Atlas 2010 - 2013

The Atlas

The Atlas: UBC Undergraduate Journal of World History 2010-2013 Special Edition 2012/2013 Co-Editors-inChief Emily Hansen Lindsay Keys 2011-13 Student Editors Julia Boswell Stephanie Fung Baillie Ford David Gonzalo Vilchez Stefani Haas Christopher Heschl James Kruk Omar Kutbi Kelsey Lee Debolina Majumder Emily McCallum Sean Place Morag Ramsey Catherine Read Erika Robertson Jordan Rongavilla Stevie Wilson Lara Wigdor

Cover Artist Niranjan Garde 2012/2013 Faculty Editors Dr. Alejandra Bronfman Dr. Michel Ducharme Dr. Julie MacArthur Dr. Tamara Myers Dr. John Roosa Dr. Arlene Sindelar Dr. Coll Thrush Dr. Daniel Vickers

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Dear Reader, This special edition of The Atlas includes essays collected between 2010 and 2013. The essays are ordered chronologically, but also regionally, ranging from early medieval Europe to twentieth-century Canada. Whether your interest is piqued by the meaning of truth a millennium ago, the social and economic factors that changed whaling practices in colonial America, or the early history of Grouse Mountain, this year’s journal holds something for you.

These essays index not only UBC students’ diverse interests, but also their tremendous talent and hard work. We wish to extend our congratulations to the authors, as well as thanking our fabulous editorial team, the History Students’ Association, the Arts Undergraduate Society, and the ever-supportive faculty and staff at the UBC Department of History.

It has been a privilege (though sometimes a challenge) to produce this journal, and on the way we’ve had the opportunity to broaden our horizons – both academic and social.

Sincerely, Emily Hansen and Lindsay Keys Co-editors-in-chief, The Atlas

Table of Contents Peter Jones From Bricoleur to Engineer: Truth in Early Medieval Western Europe 4-13 Josh Timmermann Visions of Youth: Subjective Maternal Perception in Dhuoda's Liber Manualis 14-25 Daniel Roberts Mateship in Mid-Eighteenth Century Nantucket Whaling 26-36 Emily Hansen “The land that never has been yet – / And yet must be” – Promised Land and Liberty among the Freed People in Georgia 37-62 Stephanie Fung In Pursuit of a Strange Neo-Imperialism: Shifting Interpretations of Kipling’s “The White Man’s Burden” from the Nineteenth to the Twenty-first Century 63-71 Fabian Jankovic On the Politics of Suspicion: American responses to the Pentagon Papers and revelations of government deception during the Vietnam War 72-87 Karl Sanden The Growth of Vancouver Leisure Culture: Grouse Mountain Resort 88-101 Jenna Dur Sending Aid or Ideology?:CUSO and the Federal Government in the 1960s 102-13

Jones – From Bricoleur to Engineer From Bricoleur to Engineer: Truth in Early Medieval Western Europe Peter Jones The ninth century in Western Europe was a remarkable time in medieval civilization. It is considered by many to have been a renaissance, one which may be wholly attributed to the influences of the Carolingian dynasty, a family of Frankish nobles whose power reached its zenith in the eighth and ninth centuries during the reign of Charlemagne. The legacy of this renaissance can be seen most clearly in the wealth of extant manuscripts that was the direct result of a Carolingian initiative to recapture the literary culture of the ancients.

This quest for a reinvigoration—for all intents and purposes a restoration to the beacon of civilization that was the Roman Empire— went hand-in-hand with a Carolingian agenda for uniting Western Europe under the church of Christianity. This unification meant a homogenization of thought for the Carolingians and their subjects. As a result of the new Carolingian program, an important shift occurred in medieval civilization which altered fundamental perceptions of truth.

The impact of such a development can be best understood through the application of myth theory. Most notable for his contribution to the shaping of structuralist theory, Claude LéviStrauss’ theory of mythology, particularly his notions of “mythic” thought and “scientific” thought, may serve as a lens through which to view the Carolingian renaissance. For the purpose of expanding on the arguments made by Geoffrey Koziol,1 this paper considers the similarities between antique Greco-Roman rhetorical assumptions and the notion of “mythic” thought as posited by Claude Lévi-Strauss.

Such a comparison leads to a clearer understanding of the Carolingian notion of truth, and a greater appreciation for the meaning of the Carolingian renaissance. Examining rhetoric of pre- and postCarolingian ascension literature reveals the shift from “mythic” thought to “scientific” thought.

Before considering Lévi-Strauss’ theories of myth, it is worthwhile to define the term myth as it is considered in this study. In the broadest sense, myth can be understood as: everything from a simple-minded, fictitious, even mendacious impression to an absolutely true and sacred

account, the very reality of which far outweighs anything that ordinary everyday life can offer.2 Certainly, this definition of myth is rather convenient in its compass; however, for the purpose of this paper, it is adequate. This is because it communicates the extent to which perceptions of myth, or the enunciation of an important concept such as truth through the mechanism of myth, may affect all experience. We may also narrow our consideration within this broad definition in order to establish the criteria by which the majority of our evidence is to be considered.

From the periods of the seventh, eighth and ninth centuries in Western Europe, the majority of surviving written evidence is centred on religion, and more specifically Christianity. With this in mind, what is being considered then is demythologized myth, where the essence of the myth—that is, its narrative form—remains intact, but is not labelled myth per se.3 Myth is instead concealed in terms such as history, or as the Church Father Augustine of Hippo defined the mythology of Christianity, “sacred history.”4 Our third and final consideration for the definition of myth is naturally borrowed from the man whose work provides the basis of this examination: Claude Lévi-Strauss. In his work La Pensée Sauvage (The Savage Mind), Lévi-Strauss gives this rather drawn-out description to the function of myth: Myths…are far from being…the product of man’s ‘mythmaking faculty’, turning its back on reality. Their principle value is indeed to preserve until the present time the remains of methods of observation and reflection which were (and no doubt still are) precisely adapted to discoveries of a certain type: those which nature authorized from the starting point of a speculative organization and exploitation of the sensible world in sensible terms. This science of the concrete was necessarily restricted by its essence to results other than those destined to be achieved by the exact natural sciences but it was no less scientific and its results no less genuine.5

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Jones – From Bricoleur to Engineer This definition of myth leads us to Lévi-Strauss’ further point concerning mythical thought. The act of creating and making use of myth involved a process that Lévi-Strauss calls “bricolage,” where new stories are created using elements of existing stories. However, whereas Bernard de Fontenelle would label bricolage as primitive, the “bricoleur,” as Lévi-Strauss labels him, possesses the same intellectual potential as anyone else. The bricoleur is limited only in the fact that he composes explanations (i.e. myths) about the world using heterogeneous fragments from the past. This enterprise requires a great deal of thought and ingenuity, since the fragments he is using to make sense of his circumstance have little or no meaning for his present situation. The bricoleur nevertheless relies on these components, creating meaning through a method of evoking truth from disparate elements.

A type of literary bricolage existed in the Greco-Roman tradition of history and biography since antiquity. In classical rhetoric, both the orator and the historian were considered to have the same purpose: to deliver a convincing argument. This mentality required skill in persuasion, developing into a process known as inventio.6 This “invention” is the use of topics which are either true or likely to be true to boost the plausibility of one’s argument.7 This definition places ancient rhetoric and mythical bricolage very close together, in that they each make use of what is available to produce a convincing explanation. To be sure, rhetorical writers of history first relied on what was considered fact: eyewitness accounts, canonized texts, etc.

This information formed the basis of their story or argument, and was then supplemented in order to satisfy the aim of their narrative — that is, to persuade. Lucian, in his Quomodo Historia conscribenda sit (How to Write History), asserts that once the historian has acquired all of his credible sources, “a detailed arrangement should then be introduced, after which adornment may be added.”8 Since the narrative was subject to these adornments, the writing then went on to comprise a different form of truth than what we would regard as “actual events” or “facts.” This new truth relied heavily on imagination, and an “exercise of imagination” that was heavily reliant upon a pre-existing body of information.9 The only difference then between the GrecoRoman rhetorical method and Lévi-Strauss’ mythical bricolage is that the events with which Greek and Roman rhetoricians concerned themselves were held to be true, whereas Lévi-Strauss’ bricoleur often

has no previous associations with the events, or the elements, that are collected. The divide would presumably spring from the difference in subject matter – the difference, if any, between history and myth.

However, both the bricoleur and the historian are constantly dependent upon the availability of subject matter. For the bricoleur forms new stories from what is available, just as the historian gathers past accounts to inform his present narrative. While such a consideration would easily occupy the space of its own lengthy study, our concerns must now proceed to the question of the Middle Ages. The GrecoRoman rhetorical tradition continued into this period, fused into the tradition of Christian writings.

Before considering the continuity of Greco-Roman rhetorical assumptions, and their associations with mythical bricolage, we must first establish the alternative to bricolage. This is to properly underscore the significance of the Carolingians in their departure from mythical bricolage. In the case of the bricoleur, as has been shown, new stories are shaped from old ones. The bricoleur forms stories with whatever materials are at hand, and is not able to comprehend a homogenous set of stories because there appears to be no relation between them, and therefore no fundamental need to view them as homogenous.10 At this point, Lévi-Strauss presents the idea of the “engineer,” someone who is very much like the bricoleur in that he looks for what is at his disposal to compose explanations. But unlike the bricoleur, the engineer is said to attempt the creation of a unified thought-system which takes into account all the elements available.11 Where the bricoleur sees heterogenous elements and does not wish to impart organization beyond his immediate need, the engineer harmonizes these elements into a homogeneity, forming a conceptualization of his universe. The engineer constantly fights the constraints put upon him by “a particular state of civilization,” while in contrast the bricoleur does not, choosing instead to work within them.12 The idea of the engineer may then be regarded as “scientific” thinking, while the bricoleur consists of “mythical” thought. The case of the Carolingians presents a divide in European civilization between the bricoleur and the engineer.

In the early Middle Ages, two very different cultures clashed in western Europe. Each one survived in its own way, gradually and painfully synthesizing to form the world that the Carolingians 8

Jones – From Bricoleur to Engineer inherited in the eighth century. Following the deposition of Romulus Augustulus from Rome in 476 AD by the Germanic foederati of Odoacer, the Western Roman Empire formally ceased to exist.13 The provinces of this disintegrating empire then faced a harsh reality. The migration of Germanic populations, which at one time were a feared rabble of barbarians, now ruled over a shocked and disgruntled GalloRoman aristocracy. More than simply suffering the presence of new and foreign neighbours, this development meant a collision of cultures, particularly in regard to myth and religion. The mission to Christianize these Germanic populations began in the fourth century, and continued up until the time of the Carolingians.14 However, as integrated as these populations were, pre-Christian Germanic beliefs and rituals nevertheless permeated society throughout the Middle Ages.

In discussing the history of the Carolingians, and the changing face of early medieval society, the Franks must be recognized for their prominence in the European political sphere from the time of Clovis in the fifth century.15 For knowledge of this society, there is no better source than Gregory of Tours. He wrote his Decem Libri Historiarum in the late sixth century, to be later titled Historiae Francorum (History of the Franks) for its extensive treatment of the Frankish nobility from the beginning of time to Gregory’s present. I mention Gregory of Tours, and wish to emphasize him, because he may be seen as a precursor to the cultural homogeneity that arises with the Carolingians. In his history of sixth-century Gaul, Gregory subscribes to a notion of continuity, seeing the political and social events of his time as part of the “sacred history” of which Augustine spoke in the fourth century.16 It was in the context of this view, where all human experience factored into a totalizing unity under God, that the engineer began to emerge, born in the clash of Germanic bricolage and GalloRoman (Greco-Roman) rhetorical thought as they were driven together into a Christian-dominated thought system. However, this does not mean that bricoleurs did not continue to play a prominent role in medieval society. Even at the time of the Carolingians, which we will next consider, there is evidence of those who maintained mythic thinking in order to explain the world around them.

Through the examination of writings from the Carolingian period, we can see mythical thought governing the actions of certain individuals, but these are only given in fragments. The fact that only fragments exist suggests two possible conditions. The first possibility

is that the Carolingians recognized these fragments as being exactly that, and naturally dismissed them as worthless because a place could not be found for them within the unified system of Christian society.

