t have been more different when it came to personal hygiene, clothing styles, diet and leisure time. Central to the story, however, was how they each approached their work making rubber heels at Gutta Percha. Mamie gets “almost nothing done” in the words of her foreman, while Eileen is astoundingly productive. Eileen is soon promoted to forelady and enjoys a blossoming relationship with a male supervisor. Mamie contracts tuberculosis and is bedridden. The moral of the story was clear.
Detail of a letter from John Norton to Charles Barclay, Head of Lake Ontario, 4 February 1807. Credit: Library and Archives Canada, R18372-7-3-E, vol. 1, Item ID number: 6252663.
This past summer, Library and Archives Canada (LAC) announced an important new acquisition of archival material by John Norton, consisting of some fifteen pieces of correspondence and a journal containing 267 manuscript pages. For those interested in the history of Upper Canada, the War of 1812, the Six Nations of the Grand River, or imperial borderlands and colonial expansion in North America more broadly, this was major news. John Norton has long been a fascinating figure. Born in Scotland sometime around 1770, Norton emigrated to Canada where he was taken under the wing of the prominent Mohawk leader Thayendanegea Joseph Brant. For at least a few years, Norton enjoyed a position of some influence among the Six Nations, and he served prominently in the War of 1812 before being exiled from the Grand River under pain of death for murder in 1823.
Despite the interest of specialists, it’s fair to say that John Norton is not a household name. Even in Canada, he is easily eclipsed by more famous figures from the War of 1812, including notably the quadrumvirate of Isaac Brock, Tecumseh, Charles de Salaberry, and Laura Secord promoted by the Harper government’s bicentennial celebrations. Within academic history, however, John Norton occupies a position of first importance. As a tireless letter-writer and an assiduous self-promoter, Norton has delivered remarkable archival grist to the historian’s mill. Aside from the recent acquisition by LAC, collections of Norton’s papers are held by the Archives of Ontario, the University of Western Ontario, and the Newberry Library in Chicago. His letters likewise feature prominently in the archives of the Colonial Office, Indian Department, and British military, as well as many smaller collections. Most notably, Norton also authored a thousand-page manuscript covering a wide range of subjects, including his journey from Upper Canada to the country of the Cherokee, a sketch of Haudenosaunee history, and his own experiences in the War of 1812.[1] These sources produced by Norton have long provided historians with unique insights into the entangled histories of imperial conflict, colonial expansion, and Indigenous resistance during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.
The Alberta Penitentiary, 1908. Photograph: Byron May, City of Edmonton Archives (EA-500-151). Image Description: A large brick building with windows and guard towers, surrounded by a fence.
“There’s just one kind favor I’ll ask of you,
See that my grave is kept clean.”
Lemon Jefferson, 1927
The Alberta Penitentiary was a federal institution that operated from 1906-1920 just east of Amiskwaciwâskahikan, also known as Edmonton, located on the stolen lands of diverse Indigenous peoples. Forced labour in the prison coal mine, farm, and construction shops were a foundational part of incarceration practices in this period. The first group of prisoners built the prison buildings and prisoners were put to work digging the first mine shaft when the ‘Pen Mine’ opened in 1910, digging the coal that was used to heat the penitentiary. Given the harsh conditions and lack of quality nutrition and healthcare in the Alberta Penitentiary, two dozen prisoners died during their incarceration.
In this piece I explore the limited archival evidence about people in the Alberta Penitentiary and I situate the institution within the context of settler colonial, capitalist development in the early 20th century. Despite the scarce sources, I endeavour tell the story of some of the individuals who died while incarcerated at the Alberta Penitentiary. For most such as Carl Bansemer (died c. 1911) and James Ford (died c. 1913) the archival record contains little but a name and the year they died.
Sean Graham talks with Blair Mirau, author of The City of Rainbows: A Colourful History of Prince Rupert. They talk about the benefits of the city’s geography, the impact of colonialism on local Indigenous communities, and the different eras in the city’s history. They also discuss Prince Rupert during the world wars and Great Depression, its challenges through the second half of the 20th century, and how the city’s history speaks to local histories across the country.