This is a possibility not treated in any significant way by Lévi-Strauss, for the engineer is not said to refuse elements in his culture. The second possibility is that the Carolingian writers have purposely extracted these fragments from their contexts in order to display them as nonsensical, and, more importantly, to display the Carolingians’ abhorrence of anything which is not a part of the Christian worldview.

An example of two such fragments may be found in the Royal Frankish Annals, in which are mentioned the “Ring of the Avars” and the “Irminsul of the Saxons.”17 Each of these things is mentioned without any other information, save that both are idols. Another example is given by Agobard of Lyons, and is instrumental for the purpose of introducing discussion concerning the Carolingian renaissance. In this example, Agobard, the bishop of Lyons in 815 AD, came upon a group of four people about to be stoned to death.18 Agobard then learned that the townspeople had bound, and intended to kill, these four people because they were cloud sailors who had been recently responsible for bringing hail and thunder, and thus ruining the townspeople’s crops. Agobard quickly intervened, explained to the townspeople their foolishness, and managed to save the four people.

He then went on to compose a treatise “Against the Absurd Belief of the People Concerning Hail and Thunder.”19 The intention of the text is to educate others about the fact that God, and no one else, controls the weather. Agobard relates that the belief held by many townspeople in the surrounding area was that there were humans who had the power to create and control storms, called storm-makers.20 But almost all of the information that Agobard includes comes in the form of condemnations. There was likely a story to accompany these stormmakers that would explain the reason for the townspeople’s belief in them, but Agobard is not interested in an explanation because it is fundamentally wrong. It is fundamentally wrong because it is not supported by the Carolingian’s explanation of the universe. The Carolingians adhered strictly to their totalizing system of thought.

The reforms of the Carolingians were pivotal in a number of ways. As mentioned earlier, prior to the advent of the Carolingians in the eighth century, the Franks had been Christians for three centuries, 10

Jones – From Bricoleur to Engineer since the time of Clovis. However, it was not until the eighth and ninth centuries that Christianity as a state religion became so enmeshed in every facet of life. Christianity became a way of life. An intellectual and religious unity was the result of the promulgation of florilegia, collections of religious texts that helped to reform the liturgy, offer instruction in the vernacular, and provide a purpose, structure and argument for the preservation of a unified Christian society. 21 The Carolingians were the engineers of a new Christian empire. The truth of this claim could be seen all around them, and they admitted no element that was not a part of their system.

There are a number of qualifications accompanying the claim that the Carolingians transformed the literate population of Western Europe from primarily bricoleurs to primarily engineers. The most important qualification is that these three concepts, namely mythic thought, scientific thought, and Greco-Roman rhetoric, all existed during the Carolingian renaissance. One mode of thinking did not replace the other, and Greco-Roman rhetoric did not suddenly (or even gradually) vanish. It must be remembered that the renaissance was enjoyed largely by the literate, leaving a considerable portion of the population continuing to “bricolate” their explanations from the ravings of storm-makers. At the same time, mythic thought should not be considered to have vanished during this time either, for myth survived in the canon of Carolingian literature, as it had survived prior to the Carolingians’ ascent, in religion. As mentioned earlier, the demythologized character of religious writings did not discount them as myths, whether or not they were considered as such by their believers. Geoffrey Koziol is convincing in his argument that the idea of myth was incomprehensible to the Carolingians, but that they nevertheless held onto myths in the form of a single corpus.22 The singular embrace of Christianity’s mythic thought enabled its followers to move from mere “bricolage” to engineering a complete picture, accounting for all human experience in the truth of God’s word.

The sequence of argumentation leads us to what is fundamentally at stake in the Carolingian renaissance: truth. As LéviStrauss surely would have considered, the Carolingians’ claim to scientific thought—with the notion of their singular adherence to Christianity as a system of belief in mind—lay in language, humans’ tool for truth. The Carolingians were a literate and Latinate culture,

and, as such, possessed terms like veritas for truth, falsitas for falseness, and discriminare for distinguishing between truth and lies.

The problem of truth in Carolingian law courts in terms of testimony, document verification and other contradictory evidence led to the development of the inquest, wax document seals, notarial subscriptions and cryptographic notations.23 This obsession with truth was part of the Carolingians’ devotion to Christianity as a totalizing unity, for in Christianity the world was clearly ordered. God removed all contradictions, and so any contradiction that arose in the enterprises of men must be sought out and resolved. There developed a need for every aspect of life to be saturated with truth: This is what happens when one believes, as the Carolingians believed, in a totalizing truth, a truth that does not simply reinforce the unity of the empire but actually goes much farther, uniting its different, component institutions by requiring that identical principles be identified and applied in each. The Carolingians created a truth that could be seen to be true in the essential, adamantine, atomic identity of a single set of principle that united monastery, church, and state in one thoroughly Christian empire‌24 Truth may take many forms. In the case of the bricoleur, truth is a reamalgamation of the stories of the past given a new truth in each new age. The truth of the Carolingians was also a new truth, perceived to be a realization of a demythologized past, and founded upon a God who was the beginning and the end. Their truth was a scientific truth, because it bred an understanding of the universe in which all that happened was comprehendible within one system, an allencompassing bricolage that gave birth to the engineer.

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Timmermann – Visions of Youth Visions of Youth: Subjective Maternal Perception in Dhuoda's Liber Manualis Josh Timmermann Like to your youth is the flowering branch That measures in years just four times four.

Yet with lords you will walk, your tender limbs stronger As you grow: Much too long, it seems to me I've yearned to gaze on the shape of your face.

If I had the power! But this joy for me is Undeserved.

-Dhuoda25 The verse quoted above is taken from an acrostic poem, written by the Frankish noblewoman Dhuoda for her teenaged son, William, gone from her home in Uzès to the court of Charles the Bald, following the decade of rebellions and civil war that had irreparably fractured the Carolingian Empire. The poem appears near the end of the Liber Manualis, a 73-chapter advice manual written by Dhuoda, between November 841 and February 843, primarily for William and, by her instruction, later for her younger son, Bernard, who was taken away in his infancy by his father, Bernard of Septimania, the controversial former court chamberlain to Louis the Pious.26 Though ostensibly part of the speculum principis (“mirror of princes”) genre, the personal tenor of Dhuoda's manual renders it ultimately sui generis.27 Dhuoda advises William on subjects ranging from how and for whom to pray to how to survive at court in a time of political instability; interspersed amongst these dominant concerns are numerological interpretations, Biblical and patristic exegesis, a detailed family tree; and acrostic poems such as the one excerpted above.

While Dhuoda’s encyclopedic knowledge of scripture and her elaborate theories on the meaning of numbers are unmistakably medieval, there is something striking—or rather, strikingly modern— about the Liber Manualis, a quality eloquently evinced, and exemplified, by the aforementioned poem. The maternal tenor and emotional urgency which characterize Dhuoda's carefully selected words register as only superficially different from the feelings that

would likely motivate a letter written by a concerned, protective present-day mother to her geographically distant teenaged son. Even aside from the emotional expressiveness of Dhuoda’s writing, there are other suggestive details to be gleaned from this brief passage: the figurative comparison of William's “youth” (iuventus) to “the flowering branch”; the inclusion of “just” before William's age (“four times four”); and the reference to his “tender limbs” all indicate that, despite William's adult roles as a warrior and nobleman, Dhuoda perceives her son as still transitioning into adulthood. Dhuoda's vision of William as no longer a child, but not yet a fully-formed adult, despite his participation in adult society, marks a striking contrast to Phillipe Ariès's famous contention that, “in medieval society, the idea of childhood did not exist.”28 As this paper suggests, the “idea of childhood,” or some imprecisely delineated phase of pre-adult life, can be discerned from Dhuoda's text.

Ariès' thesis has long been refuted by medievalists, including Carolingian specialists like Janet L. Nelson and Valerie Garver. While “[paying] homage” to Ariès for “[opening] new vistas for researchers on any and every period,” Nelson firmly asserts that, “he was wrong about the Middle Ages...he underestimated the love of medieval parents for their offspring...[and] fell into our professional vice of locating the Other in the period before the one he knew the most about.”29 Garver, looking at the monastic influence on Carolingian childhood, concurs with Nelson's sentiment regarding “a richness and variety of emotion among medieval parents and children that Ariès did not notice.”30 With these points in mind, it is not my intention in the space that follows to simply echo the well-established consensus that Ariès was mistaken in his remarks on medieval childhood. Instead, I hope to use Ariès' problematic thesis as a point of departure, from which I will closely examine the Liber Manualis for the ways in which it suggests a subjective understanding (or idea) of “youth,” rooted in maternal affection and concern, that is seemingly incongruous, or at least very different, from the objective reality of ninth century young adult life. In other words, the social experience of a teenaged male in the Carolingian era is no doubt far removed from that of today's youth, yet the perception of his stage in life, his physical and emotional maturity, by his mother may be considerably closer to the modern familial context.

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Timmermann – Visions of Youth Though the title Liber Manualis is a later, historiographical designation, Dhuoda, near the beginning of her work, offers an explanation of the latter word: The “-alis” part of Manualis has many meanings. I shall, however, explain only three of them here, according to the sayings of the Fathers. It means scope, which is “aim”; consummation, which is “achievement”; and a striving after, which is “completion” Or, indeed, “bird” signifies the herald and messenger of dawn, bringing the end of night and singing the light of the morning hours. What other meaning, then, could this term Manualis have but the end of ignorance?31 Here, by suggesting the intention of her manual as being to aid William toward “the end of [his] ignorance,” Dhuoda implies that her son, already immersed in the events of the adult world, has not yet reached manhood, or at least not the ideal version of manhood that Dhuoda hopes her words will help him to achieve. Analyzing the Liber Manualis alongside Nithard's contemporary Histories32 for prescriptions of ideal lay masculinity, Meg Leja notes, “the fact that Dhuoda believed it necessary to provide her son with a guide to the obligations that would structure his life indicates that she saw her son’s need for such information—a need that was not going to be fulfilled except by her work.”33 The obvious corollary to Leja's point is, of course, that Dhuoda continues to view her son as within a youthful state of physical, emotional, and spiritual transition—not yet as a grown man, like his father, Bernard.

Leja subsequently observes, “Throughout the Manual, Dhuoda devotes almost no attention to William’s duties as a warrior. She encourages him to take pleasure in fighting for his lord, but never makes reference to the training he will undergo or to contemporary conflicts such as [the recent battle of] Fontenoy—an event that shapes Nithard's understanding of a warrior's identity.” 34 From this fruitful contrast of perspectives between lay writers, we may discern further evidence of a maternal subjective perception of age categories that is more ambiguous than external determinants of youth and adulthood— though not necessarily any less valid. Nelson connects this distinct perspective to the very foundation of Dhuoda's authority as an advisor

in arguing that, “Dhuoda's claim was based, in large part, on her maternity, which underlined her lay status, and made her an embodiment of carnality, but nevertheless gave her a legitimate, authoritative voice, acknowledged within her patriarchal world.”35 If Dhuoda's maternal status is, thus, her chief qualification in advising William, it may likewise serve to validate her view of William, detached from his role as a warrior and not yet fully a man.

In another early section of the Liber Manualis, Dhuoda states: I have observed that most women of this world take joy in their children. But, my son William, I see myself, Dhuoda, living separated and far away from you. For this reason I am somewhat ill at ease, and eager to be useful to you. I am happy, therefore, to address this little book to you, which is transcribed in my own name. It is for you to read as a kind of model. Even though I am absent in body, this little book will be present.36 Dhuoda's observation about “most women of this world” seems to offer confirmation that her views are largely representative of other (or “most,” though we should probably question just how broad the social spectrum of women that Dhuoda knew intimately may have been) women of her era. However, the next sentence, in which Dhuoda bemoans her separation from William, may be even more telling. This passage may suggest that Dhuoda's vision of William as a young person in transition from boyhood to manhood is (at least partly) the result of a “frozen” image of him from the last period that they were together; in Dhuoda’s mind—if this reading is indeed correct—he remains a youth until his physical presence demonstrates otherwise. Additionally, while Dhuoda is no doubt aware of William's role as a warrior, that abstract awareness may not be easily reconciled with the “frozen” image from their earlier time together; unlike Bernard senior and the other adult men in William's present company, Dhuoda has not seen William fighting in battle.

This is not to say that Dhuoda is naïve with regard to the earthly, political realm. To the contrary, Nelson notes that when, near the beginning of the manual, Dhuoda makes a special point of 16

Timmermann – Visions of Youth recounting her marriage ceremony to Bernard at the court of Louis the Pious in Aachen, Dhuoda is asserting her personal familiarity with this sphere of life,37 a point that may help to command William's close attention to her advice and admonishment.38 Dhuoda's conception of William as a youth in need of education, as opposed to a young warrior already tested at Fontenoy, seems as personal as it is purposeful: The concern that compels Dhuoda to write to William is both for his mortal life in politically dangerous times and for the salvation of his soul in Christ, but the sense of loss embedded throughout Dhuoda's text seems to stem from her recognition of youth's inherent ephemerality. Dhuoda's persistent characterization of William as a youth may then be considered a kind of half-hearted emotional denial of the sad fact that she is absent from witnessing this impermanent period of her son's life. This aspect of the Liber Manualis may rightly be considered performative, as Dhuoda attempts to “re-order” reality by rhetorically prolonging a window of time that she does not want to accept as closed, before the moment when she and William are reunited in the flesh.

Throughout the Liber Manualis, Dhuoda repeatedly associates herself with William as spiritual peers. “You and I must quest for God, my son,” she writes in one instance, followed shortly thereafter by, “we are imperfect dust, you and I.”39 When Dhuoda associates herself with her husband Bernard, it is in the context of parental authority, and she always qualifies her status as subordinate to that of Bernard—her “lord” as well as William's.40Yet, while emphasizing her own unique authority as rooted in maternal care and devotion, Dhuoda's repeated pairing of herself and her son suggests a grouping of women and youths as separate from adult men. While this point is never directly expressed in such terms by Dhuoda, it seems to function as a natural extension of her attempt at forging a personal connection with William through the words of her manual.

Dhuoda, at another point in the Liber Manualis, states that while “[you] will have learned doctors to teach you many more examples, more eminent and of greater usefulness...they are not equal in status with me, nor do they have a heart more ardent than I, your mother, have for you, my first-born son!”41 Though she invokes the humility topos42—an approach common among Carolingian authors of both lay and clerical backgrounds—here and more explicitly elsewhere in her writing, Dhuoda was an exceptionally literate and well-read

woman (a truth perennially attested to by her historiographers43). But that is not the point being expressed here: Dhuoda is attributing to her manual a special kind of authority that derives from her deep emotional concern for William's well-being—a degree of concern that the “learned doctors” she refers to cannot, by definition, possess.

Later in the text, Dhuoda advises William on how to pay reverence to his father. After exhorting William to “support his old age, and do not cause him grief in his lifetime,” Dhuoda adds: “Do not despise him when you are strong.”44 Again, Dhuoda suggests through the future tense that William is not yet grown, not yet “strong.” As in the quoted passage from her acrostic poem (“your tender limbs stronger/ as you grow”), Dhuoda associates William's on-going physical development, with a more general immaturity, providing further insight into her understanding of his present life-stage. In another instance, Dhuoda writes: [I] beg you not to neglect your friendships with young men as well as older men—young men who hold God dear and are themselves devoted apprentices of wisdom. For the maturity of one who flourishes grows strong in youth.

Someone says, “How will you find in your old age what what you have failed to gather in youth?” Ask the Lord, then, for Wisdom, and say, “God, teach me from my youth and until my old age, and when I grow weak do not abandon me, kindly Father.”45 Here, Dhuoda clearly ties the notion of “strength” (physical as well as spiritual) to the developmental process, citing the acquisition of “strength” (in this case, through divine wisdom) as a crucial aspect to correct maturation. From this quoted passage, we may infer a broader social view of “young men” as works in progress, in vital need of both good companionship within their age cohort and the wise counsel of older men, who have (presumably, per Dhuoda) developed along a similar trajectory to reach their state of ideal maturity.

Dhuoda further clarifies this point a couple chapters later, observing:

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Timmermann – Visions of Youth There are some people who consider themselves advisors, and who really are not for they believe they are wise although they are not...In these turbulent times, a man doesn't know whom to choose as a counselor, or someone he can trust above all. For many people the hope of finding help from any one remains dim . . .46 This is practical advice, to be sure, and Dhuoda is unwittingly echoing the pessimism of her contemporary Nithard in her conception of the Carolingian political landscape.47 But her tone in this passage is, above all, protective of a son she views as vulnerable, with his vulnerability a natural aspect of what Dhuoda perceives as his “youth.”

In the interests of clarity and the importance of correct deference, Dhuoda prescribes to William the proper order of figures to whom his reverence is due, a hierarchical trinity bridging heaven and earth and neatly complementing the manual's earlier chapter on the Holy Trinity. After first advising William to revere God, and then his earthly father, Dhuoda writes, “Hold still fast to Charles [the Bald], for whom you have as your lord, since God, as I believe, and your father Bernard chose for you at the beginning of your youth a flourishing strength for serving him...”48 The dating of Bernard's “choice” to the “beginning of [William's] youth” strongly suggests, given the recent formal commendation of William to Charles,49 that Dhuoda perceives William's youth as not only presently on-going, but perhaps still nearer to its beginning than its completion. This point stands in stark contrast to the battle-tested teenage warrior negotiating the perilous, war-torn empire; this strange juxtaposition, of Dhuoda's affectionate description of her son and the present circumstances of William's worldly experience, serves to cement the discernible gap between Dhuoda's subjective maternal perception and the external reality of ninth century life.

Edward James addresses one significant obstacle to the study of childhood and family relationships in the Early Middle Ages, observing, “We can obviously know very little about [early medieval] family life from our sources—most of which, indeed, were written by celibates.”50 With literacy and writing firmly centered within monastic culture, this is certainly a problem for the early medievalist interested in childhood and the family.51 James proceeds to note, however, that “research into aristocratic families is much more advanced.”52 This

point applies to Dhuoda, her politically prominent family, and her manual. It also suggests the limits and constraints of reading the Liber Manualis as a source for the study of early medieval childhood: Dhuoda's manual is the only extant text written by a laywoman from the Carolingian period. It is, no doubt, the work of a highly literate woman from among the aristocratic nobility; at the same time, it is also the lone attestation to Dhuoda's life. With these qualities in mind, it is important not to over-generalize about the Carolingian family, or the dynamic of Carolingian mother and son, based exclusively on the insights that the Liber Manualis may yield. That said, while the survival of Dhuoda's text is decidedly exceptional, the attitudes suggested therein should not be viewed in isolated, or considered wholly unique to their author. It may be difficult, or even impossible, to definitively prove that other ninth century women shared the views of Dhuoda with regard to their teenaged sons. Yet it seems entirely reasonable to assume that other women, particularly those of similar status and background, did think at least roughly along these lines, as Dhuoda herself implies in the afore-quoted passage relating to “most women in this world.” In making this fair, but cautious assumption, the Liber Manualis does take on a rather more expansive shape, lending a variably representative voice to the Carolingian mothers who may or may not have possessed Dhuoda's literary skill—and who definitely did not possess her posthumous luck in manuscript preservation.

Dhuoda's subjective maternal perception of the categories of youth and adulthood—and perhaps a similar perception shared by other Carolingian women—cannot, even if it is accepted as being evident from the Liber Manualis, be entirely explained in causal terms.

Too much of the Carolingian experience has been lost, or was never attempted to be preserved in the first place—not least any record of Dhuoda's life beyond her own manual. However, one area of research that may prove fruitful in connection with Dhuoda and her relationship with William is the intensifying cult of the Virgin Mary in the Carolingian era. This phenomenon should be considered significant when examining the urgent, tender handbook addressed from mother to son. Nelson cites a baptismal prayer recited as early as the eighth century as “[linking] typologically the central event in Christian history, the birth of Mary's child, with the Church's reproduction of itself. To become a Christian is to be born again: to become as a little 20

Timmermann – Visions of Youth child.”53 James B. Williams, meanwhile, examines the influence of Benedict of Aniane, a close adviser to Louis the Pious, in spreading the cult of Mary during Louis the Pious' reign—the period of time immediately preceding the Liber Manualis's creation. Williams writes: [Benedict of Aniane] emphasized Mary's lineage as a descendant of King David, the obstetrical nature of her conception as she received the “lofty seed,” and the miracle of her ability to maintain perpetual virginity in spite of this conception. Benedict concluded that Mary's contribution to the creation of Christ took center stage because through her Christ assumed humanity. . 54 Benedict of Aniane is best known for unifying the monasteries of the empire under the Rule of Saint Benedict of Nursia, one of the two texts (along with, of course, the Bible) that Martin Claussen cites as a fundamental source for the Liber Manualis.55 It is likely that Dhuoda was influenced by the growing importance attributed to the Virgin Mary during her lifetime.

If this is indeed the case, it may serve to help us better understand the tenderness and concern on display in Dhuoda's writing, the subjective, emotional lens through which Dhuoda views William, and the uniquely maternal note of authority that grounds Dhuoda's advice to her son. If Mary fails to take “center stage” in Dhuoda's manual, it might finally be because Dhuoda has cast herself in the role. As Christ, in the language of Christian orthodoxy, forever remains “the Son,” and for Mary, her son, so, too, is William ever Dhuoda's “young boy,” frozen in time, a vision of youth's potential and malleability.

None of this is to say that the experience of youth as a distinct period of life in the early Middle Ages was necessarily equivalent to the more finely demarcated childhood stage of the modern era.

However, the subjective perception of the young—especially, in this case, of a mother's own offspring—emphasized the vulnerable, not quite fully-developed features of adolescence that continue to elicit cautious concern in parents and guardians today. The probable disconnect between the reality of William the already-seasoned warrior and the puerile William of Dhuoda's tender, textual imagination, rather than undermining this point, speaks poignantly of a “dark age” that was far from bereft of sincere familial affection.

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Roberts – Mateship Mateship in Mid-Eighteenth Century Nantucket Whaling Daniel Roberts May 14th, 2nd of Week: First part of this day Wind at north. Lay under a trisail and foresail and began to try [render] our Blubber but we Spy’d Whales and Elisha Coffin and We mated and Kill’d four Spermaceties between us and Sav’d them but Could not Cut them up. Lattitude by Observation 40:13 North. So no More this 24 Hours.

-Peleg Folger56 This passage is one of the many journal entries by young Nantucket whaler Peleg Folger, and describes a particularly eventful day during which he and the rest of the crew processed whale blubber from a previous kill, spotted a pod of sperm whales, and teamed up with another captain and crew to kill four whales between them.

Folger’s journal, which documents his whaling voyages from 1751 to 1754, provides readers a rare window into mid-eighteenth century Nantucket whaling and reveals how this economy changed over time.

One of the changes in the journal that is particularly striking is the increase in instances of ‘mateship.’ Mateship, or ‘mating,’ refers to the process “whereby two or more whaling sloops would pool their efforts and share in the spoils of the hunt.”57 This usually meant that the two mated vessels split both the labour and the harvested materials fiftyfifty. This paper will argue that the most significant factors contributing to mateship among Nantucket whalers during the early 1750s were the potential for increased social interaction and practical labour benefits, which, most importantly, led to the potential for greater economic gains. Although Folger’s journal only demonstrates mateship’s prevalence among a small number of Nantucket whalers during a four-year span, additional evidence from a prior whaling journal and a nineteenth century court case suggest that the phenomenon of mateship not only arose during the mid-eighteenth century, but extended well into the nineteenth century and became increasingly common for late-colonial and American whalers.

Whaling in colonial America first started around Cape Cod and Long Island in the mid-seventeenth century.58 This early form of whaling, called ‘shore-whaling,’ involved one lookout perched high on a timber pole who would scan the sea for signs of a whale, and one or two six-man crews in small whaleboats who would row out to harpoon

and kill the whale.59 After the whale was killed, the whaleboats would drag the carcass back to shore so it could be cut up, and the oil and blubber could be rendered for sale.60 As the prices and demand for whale oil increased during the early eighteenth century and the number of whales near the shore decreased, many colonial entrepreneurs looked for ways to increase their whaling range.61 By copying European whalers, colonial whalers learned to bring two of the small whaling boats originally used for shore-whaling aboard a larger oceangoing vessel called a sloop,62 usually between forty and fifty feet in length.63 The crew lived, sailed the ocean, and kept their supplies on the sloop, but when a whale was spotted the two smaller and more maneuverable whaleboats would be lowered into the water and the hunt would begin. The use of sloops in colonial whaling led to the development of off-shore or ‘deep-sea’ whaling, the voyages of which could last several weeks or even months compared to the simple daytrips allowed by shore-whaling. During Folger’s time as a whaler, crews on deep-sea whaling voyages usually consisted of thirteen men, so that when the two whaleboats were pursuing a whale (with six men in each one) one man was left to tend to the sloop.64 The installation of permanent tryworks on vessels. used to render blubber and prevent spoilage at sea, arose around 1750 and became increasingly common thereafter, further increasing the potential trip length for colonial whalers.65 However, Peleg Folger’s whaling journal evidences another development in the industry that is more puzzling: the sudden prevalence of mateship events during certain voyages, the reasons for which are not explicitly stated.

Despite the fact that Folger’s journal as a whole contains numerous entries mentioning mateship, Folger’s records of his first two voyages from May 1 to 15, 1751, and May 18 to June 18, 1751, do not mention mateship at all.66 However, Folger’s third and forth voyages saw thirty-three percent of all kills being carried out while mated (at least one kill while mated and two kills while sailing alone).67 Folger’s fifth voyage from April 15 1752 to May 26 1752, apart from being the longest trip to date (six weeks in length compared to an average of three and a half weeks for the previous trips), is also the first voyage to see multiple instances of mateship.68 In all of 1752, Folger’s whaling crew killed four times as many whales as Folger’s crew from the previous year, with seventy-five percent of all whale 24

Roberts – Mateship kills done while mated (at least nine instances of mateship kills compared to only three whales, one of which was very young and yielded little oil, killed while alone). 1753 saw similar statistics as Folger recorded between seventy and seventy-seven percent of all whale kills being done while mated (at least seven mateship kills compared to only two or three alone).69 Hence, Folger’s journal clearly shows a drastic increase in the percentage of kills that are done during mateship, the total number of kills, and overall voyage length during the second and third years of his journal compared to the first.

However, Folger’s journal is not without its complications. For example, in an entry dated May 12, 1753, Folger wrote, “in company with Elisha Coffin. We Spy’d a Scool of Spermaceties and we Kill’d one . . .”70 Although this entry may give the impression that the two vessels mated, two days later Folger wrote, “we Spy’d Whales and Elisha Coffin and We mated and Kill’d four Spermaceties between us and Sav’d them but Could not Cut them up.”71 In cases like this, it is fairly unclear whether Folger purposely made a distinction between being “in company with” another ship, and having “mated” with a ship. This makes it difficult to count exactly how many whales were killed during instances of mateship. Another entry dated August 23, 1753 even combined the two terms, stating, “This Day We in Company with Our Mates Stood to the westward the whole 24 hours.”72 Fortunately, these ambiguities, although curious and sometimes confusing, are few enough that they do not detract from the evidence of mateship’s dramatically increased commonality.

Despite the prevalence of mateship that Folger’s journal presents among Nantucket whalers in the early 1750s, the journal only provides a small sample of the much larger colonial whaling industry.

In order to demonstrate that the practice of mateship began around the mid-eighteenth century and continued its rise among both Nantucket whalers and colonial American whalers in general, additional sources must be examined. One particularly useful source is the journal of Brewster, Massachusetts whaler Benjamin Bang, which is discussed

by Eric J. Dolin in his book Leviathan. Bang’s journal recounts both shore-whaling and deep-sea whaling voyages between 1742 and 1749.73 Bang’s voyages were mostly limited to the east coast of the American colonies with Sperm whales being the primary targets of the journeys.74 Although Bang mentioned sailing with other sloops, he never mentioned engaging in mateship, a stark difference between his

journal and Folger’s (written just a few years later).75 It should be said that these two journals are far from definitive proof that mateship was non-existent before Folger mentions it in 1752. However, the fact that Folger worked on five different ships with five different captains throughout the journal, not to mention that the instances of mateship are with a variety of ships, indicates that the rise in mateship was becoming prevalent throughout the area and not just aboard the vessel Folger worked on at the time.76 This is not to say that Folger’s journal represents the very start of mateship’s rise to commonality, especially since significant changes in established industries (such as whaling) rarely happen in time frames as short as Folger’s journal. However, the two journals do provide strong support for the theory that the mideighteenth century was the time when the practice of mateship was on the rise and becoming more widespread throughout the colonial American whaling industry.

An exception to the apparent trend of increased mateship over time is the year 1754, the last complete whaling season Folger recorded in his journal, when the instances of mateship fell drastically to only thirty-three percent of all whale kills.77 The total number of whale kills saw a reduction from ten the previous year to just three kills, while trip lengths also dipped from a single twenty-week voyage in 1753, to three trips averaging about six and a half weeks each in 1754. These shorter trips would have decreased the crew’s overall hunting time as well as their chances for mateship due to the time spent sailing to and from the whaling grounds near Newfoundland and their home port in Nantucket.

Although it may seem puzzling that Folger’s crew would make multiple shorter journeys when it was clearly economically advantageous to do one extremely long voyage, the shorter voyages were likely necessary as Folger’s 1754 vessel probably did not have a trywork installed on it (while the vessel from 1753 did).78 This can be assumed because although Folger mentions trying whale blubber throughout his 1753 voyage, he did not mention trying blubber at all in 1754. Thus, it is almost certain that the lack of a trywork on the sloop combined with a bad year in terms of whales spotted, provides a likely explanation for the drop in mateship, trip length, and total number of kills between the voyage of 1753 and the voyages of 1754.

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Roberts – Mateship Unfortunately, Folger never wrote down why whaling captains decided to ‘mate’ in the first place. Although trying to evaluate which benefits were most significant in contributing to mateship among Nantucket whalers is largely speculative, it is clear that the social aspect of mating was extremely significant. In many ways, mating was simply an extension of what is referred to as ‘gamming.’ Gamming or ‘a gam’ was when two whaling ships met on the open sea and stopped to socialize, with the length of any such meeting lasting anywhere from hours to days.79 The captains would usually go onto one ship while the mates went onto the other and crews intermingled between both.80 Eric Dolan called gams “the most exciting and anticipated social opportunity at sea.”81 Indeed, gams were “a welcome break in the monotonous round of life between sea and sky,”82 not to mention that it gave individual crews a break from each other’s company. The willingness of Nantucket whalers in particular to gam was no doubt facilitated by the nature of Nantucket’s population. Because the population of Nantucket was so isolated, there was a high degree of interrelatedness among its tightly knit inhabitants.83 This meant that in all likelihood many of the whalers in the Nantucket whaling fleet, which by 1748 consisted of sixty ships (and grew throughout the 1750s), were related to or knew each other personally.84 It only seems natural that whaling crews, while enjoying gaming but disliking the loss of valuable time during the whaling season, started to hunt whales together and split the profits. In this way whalers could have the best of both worlds: they would be able to socialize with the crews of other vessels, making their increasingly longer voyages more enjoyable, without losing as much time as they would have by participating in gamming alone. Thus, the prevalence of mateship fit directly into preexisting practices of the whaling industry. While mateship still provided the social benefits desired by whalers, mateship also bore on profitability as less time was ‘wasted’ by gams during which no work was carried out by either crew.

In addition to the social benefits (which also bore on profitability) offered by mateship, there were also a number of practical benefits concerning the actual hunting and harvesting of whales. Firstly, with two ships engaged in mateship, the number of men on lookout duty doubled, which significantly increased the chances of actually finding whales. In terms of shore-whaling there was only one lookout, but there only had to be one since he only had to

worry about the one hundred and eighty degrees of ocean in front of him. Thus, having an extra lookout man for shore-whaling would not have had much benefit, especially when paying the extra man would have eaten up part of the profits. However, in deep-sea whaling, a single lookout had to watch over three hundred and sixty degrees of ocean. With the extra lookout man that mateship provided, each lookout only had to observe one hundred and eighty degrees of ocean, giving both crews a much greater chance of actually finding a whale, greatly increasing both crews’ potential for profits. The additional eyes would have been especially useful for spotting whales in the foggy, cloudy, and rough conditions that are common around the Grand Banks where many of Folger’s voyages went.

Secondly, although mating doubled the number of smaller whaleboats that could be used in pursuing and killing the whales, potentially finishing the task much faster than the usual two whaleboats, evidence suggests that having two sloops was even more beneficial. In an entry from April 28, 1754, Folger described how after mating with a vessel and killing a large Sperm whale, “We Got her Between Both Vessels and Got a Parbuckle under her and four tackles and runners to her and hoised85 her head about 3 foot above Water and then Cut a Scuttle in her head . . .,”86 thereby having the whale suspended between the two sloops. One benefit of cutting up a whale in this manner was that the whale was physically out of the water, which allowed greater access to the blubber without having to rotate it in the water constantly, something that would have been impossible when a large whale hung over the side of only one ship. Another benefit was that it allowed members of both crews to work on the whale at the same time, helping to get the work done faster.

Additionally, not only would the weight of the whale be spread out between the two ships, the harnesses holding the whale would effectively connect the sloops and prevent them from rocking so much in rougher conditions, making the process of cutting up the whale quicker and easier. The potential to do work faster bore on profitability because the faster the work was completed, the faster the crews could begin searching for more whales, further adding to their profits.

Furthermore, as Nathaniel Philbrick stated in his foreword to Folger’s journal, there was often no alternative to mateship if crews wanted to 28

Roberts – Mateship successfully cut up whales that could be longer than both sloops combined.87 Adding to the difficultly of cutting up a whale at sea were the ever-present dangers associated with the business of whaling. In an entry dated August 20, 1754, Folger recounted that while the crew was trying to cut up a whale they had killed the previous day, a particularly large set of waves caused their sloop to lunge violently, “and we parted One of Our Runners twice and Split one of our Runner blocks and hurt one of our hands Splitting his finger, One of them most sadly, and made most Racking work.”88 They then decided to unhook their tackles and runners “not Daring to Cut any Longer for Fear of our Lives and Limbs.”89 Events like this were typical for whalers in the mid-eighteenth century.90 Historian Elmo Hohman described working conditions while cutting up whales as being “carried on at a pace and under conditions which would have become intolerable if continued over longer periods,” with “only the barest minimum of time for food and sleep.”91 Accidents and carelessness were bound to result from the conditions Hohman described, especially when considering the ship’s own movement in the waves while whalers worked. Although mateship would not have kept crew members completely safe, mated sloops provided some sort of stabilization for each other and allowed crew members to cut up the whale more quickly and safely.

At first, the connection between safety and profitability may not be clear. However, one must remember that the number of men hired to work on a whaling vessel (usually thirteen during the time of Folger’s journal) was key. In order to make the most money possible for both the ship’s owner and the employees, the ship had to carry the fewest number of men necessary to do the work effectively. If one of the crew members was injured or killed during a voyage, it meant that the work could not be done as quickly as it would normally, thus the time for additional whale kills was reduced and the voyage’s economic potential as a whole diminished. Additionally, if a voyage carried an extra whaler in case there was an injury or death, profits were eaten away simply by paying for the extra employee’s wage and upkeep (food, drink, etc.). Therefore, increased safety, a practical labour benefit that was directly linked to a voyage’s economic profitability, was another benefit that stemmed from the prevalence of mateship in Folger’s whaling journal.

Peleg Folger’s whaling journal is a valuable window into mideighteenth century colonial American whaling industry. The prevalence of mateship, something that stands out considerably in the journal, is best explained by the increased potential for economic gains the practice provided, as well as the social and practical labour benefits. The great extent to which increased profits, as well as the other benefits, were a motivator for engaging in mateship is testified to by the practice’s expansion over time, especially since mateship’s rise to commonality was not exclusive to Nantucket whalers like Folger.

An additional point for consideration is the considerable likelihood that mateship continued to rise in commonality among colonial American whalers in general, something suggested by a Massachusetts court case from 1823. This case, a suit recorded by the Supreme Court of Massachusetts, was between the plaintiff Reuben Baxter, owner of the ship Gideon from Nantucket, which was captained by Clark, and the defendant Samuel Rodman, owner of the ship Maria from New Bedford, which was captained by Sprague.

Baxter claimed that Rodman owed him thirty barrels of whale oil under a contract of mateship that had been arranged by the two captains in August of 1823. What is of interest in the scope of this paper is not the judge’s ruling, but how the judge discussed mateship in the whaling industry before coming to his verdict. Early on, the judge stated that although neither of the captains had instructions to enter into a contract of mateship, “it was proved that a usage to mate vessels is common, and almost universal; that this usage is well known to merchants and owners of whaleships in Nantucket and New Bedford.”92 The judge went on to say, “the usage [of mateship] was of so long standing and so general, that the knowledge of all concerned in the whaling business would be presumed,” indicating that mateship was not only a commonly held practice in Nantucket and Massachusetts, but also among American whalers in general and had been for many years.93 The fact that the suit was an official case from the Supreme Court of Massachusetts, the state with perhaps the richest whaling history in the United States, gives it significant weight as evidence since a large portion of the population there would have known the intricacies of whaling. This would make falsities or exaggerations concerning whaling particularly risky since much of the population 30

Roberts – Mateship would likely hear about any major injustices from one of the parties involved in the suit. The source’s legitimacy is further attested to by the fact that both of the vessels were from Massachusetts, thereby avoiding the possibility of the judge being biased in his ruling against whalers from other states.

During his closing statement, the judge reiterated by saying, “Perhaps there can be no better evidence of the reasonableness of a custom [referring to mateship], than its antiquity and uninterrupted prevalence,” implying that mateship as a practice had been commonplace for many years prior.94 However, the presence of only one piece of evidence, despite its clear and concise language, is not enough material to demonstrate that mateship continued to rise in prevalence from its inception to the point of being almost universal among American whalers in the 1820s. Nevertheless, the Supreme Court case of Baxter et al. v. Rodman does present a point for further consideration by scholars with significant interest in the practice of mateship as well as American whaling in general.

“The land that never has been yet – / And yet must be” – Promised Land and Liberty among the Freed People in Georgia Emily Hansen O, let America be America again-The land that never has been yet-And yet must be--the land where every man is free.

The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME-Who made America,” Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again.

-Langston Hughes95 Introduction On January 12, 1865, in Savannah, Ga., the black minister Garrison Frazier spoke for the larger black community when he told General William Sherman and Secretary of War Edwin Stanton that “The way we can best take care of ourselves is to have land, and turn it and till it by our own labor.”96 Days after Frazier spoke, General Sherman issued orders that provided for the freed people by dividing among them land abandoned by white planters during the course of the Civil War. To the newly freed ex-slaves whose ancestors had toiled on the land under white men’s authority for more than four hundred years, Sherman’s orders promised to fulfill their dream of freedom from social and economic subjugation, particularly because Sherman’s orders set out an exclusively black community. The promise embodied by these lands, called the Sherman Reservation, also received Congressional sanction when the lands were brought under the control of the newly created Bureau of Refugees, Freedmen, and Abandoned Lands (Freedmen’s Bureau) in March 1865. In the months after Frazier spoke, and with the Civil War in its final stages, agents of the federal government began to distribute land along the Georgian coast to thousands of ex-slaves – who then, over the course of the next two years, proceeded to prove the truth of Frazier’s words.

On the land conveyed to them by the U.S. government the freed people who came to settle on the Sea Islands of South Carolina 32

Hansen – The Land That Never Yet Has Been and Yet Must Be and Georgia built homes, schools, and churches, established their own governments and militias, set up independent farms, and helped shape what the historian Eric Foner has called the world’s first “large scale experiment in interracial democracy.”97 At virtually every juncture, however, the freed people found that their plans and aspirations were thwarted by all but a few sympathetic whites who proclaimed their allegiance to racial and civil equity. Indeed, less than a decade after Frazier’s speech, most of the white Southerners who launched systematic, sustained terrorist attacks against the ex-slaves and their white allies could claim victory, and the federal government was poised to beat a wholesale retreat from its recent attempt to enshrine civil rights and universal male suffrage in the Constitution.98 Throughout this so-called Reconstruction, the ex-slaves’ aspirations for economic and political independence, grounded in land ownership, butted up against the desire of most Southern whites to maintain the white privilege and supremacy that was one of the founding principles of the United States. White supremacists won, but freed people in Georgia showed how land might have changed that outcome.

This essay explores how and why the White South triumphed – and how and why the big “might have been,” land reform during Reconstruction – became a hollow promise. The focus is on the micro world of the Sherman Reservation and on the Georgia Sea Islands in particular, where the Reverend Tunis G. Campbell and the freed people he helped lead demonstrated in concrete ways the meaning and importance of Rev. Frazier’s words.

The history of the Sea Islands in the immediate post-war years suggests the stillborn possibilities throughout the American South, illustrating how land might have secured the ex-slaves’ freedom from racial subjugation. This history also illustrates some of the consequences of the federal government’s failure to include economic independence in its definition of freedom. The fact that the government toyed with that inclusion, regardless of how briefly, made the freed people cling to it all the more tenaciously. When the government then decided on a definition of freedom that excluded economic provisions, the freed people used their newfound independence and empowerment to cry out. Although it can be argued that the issue at play with the land was one of a long-standing American tradition of respect for property rights, I argue that the distribution of land in the Georgia Sea Islands – however fleeting – was an acknowledgment of the freed people’s claim

to rights in that property. The Northern government had the chance to change the legacy of centuries of race-based slavery and chose not to; they preferred the land-title rights of white Southerners over the rights of those who tilled the earth.

When the federal government reneged on its promise, the Sherman Reservation was the site of blacks’ final resistance to land redemption.99 When white men, civilians and federal agents together, overcame that resistance, they left the freed people in a condition lying somewhere between the slavery ended by the Civil War and the social and economic freedom promised in its aftermath. Only six years after Frazier’s words announced the freed people’s desire for land and the federal government worked to fulfill that desire, the land along the Georgian coast was back in the hands of its antebellum white owners. In the midst of this Redemption – the white South’s reversal of the gains of Reconstruction100 – the black political leader Tunis Campbell echoed Frazier’s words when he told a congressional investigating committee that “The great cry of our people is land.”101 Frazier and Campbell’s words show the importance of land to freed people in the aftermath of the Civil War, and they mark the beginning and the end, respectively, of the brief experiment in land reform that took place in the Sea Islands along the coast of South Carolina and Georgia. While it seems that Frazier’s words influenced General William Sherman to instigate the experiment, Sherman’s mixed motives are the earliest hint of the experiment’s fate.

The Story of the Sherman Reservation Sherman’s Orders Sherman issued Special Field Order No. 15 (S.F.O. 15), which set aside land for the ex-slaves freed in the course of the Civil War, because he wanted to deal with a pressing military concern, not because he was committed to land reform. In practice, however, his order enabled freed people to settle in and farm on tracts of land in the Sea Islands between Charleston, South Carolina and the St. John River, Florida and 30 miles inland from the coast on the mainland. His order held out a promise that fulfilled one of the deepest desires of the newly freed ex-slaves: land ownership, but it was not motivated by a concern for the freed people’s interests.

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Hansen – The Land That Never Yet Has Been and Yet Must Be When Sherman executed his famous March to the Sea across Georgia in the fall of 1864, one of the unintended consequences was the acquisition of a large number of refugees, the so-called “freedmen.”102 In Savannah, Sherman determined that he needed to rid himself of this encumbrance. The result was the issue of S.F.O. 15 on January 16, 1865. Sherman’s own correspondence reveals very clearly that his was a gesture of military exigency (perhaps not unlike Lincoln’s own act of military exigency: the Emancipation Proclamation of 1863, which led to the revolutionary 13th Amendment of 1865). Indeed, in a letter written by Chief Justice Salmon P. Chase only five days before he issued S.F.O. 15, Sherman expressed his belief “that the negro should be a free race, but not put on equality with the whites.” Drawing on his “practical” knowledge and the example of the “effect of equality” evidenced in the “character of the Mixed race in Mexico and South America,” Sherman concluded that “the right of suffrage in our country should be rather abridged than enlarged.”103 Yet despite Sherman’s evident racism, his order grew directly out of a meeting with a group of African American leaders in Savannah, Georgia, and it gratified, in one part of the US for a limited period of time, perhaps the deepest desire of many African Americans in the aftermath of emancipation.

Sherman’s orders regarding S.F.O. 15 detailed that “the Inspector of Settlements and Plantations” – Brigadier General Rufus Saxton or his appointed subordinate would grant a license to “three respectable negroes, heads of families” for a parcel of land within the area touched by the order. The crucial specification of Saxton’s job was that he “furnish personally . . . subject to the approval of the President of the United States, a possessory title in writing.” The end goal was to give freed families “a plot of not more than (40) forty acres of tillable ground . . . in the possession of which land the military authorities will afford them protection, until such time as they can protect themselves, or until Congress shall regulate their title.”104 Significantly, Sherman’s orders explicitly barred most whites from occupying or attempting to govern the lands touched by the order.

Thus, to the freed people and their supporters, Sherman’s orders seemed like a promise of land of their own, but to Sherman himself and many other whites, including President Andrew Johnson, the freed people were only given temporary possession of the land.

The Government Confirms Sherman’s Promise When Congress passed the act that created the Bureau of Refugees, Freedmen, and Abandoned Lands in March 1865, it seemed to confirm the tantalizing promise held out by Sherman’s S.F.O. 15.

Sherman’s Order was deliberately limited, but the promise it embodied was solidified less than two months later with the creation of the Freedmen’s Bureau on March 3rd, 1865. With regard to land, Section 4 of the bill stated that land within the “insurrectionary states” that was abandoned, or bought or confiscated by the US was to be set apart under the control of the Freedmen’s Bureau commissioner and distributed in parcels up to forty acres to refugees and freedmen. These “male citizen[s]” would be “protected in the use and enjoyment of the land for the term of three years at an annual rent not exceeding six per centum upon the value of such land [as appraised in 1860].” Most significantly, the bill stated that at any point up to and including the end of that three year term “the occupants of any parcels so assigned may purchase the land and receive such title thereto as the United States can convey, upon paying therefore the value of the land, as ascertained and fixed for the purpose of determining the annual rent aforesaid.”105 The mandate of the Freedmen’s Bureau thus went further than its precedents in confirming the federal promise of land for the freed people.

Sherman’s S.F.O. 15 followed hard upon his meeting with a group of African American ministers and community leaders, but it built on the precedent set in the Port Royal Experiment (1861-65). In South Carolina, the Sea Islands were liberated by the Union Army in November, 1861. Once liberated, slaves forsaken by fleeing plantation owners farmed and lived alongside paternalistic but sometimes exploitative white Northerners who offered education and fielded supplies for them.106 Sherman’s order went further, however, both by vastly expanding the affected area and by restricting the presence of whites on the reservation. But his was an order of military necessity.

The Freedmen’s Bureau Bill, however, solidified the land redistribution initiative that Sherman’s orders seemed to promise – this was the voice of the federal government rather than that of a military commander.

Perhaps more importantly, the Freedmen’s Bureau Bill went beyond the “possessory titles” granted for land under Sherman’s order, instead promising freed people the opportunity to buy the land they settled – an opportunity that was supposed to last for three years. Problematically, 36

Hansen – The Land That Never Yet Has Been and Yet Must Be however, the men in charge of this land reform were not all equally committed to uplifting the freed people.

Intent versus Action: The Men In Charge of Land Reform The men in charge of land redistribution did not always have the same views as the freed people they were ostensibly helping. In Georgia, General Rufus Saxton was in charge of distributing land to the freed people. He and his subordinates – particularly Captain Alexander P. Ketchum and the civilian-appointee for some of the Georgia Sea Islands, Tunis G. Campbell – were committed to providing land to the freed people. His superior, Major General O. O. Howard, and his successor, Assistant Commissioner General Davis Tillson, however, were more complicated characters, swayed by their racist convictions and by President Andrew Johnson to act in favour of the ex-planter class.

Rufus Saxton was already a veteran of the Port Royal experiment when he was appointed Inspector General of the Sherman lands in January 1865 and Assistant Commissioner of the Freedmen’s Bureau in March of the same year. In each of these positions, he demonstrated a commitment to the advancement of the freed people, especially through land ownership.107 In the fall of 1865, he expressed his reservations about land redemption to Freedmen’s Bureau Commissioner O. O. Howard, stating that “The lands which have been taken possession of by this bureau have been solemnly pledged to the freedmen. . . Their love of the soil and desire to own farms amounts to a passion – it appears to be the dearest hope of their lives.”108 In another instance, Saxton expressed his own desire for the gratification of the freed people’s wish: “I wish every colored man, every head of a family, to acquire a freehold, a little home that he can call his own.”109 Indeed, Saxton’s commitment was so tenacious that he was removed by President Johnson’s personal order in January 1866.

Like his colleague, Captain Alexander P. Ketchum, Saxton’s subordinate, was a tireless devotee of the freedmen’s quest for land.

Ketchum publicly stated his belief that that “land would make the freedman happily successful but working for white employers would only subject him to ‘a servitude to which, in an exaggerated form, he had already been too long exposed.’”110 With the support of Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, Saxton and Ketchum “sparred with military authorities” in the fall and winter of 1865 as they attempted to preserve

the Sherman lands for the freed people by creatively interpreting President Johnson’s repeated orders to restore land to antebellum white owners.111 Even more than these white military officers, however, African American civilian leader Tunis G. Campbell showed an unfailing commitment to achieving black land ownership.

Campbell was deeply committed to the project of obtaining land for the freed people.112 He actively lobbied the government to get a position in the South during the Civil War, and was eventually sent to work under Rufus Saxton, first as part of the Port Royal experiment and later as superintendent of at least three of the Georgia Sea Islands.113 There, he assisted the freed people in their quest for full citizenship, education, and independence through land ownership.114 Indeed, even when Tillson removed him from his post, Campbell put a $1,000 down payment on land at the Belleville Plantation in McIntosh County, Georgia, and offered Georgian blacks yet another chance to work land independent from white overseers.115 Like Saxton and Ketchum, Campbell worked on the ground to make the freed people’s goal – land ownership as a platform for realizable independence – a reality.

Ultimately overseeing Saxton, Ketchum, and Campbell, Freedmen’s Bureau Commission General O. O. Howard defies easy categorization.116 In both words and action Howard appears to have had the freed people’s interests at heart, even if his hand was ultimately guided by Washington. Having already engaged Attorney General James Speed to validate his decision to distribute land to the freedmen, Howard “engaged President Andrew Johnson in a paper duel over the definition of confiscable and abandoned property” in the aftermath of Johnson’s May 1865 Amnesty Proclamation.117 Similarly, Howard’s attempt to defend the broad assertion of the Freedmen’s Bureau’s land base embodied in his Circular No. 13 (July 28, 1865) speaks to his intent, even though Johnson emerged dominant and forced him to rescind it in September of that year.118 Howard believed that the freed people deserved something more than mere exemption from slavery, and that the white Southerners who had enslaved them ought to provide them with some economic footing.119 Indeed, even when full land redistribution appeared unlikely, he advocated that planter pardons include a provision that they give their ex-slaves lifetime homesteads in fee simple.120 Yet if we believe the old adage that actions speak louder than words, then Howard’s appointment of Brigadier General Davis 38

Hansen – The Land That Never Yet Has Been and Yet Must Be Tillson effectively ended white agents’ resistance to land redemption in Georgia.

Tillson acted to the detriment of the freed people, but less from malice than from his being a firm advocate of the free labour system, thus preferring that the freed people sign labour contracts rather than be given land of their own. Tillson replaced Saxton as Assistant Commissioner of the Freedmen’s Bureau in Georgia in September 1865, although Saxton retained control of the Georgia Sea Islands until January 1866. Tillson’s views on the freed people were a sharp contrast to Saxton’s own. Even if Tillson was not necessarily opposed to black land ownership, he “lack[ed] the abolitionist sensibility of a Rufus Saxton, [and thus] he failed to see the logic of compensating freedmen for generations of slave labor,” instead advocating that the freed people must work to earn land.121 While Tillson validated even questionable possessory titles, giving the freed people who held them a chance to obtain land in a South Carolina reserve (though they largely lacked the capital to get there or purchase it), he also pushed freed people into exploitative labour contracts, denigrated their independent farming efforts, and showed an overall preference to the land claims of white planters over those of the freed people.122 As Tillson and Howard’s superior, President Andrew Johnson’s racism is crucial to assessing the relative weight of race and property rights in the ultimate demise of Sea Islands project. To say the least, Johnson did not distinguish himself as a friend of the freed people. Johnson’s racism beat out his dislike of the moneyed planter class, culminating in his lenient Amnesty Proclamation, which pardoned most white Southern landowners, giving them the legal right to reclaim all their property except their former slaves. He reiterated his intention when he forced Howard to rescind Circular 15, massively reducing the land available for distribution to the freed people, and again when he vetoed the proposed extension of the Freedmen’s Bureau in February 1866.123 Johnson took issue with the extension of the Freedmen’s Bureau on the grounds that it was unnecessary, even “injurious,” to the freed people. Johnson instead advocated the special consideration of the ex-Confederates’ constitutional rights and determined that the “[freed people’s] condition is not so exposed” because “[their] labor can not well be spared.”124 When the bill did pass in July 1866, the provisions for further land reform were removed, officially ending the land reform experiment.125 While the

Radical Republicans126 succeeded in impeaching Johnson for his intransigence toward Radical Reconstruction, and came close to obtaining a conviction, the potentially transformative power of land distribution was never again a serious possibility in Reconstruction.

Had they convicted Johnson, Senator Benjamin Wade would have succeeded him: in 1860s law, the President Pro Tempore of the Senate was next in line for the presidency after the Vice-President. Wade, who had already lent his name to the pro-black voting rights and proland redistribution Wade-Davis Bill (1864), was a strong advocate for land reform. The seven Republican Moderates who voted for Johnson’s acquittal were acutely aware of Wade’s views and position, and consequently chose to support Johnson. The Northern government’s conduct in the aftermath of the Civil War – particularly regarding the issue of property rights – was influenced by questions of race.

Fertile Soils: Freed People on the Land Despite the setbacks in Washington, D.C., on the Georgia Sea Islands the aspirations of the freed people for land were at least partially fulfilled, as black people began to experience what, in my view, they conceptualized as authentic freedom. Looking at the three islands that fell under Tunis G. Campbell’s supervision, Ossabaw, Sapelo, and St. Catherines, it is possible to make at least a provisional assessment of the results of land ownership, although the freed people were really in a situation closer to land tenancy. The official records of the Freedmen’s Bureau indicate that by August 11, 1865, some 480 acres on Sapelo Island, 305 acres on Ossabaw Island, and 555 acres on St. Catherines Island were distributed to the freed people under the auspices of the Freedmen’s Bureau.127 Even though the islanders only a cultivated a small amount of the available land they made good use of it.128 Land ownership enabled the freed people to begin establishing basic selfsufficiency, but it also fostered independence of a non-economic variety by allowing freed people to establish community infrastructure in the form of government, schools, and churches. At the most basic level, land enabled the freed people to reap the fruits of their labour, something their ancestors had been unable to do on American soil more than 300 years.

40

Hansen – The Land That Never Yet Has Been and Yet Must Be Regardless of whether they intended to participate in the market, the freed people used the land distributed to them to establish farms that, at a minimum, enabled their self-sufficiency. While Tillson’s 1866 reports disparaged the freed people’s ability to support themselves,129 there is substantial evidence to suggest that the freed people, once established, were close to being self-sufficient. In light of the scanty rations Campbell reported distributing to the freed people, they must have been farming successfully – otherwise they would have starved.130 Moreover, the historian Paul Cimbala has countered the common assumption that the freed people intended to practice only subsistence farming by pointing out that there is insufficient evidence to determine their intention. Alternate reasons for their limited efforts include the fact that many arrived too late in the season to start farming, there was a shortage of supplies and implements, and many freed people were hesitant in establishing their crops because they feared (rightly) that their land was going to be taken away.131 Although the freed people were hesitant to commit themselves to farming in the face of an uncertain future, their efforts prove the significance of land to their concept of freedom.

Even if Tunis Campbell was not, as Russell Duncan suggests, the only reason for the freed people’s success, his experience as a free man in the North prepared him to assist them in rapidly establishing themselves and their social institutions.132 It was on St. Catherines that Campbell established a government modelled after that of the US, with a Constitution, an eight-man Senate, a twenty-man House, a judicial system complete with Supreme Court, and a 275-man militia.133 Campbell named himself governor,134 and although he was “the autocrat of the island,” his actions were “well-meaning and benevolent.”135 The institutions Campbell established had no precedent among the freed communities elsewhere, neither in the Sherman Reservation nor in the Port Royal experiment, but Campbell believed that experience under a representative government was crucial to completing the freed people’s transition into a free, republican nation.

Similarly, he believed the militia was necessary both to develop a “sense of obligation to protect the common welfare” and to protect the freed people’s lives and property.136 In South Carolina, Campbell had witnessed ex-slaves being exploited by “unprincipled opportunists,” which had fuelled his advocacy for a limited period of black separatism.137 In addition to these legal and political frameworks,

social institutions also flourished on the land under Campbell’s eye. Of the 629 residents of Sapelo and St. Catherines, 250 attended the schools that Campbell established and were taught by his wife, son and adopted son.138 Campbell’s leadership, though not the only factor, certainly facilitated the freed people’s efforts to assert a successful, independent society.

The land, and not Campbell’s leadership, was the key to the freed people’s success, as evidenced by their success even in his absence. The naval surgeon Samuel P. Boyer’s journal suggests that Campbell’s leadership was not, perhaps, completely revolutionary. On Sapelo Island in February 1863 – before Campbell’s arrival – Boyer found slaves from the original Spalding plantation alongside refugees from the mainland farming, having established a “profitable wartime enterprise.”139 Furthermore, the historian Alison Dorsey’s detailed study of Ossabaw Island suggests that Campbell’s influence was greatly reduced outside of St. Catherines Island, which was his main focus.140 Despite Campbell’s lesser presence, Sapelo and Ossabaw Islanders benefitted from land, just like the citizens of St. Catherines.

Both communities established churches.141 Dorsey finds the name of the Ossabaw church – “Hinder Me Not Baptist Church” – telling of the empowering nature of such institutions.142 Thus, while Campbell’s leadership facilitated the freed people’s efforts to establish selfsufficiency, independence, and socio-political institutions, they established successful farms and churches even in his absence. And despite Campbell’s lesser presence on Ossabaw, Dorsey nonetheless determines that land empowered the freed people of Ossabaw, basing her conclusion primarily off their potent resistance to land restoration.143 Perhaps because of the freed people’s evident success, sympathetic government agents stood alongside the freed people in resisting land restoration.

No Land for the Freed People: The End of the Land Reform Experiment Although President Johnson’s May 1865 Amnesty Proclamation sank broader hopes of land reform by pardoning vast numbers of ex-Confederates, the promise of land stayed afloat for a while longer in the Sherman Reservation. As I have argued above, Freedmen’s Bureau Commissioner General O. O. Howard had the 42

Hansen – The Land That Never Yet Has Been and Yet Must Be Attorney General interpret the Freedmen’s Bureau bill before he issued Circular 13 on July 28th, 1865, declaring that President Johnson’s planter pardons would not apply to lands under the control of the Freedmen’s Bureau used for the benefit of refugees and freedmen.144 Yet, already, Howard had ordered Saxton to “allow individual white men to live on these [the lands touched by the Amnesty Proclamation] lands,” which the historian William S. McFeely argues meant “he was recognizing the propriety of the pardon principle.”145 Indeed, by the end of the summer President Johnson made Howard issue Circular 15 (September 15, 1865), vastly reducing the land available to the Freedmen’s Bureau for redistribution and ensuring that the ex-Confederates he pardoned would have their lands restored at the expense of the freed people..

Despite President Johnson’s victory over Howard, subordinate agents on the ground such as Saxton, Ketchum, and Campbell continued to distribute land within the reservation to freed people and to resist restoring land to its antebellum owners, both by countering restoration with additional confiscation or by offering white owners token residency on their land.146 President Johnson personally ordered Saxton’s final removal in January 1866 because of his refusal to restore land to which freed people had possessory title. Howard replaced him with Tillson, who more staunchly respected the sanctity of private property and advocated convincing freed people to sign labour contracts with whites.147 Ketchum felt that this switch signalled his “powerless[ness]” to resist land restoration.148 Rightly so, for Tillson’s Special Order No. 6 on January 19, 1866 formally restored the lands in the Sherman Reservation to their white owners.149 The freed people, supported by Campbell, continued to oppose Tillson, but Tillson first chased Campbell off the islands (Spring 1866) and then barred him by direct order (Fall 1866).150 Thus, a series of rulings by white men slowly eroded the freed people’s legal claims to the land, such that most ended up working under the control of whites. This endpoint is suggestive of why land was important to the freed people, but the relationship between social, economic, and political freedom and land ownership deserves special consideration.

Why Land?

Why did the freed people so desperately desire land? The freed people wanted land because they perceived that economic independence was a co-requisite to freedom as they defined it – genuine independence from whites’ control and the opportunity to assert themselves as social, political, and economic equals.

Furthermore, many people felt a connection to the land upon which they had lived and worked in slavery.

Land as the Foundation of Independence The climax of the January 1865 meeting in Savannah between Sherman, Stanton, and the African American ministers led by Garrison Frazier was Frazier’s assertion of the freed peoples’ desire for land.

The assembled representatives of the black community chose Reverend Garrison Frazier as their spokesman; his remarks can therefore be extrapolated to represent the views of at least a sizeable portion of the freed people. Frazier explained that “Freedom, as I understand it, promised by the proclamation, is taking us from under the yoke of bondage, and placing us where we could reap the fruit of our own labor, take care of ourselves and assist the Government in maintaining our freedom.”151 In his aforementioned statement of the importance of land in achieving this freedom, he went on to say that with land, “we can soon maintain ourselves and have something to spare . . . We want to be placed on land until we are able to buy it and make it our own.”152 Furthermore, Frazier explained that “I would prefer to live by ourselves, for there is a prejudice against us in the south that will take years to get over.”153 Frazier’s responses are reasoned and the language seems calm – these were the simple but profound answers to the questions of freedom, racial co-existence, and economic independence that were to define African American life for the next century. Sherman’s Special Field Order 15, issued only four days after the meeting, seemed to promise the realization of each of the freed people’s desires, as enumerated by Frazier. Tunis Campbell’s project on the Georgia Sea Islands, which emerged out of Sherman’s orders, demonstrated the truth of Frazier’s words.

Like Frazier, Campbell believed that the freed people required land to be “truly self-reliant.”154 With admirable foresight, Campbell drew on the republican ideals held by Thomas Jefferson and saw that “simply to give freedom to blacks tossed these impoverished, illiterate 44

Hansen – The Land That Never Yet Has Been and Yet Must Be laborers into a free-labor marketplace in which they could neither compete for jobs nor expect decent wages.”155 By contrast, freedom linked with land ownership gave freed people the “real capital” needed to retain their independence while giving them the opportunity to build up ‘human capital” in the form of literacy, community ties, self-esteem and confidence.156 And it was not only freed people who saw it this way.

Late in the summer of 1865, Quartermaster General M. C. Meigs wrote to Howard that the unfinished business of settling the Civil War was the failure to provide land to the freed people. He wrote that that land should be conveyed in “fee simple” and stated his belief that land would provide more than sustenance, because “[w]hen this generation have passed away the next will have acquired education, training and intelligence to require no special provision. . . It would provide that protection which the loyal citizen desires for the poor freedmen . . . [it] would be a more complete protection than even the suffrage. Until this or its equivalent is given the negro, suffrage or no suffrage, he seems to me to be in the absolute power of the landholder.”157 Subsequent events would prove the tragic truth of Meigs’ words.

Ties to the Land The heightened independence associated with the economic security of landownership seems to have been the primary element underlying the freed people’s desire for landownership, but ties to the land itself also contributed to the freed people’s desire for land. The historian Allison Dorsey concludes that land would have “supported the first generation of a rural black middle class,” but goes further by analyzing why the freed people remained on the island, working for whites under labour contracts. She proposes that for the freed people who had lived on Ossabaw before the war, “the sea island cotton fields, oak forests, and tabby houses had always been home, despite the sting of the overseer’s lash” and asserts that their choice to stay on Ossabaw was “rooted. . . in the connection to home place, to tradition, and to family.”158 Dorsey’s analysis strikes me as over-romantic, but on Sapelo and St. Catherines similar psychologies emerge.

Freed people who had been slaves on Sapelo and St. Catherines Islands went to great lengths to return to their former homes. Despite being marched across the state of Georgia by their fleeing owners,

Sapelo Islanders went home.159 Similarly, the ex-slaves from St. Catherines who were marched off the island during the Civil War by Jacob Waldberg lodged a formal complaint with a military official upon finding refugees from the mainland tilling the earth of their former homes when they returned. Samiel Boles’ complained that “now those that wos taken away wos Born & Raise on that Iseland & there parent is stil there furthermore they has a knolledge of the Soil what it Can Produce the houses & all improvement on that place is there labor . . . there are about 150 one hundread & fifty folks on that plantation from the main that did not formally live there.”160 It is unlikely Boles received much support; this was a design flaw in the Sherman Reservation.161 Such ties to the land are a poor consolation prize for the short-lived nature of Campbell, Frazier, and other blacks’ dream of landownership, a dream shattered by white Americans’ profound commitment to private property and white supremacy.

Indeed, this commitment to white supremacy and the exploitative practices it underpinned explain the drive for black separatism often associated with the dream of land ownership.

The Significance of Separatism In the Georgia Sea Islands, even more than the rest of the Sherman Reservation, the question of land was tied up with the idea of black separatism. Although the provision in Sherman’s Special Field Order No. 15 implicitly acknowledged the value of a community for blacks free from the racism and exploitation of whites, Campbell’s domain saw the idea blossom to its fullest potential. As discussed in greater detail above (Section 1), Campbell led an experiment in black separatism which saw the rapid establishment of a government parallel to that of the larger US, two schools, several churches, and the cultivation of almost enough crops for the communities to be selfsufficient. The parameters and possibilities of that experiment had long been in Campbell’s mind.

Tunis Campbell’s 1863 petition to then-President Lincoln enumerated a “plan by which the freed people could be educated and made self-supporting and prepared to exercise the duties of citizens and relieve the General Government from the guardianship . . . [required] as a protection against the bad men from the North, and the bad men from the South, who would use them for their own 46

Hansen – The Land That Never Yet Has Been and Yet Must Be purposes.”162 Campbell’s plan revolved around land ownership, and a period of black separatism that would allow the freed people to “advance faster to becoming freemen if they were shielded from injurious confrontations with unprincipled and exploitative northern or southern whites.”163 Despite the apparent wisdom of Campbell’s advocacy for a period of black separatism, there was little chance to see if it would play out.

Free Soil or Economic Shackles?

True to Quartermaster General Meigs’ prediction, the result of President Johnson’s facilitating white land owners land reclamation reveals the significance of land ownership for the freed people. Land redemption quickly left freed people in a situation of economic dependence on whites – economic dependence grew, rather than shrinking. White men forced freed African Americans into exploitative labour contracts and cheated share croppers on Sapelo Island using a hidden furnishing merchant system. Freed people responded by petitioning the government, by contradicting the desires of their employers, and by refusing to vacate land, thus demonstrating both their attachment to the land and how it had empowered them.

Tunis Campbell recalled the devastating results of land redemption on the communities and social institutions he had nurtured on the Georgia Sea Islands. He lamented the loss of the schools, which “were broken up.” Campbell also alleges that freed people who refused to sign labour contracts were “driven off – unless they work under contracts which were purposely made to cheat the freedmen out of their labor” and often suffered physical abuse and threats of further retribution at the hands of ex-Confederates.164 To judge by an alternate report, Campbell’s memoir is perhaps an exaggeration, or at least a testament to the tenacity of the freed people. Tillson’s November 1866 report found “420 [freed people who had] planted on tracts of their own on the southern and most fertile portion of the cleared land on the island,” even if he defamed their ability to support themselves or achieve a surplus for market sale.165 Indeed, the freed people directly resisted efforts to lock them into contracts, and continued to resist whites’ authority even when they did sign contracts.

On Ossabaw and St. Catherines, “eighty men, women, and children . . . rowed to Savannah, leaving behind their crop and household goods rather than contracting with old masters freed people

refused to contrast.”166 Similarly, some 900 threatened to leave if their former owner returned, although they did not make good on that threat.167 Even more than refusal, freed people on Sapelo and St. Catherines defied Tillson in 1866, “not only refus[ing] to labor on the plantation, but refus[ing] to leave it.”168 On Ossabaw, John Timmons and Mustapha Shaw, on two separate occasions, were vocal in opposing land restoration, even arming themselves as protection against the local officers sent to oust them.169 The words from the Committee of Freedmen from Edisto Island, South Carolina speak even louder. In October 1865, they wrote to the Freedmen’s Bureau, lamenting that theirs was “not the condition of really freemen” because without property that had only three options, “Step Into the public road or the sea or remain on them working as In former time and subject to thire will as then.” Without land, they could not resist their former owners. The horrific nature of the freed people’s plight without land is apparent in the freed people’s reference to “The man who tied me to a tree & gave me 39 lashes & who stripped and flogged my mother & my sister & who will not let me stay In His empty Hut except I will do His planting & be Satisfied with His price & who combines with others to keep away land from me well knowing I would not Have any thing to do with Him If I Had land of my own [sic].”170 Despite the apparent tragedy of the freed people’s renewed dependence on their former masters, this was precisely the dynamic white land owners sought to restore.

White Fear of Black Independence Contemporary writings and rulings indicate that whites’ aversion to black landownership were significantly tied to fears of African Americans’ social, economic, and political empowerment and independence. In November 1866, Tillson found more than twice as many freed people farming independently as under contract on St. Catherines. He reported that despite the independents’ better soil and greater numbers, “Scuyler and Winchester’s [the white Northerners leasing the planters’ land] crop would be at least three times as large” and ignored the differences in resources, motivations (cotton cash crop versus subsistence), and mode of work (efficient but “repugnant” gang system versus individual labour on one’s own plot) when he declared that “the freedmen[,] if left to work for themselves, and control their 48

Hansen – The Land That Never Yet Has Been and Yet Must Be own labor, will not attain any considerable success.” He went on to use logic to determine that “there were no more than ten families in all of the sea island of Georgia who would benefit from their land grants.”171 If Tillson’s report was blinkered, media reports illustrate the high stakes of black land ownership.

Two Georgia newspapers draw on well-worn racist narratives, depicting Campbell as a villain, corrupting and exploiting the complacent local freed people for personal gain.172 In The Weekly Atlanta Intelligencer of June 20, 1866, Campbell is portrayed as disrupting a benign and “very simple form of government” already in place, instead ousting elderly residents to craft his own more elaborate government, “reserving therein so strong a spice of autocratic power for himself that he was ever afterwards known and spoken of as the Tycoon.” The author goes on to suggest that despite Campbell’s apparently democratic governance, he reserved and exercised his authoritative veto in a dictatorial fashion. The journalist took great offense at Campbell’s raising a citizen-militia to defend the island from white incursion, and lauds Tillson’s efforts at removing Campbell to “the subordinate position he was more qualified to fill” as a delegate to a Savannah African Episcopal convention.173 Similarly, in the June 4, 1866 Georgia Weekly Telegraph Campbell is an “a kind of Emporer” who set up an “exact parody of the government of the United States.” Again, Tillson is portrayed as a hero for removing Campbell. Carrying the article further than the Atlanta paper, the Weekly Telegraph commends the “liberal arrangement” set up by Schuyler and Winchester with some of the freed people and determines that they are “doing incomparable better than the darkies at the other end of the island, who profess to be cultivating land under Sherman’s orders, but in reality do as much loafing as work.”174 In contrast to the transparency of such racist narratives, some contemporary whites were capable of perceiving that it was really a fear of black empowerment that drove many whites to support retrenchment on the promises of Sherman’s orders and the Freedmen’s Bureau.

Even men outside the freed people’s community perceived the significance of land ownership. For example, in January 1866, Freedmen’s Bureau Commissioner Howard wrote to ex-Confederate William Henry Trescot that he believed “the former slave earned something besides a bare subsistence.” He went on to slyly propose

that had Southerners “voluntarily made them free, as wise men” they would have “made ample provision for them, not only in point of fundamental rights, but in point of privileges which might have a tendency to elevate them.”175 Howard subtly illuminates the central issue at stake for whites who aimed to deny the freed people land ownership: it was a privilege that might elevate them. Howard thus encapsulates the crux of the land question: the reasons the freed people wanted land and most whites wanted to deny them it were one and the same.

Dream or Reality? Land and the Foundations of America The provisional black land ownership that resulted from Sherman’s Special Field Order No. 15 and the Freedmen’s Bureau bill enabled freed people to realize their most fervent desire: genuine freedom as they defined it – civil and political rights with the economic independence necessary to assert them. But only for a moment and only in a small corner of America. More than one hundred years later, the Black Panthers’ experiment in Oakland, California, paralleled the one Tunis Campbell led in Georgia, creating a small black community, separate from the surrounding white community, where African Americans received the benefit of locally established social institutions and took up arms to defend them. Both black separatist communities were vilified by the external white press, both resisted white intrusion with an armed militia, and at heart both aimed primarily at providing the social services and opportunities mainstream white society denied to its African American counterpart.176 Today, the Black Panthers are as much a part of a bygone era as is Campbell, but the issues they confronted – systemic, racially inflected economic inequality and the resultant de facto social inequality – remain.

In 1994, the historian Eric Foner argued that Reconstruction replaced the old paradox of American history – the coexistence of freedom and slavery – with a new one: “the coexistence of political democracy and economic dependence.” Foner pointed out that “the meaning of freedom in a land pervaded by inequality” was still a 50

Hansen – The Land That Never Yet Has Been and Yet Must Be cogent question in America.177 In their “great cry” for land, the freed people in post-bellum Georgia anticipated Foner’s argument.178 White Americans’ refusal to facilitate black land ownership in Reconstruction and the resultant economic inequality set up the situation in America today – “two societies, one black, one white – separate and unequal.”179 Government acquiescence to the tradition of property rights was influenced by the question of African American empowerment. Indeed, as Langston Hughes pointed out in his 1930s poem, America has failed to live up to its promise of freedom and opportunity for its African American citizens. Today, for example, African Americans are three times more likely to live in poverty than white Americans.180 The very fact that Rick Santorum, a candidate for the Republican Presidential nomination in 2012, shied away from an unintentional promotion of Hughes’ poem instead of embracing it, as did former Presidential-hopeful John Kerry in 2004,181 suggests that America is still, and increasingly so, “The land that never has been yet -- / And yet must be.” If modern Americans can be convinced that Reconstruction failed to give African Americans the freedom that is integral to the professed American standard, then they may see the necessity of making reparations today for yesterday’s injustice, taking up the historian William S. McFeely’s call for “debt, not guilt.”182 Reparations – not hand-outs, but instead infrastructure and social assistance programs – are today’s version of the land question.

Americans have a chance to perform magic, to turn a generations-old dream into a modern-day reality, by making good on that foundational American promise of a land of freedom and opportunity, a promise that has never yet been permanently extended to its African American citizens.

In Pursuit of a Strange Neo-Imperialism: Shifting Interpretations of Kipling’s “The White Man’s Burden” from the Nineteenth to the Twenty-first Century Stephanie Fung Rudyard Kipling’s poem “The White Man’s Burden” appeared in the February 4, 1899 issue of the London Times just two days before the American Senate was scheduled to vote on the ratification of the Treaty of Paris. Just a year prior, the Spanish-American war had transferred control of the Philippines from Spain to the United States in 1898. Whether the poem was construed as supporting expansion or as warning against it, “The White Man’s Burden” signified a British intervention into the debate over the future of America’s new colonies.

The controversial treaty was finally ratified by the Senate on February 6, 1899. Since then, the reinterpretation and refurbishment of the metaphor of “the white man’s burden” has transformed American identity and created an ideal that has become a significant part of the country’s national memory. Not many other poems have been cited, criticized, and satirized as often as “The White Man’s Burden.” In addition to being used as a “lightning rod” for pro and antiImperialists, supporters of racism and white supremacy have advocated it as justification for their own political agendas.183 After examining the main context of Kipling’s poem—America’s colonization of the Philippines and immediate British and American reactions to his work—I investigate how “The White Man’s Burden” was understood from a variety of perspectives over time and to what extent it changed British society’s image of itself and eventually served to influence America’s identity as an imperial power. By comparing changing perspectives on Kipling’s metaphorical construction of “the white man’s” responsibility from the nineteenth century to the present, we can more fully understand how values of imperialism and identity conveyed by Britain to America have evolved through the translation of these perceptions into policy. Ultimately, the poem has evolved to embody a postcolonial struggle to fulfill an ideal centred on the dream of cultural interaction; rather than living in an era that has moved beyond Kipling, a longing exists in America for a nostalgic past associated with the power and spirit of imperial rule.

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Fung – In Pursuit of a Strange Neo-Imperialism During the nineteenth century Britain came to see herself as a leading global and imperial authority. Between 1870 and 1914 the empire extended and established her sovereign power and influence in numerous parts of Africa and Asia.184 However, by the 1880s Britain had lost her place as the leader of the world’s industrial powers185 and it seemed that regardless of her colonial progress, foreign observers and competitors saw the period in a more ambivalent manner. Sir Henry Maine summed up the Victorian era as ephemeral and arcane: “The British political system, with the national greatness and material greatness attendant upon it, may yet be launched into space and find its last affinities in silence and cold.”186 Despite this feeling of uncertainty for the future, an Anglo-American alliance evolved during the later years of the nineteenth century, which increased awareness of a sense of national identity on both sides of the Atlantic, a change fortified by Kipling’s poem. The Philippine-American War (1899-1902) was a crucial moment in American history because it marked America’s emergence as a contestant in the battle for foreign territory and as a world power. As historian Susan K. Harris notes in God’s Arbiters, “the rhetoric of American identity employed to debate the costs of annexing the Philippines echo eerily in current debates over America’s global responsibilities.”187 If we are to agree with Harris’s statement about the similarities between the question of America’s present identity with that of its past, we may also investigate how Britain’s anxiety over its global and imperial image in the nineteenth century has played a role in shaping the perplexing past and present identity of the U.S. through the intervention of Kipling’s poem in American politics.

Not only did the Anglo-American partnership serve to establish and emphasize Anglo-Saxon unity between the Americans and the English, it also helped to reaffirm and sustain the idea of Anglo-Saxon superiority and the duty to bring Anglo-Saxon civilization to those deemed oppressed, or in Kipling’s words, “the new-caught sullen peoples / Half devil and half child.”188 The possibility that the U.S. might enter the category of imperialist nations interested Britain, and many British periodicals, especially those that were pro-imperialist, urged the U.S. to annex. While Kipling composed “The White Man’s Burden” to influence the American public, especially the Senate, to sign the Treaty of Paris, immediate reactions to the poem varied on a vast scale. As Susan K. Harris argues, the poem was “spoken out of a

British context that valorized colonial expansion and firm administrative process [and] was received into a context that valorized Protestant outreach and national virtue.”189 While many British and Americans, including President McKinley, supported imperialism not all readers interpreted the poem as an encouragement of the political, military, and economic domination of one country over another. The poem intensified debates about imperialism and annexation, and most of all, the question of racial superiority and identity.

Even before Kipling’s poem was published, the conversation about imperialism had already begun in pro-expansionist British periodicals such as the Spectator and the London Times. The level of publicity surrounding this issue indicates how the mass media interpreted Britain’s imperialist history and how they encouraged the U.S. to follow the example of its mother country. 190 The Economist, the Spectator, the London Times, and the Daily Mail all had proimperialist aims from the start and encouraged readers to support British expansion around the world. We may see their support for the American annexation of the Philippines as a political ploy to gain a strong ally and contain a potentially serious competitor. It seems, therefore, that “The White Man’s Burden” came at a time when Britain desperately wanted to sustain and reinforce its imperial identity as well as celebrate the Anglo-Saxons’ responsibilities to those whom they conquered. In fact, The Spectator openly acknowledged the ideological importance of the poem: The duty of the white man is to conquer and control, probably for a couple of centuries, all the dark peoples of the world, not for his own good, but theirs . . . We all admit that duty . . . Only we must perform it in the right spirit, taking it up, as Mr. Kipling sings, as “the white man’s burden” . . . expecting no gratitude from those whom we may help to redeem. If we fail . . . “the new caught, sullen peoples, half devil and half child” will curse us . . . if we succeed . . . they will but bid us begone unthanked . . . Nevertheless, there is our duty clear before us, and Mr. Kipling . . . bids us perform it though we do but “reap the old reward, the blame of those we better, the hate of those we guard.”191 54

Fung – In Pursuit of a Strange Neo-Imperialism In altering the pronoun of Kipling’s “you” to “we”, the article suggests how personally its editors received the poet’s appeal to racial affinity and Anglo-Saxon responsibility. That these papers recognized the poem’s value as a means for arguing their case emphasizes the intensity of the political climate in British society as the media sought to justify its pro-imperialist sentiments to the public. “The White Man’s Burden” and its metaphorical representation of British supremacy and Anglo-Saxon duty for spreading civilization to others, thus not only acted as an influential vehicle in Britain for validating the expansion of empire and continuing British administration thereof, but also served to establish an alliance that would offset threats from Germany and Japan, as Britain took on the role of “the mother country” nurturing the young power of America in her ascent to the status of empire.

However, while many in Britain saw the poem as a symbolic embodiment of Anglo-Saxon responsibility and white supremacy, not all Americans received Kipling’s “call” to duty positively. In terms of American reception, we may perceive more conflicting responses and reactions to the poem as an indication of America’s struggle as a young nation in constructing and establishing its own identity. While the mainstream press was pro-imperialist, an anti-imperialist minority clearly existed. Prominent American politicians such as Theodore Roosevelt, who had just been elected Governor of New York, and Senator Henry Cabot Lodge already held “the expansionist point of view” in their pursuit of the doctrine of “Manifest Destiny” 192 and found Kipling’s poem quite apt and fitting to their political agenda. On the other hand, important figures such as Mark Twain, William James, Jane Addams, Samuel Gompers, and Andrew Carnegie opposed the American annexation of the Philippines and saw the poem as paradoxically criticizing imperialist actions despite its outward message of promoting “the white man’s burden.”193 For example, three days after the poem was published, anti-imperialist Senator Tillman delivered it into the Congressional Record as a warning against the potentially disastrous consequences of a U.S. vote in favour of annexing the Philippines.194 While the poem can be seen here as a means of cautioning others about the dangers of imperialism, “The White Man’s Burden” has also been variously re-interpreted and twisted to voice other concerns and issues of the period in which it was

published. One striking example is the multitude of parodies that arose in reaction to the poem, which not only served to signify resistance to the war but also exposed the myriad of ideological positions the parodists perceived Kipling’s words promoted. In particular, H.T. Johnson’s “The Black Man’s Burden” skewered Kipling’s poem to emphasize America’s racial divide: Pile on the Black Man’s Burden His wail with laughter drawn You’ve sealed the Red Man’s problem, And will take up the Brown, In vain ye seek to end it, With bullets, blood or death Better by far defend it With honor’s holy breath.195 In this passage Johnson interpreted Kipling’s poem through a racial filter; as with other African Americans, he read it as an endorsement of white dominance and discrimination of people of colour. Certainly, the black press was generally anti-imperialist and sided with the “dark races” against white colonization.196 Whether the public accepted or opposed “The White Man’s Burden,” American newspapers repeatedly referred to the poem. Its phrases came to shape and influence the construction of American identity during this period to the extent that it became a culturally iconic text. In fact, an advertisement in the September 1899 issue of Harper’s Weekly depicts Admiral Dewey washing his hands with Pear’s soap as he recommends the product as “the first step in lightening The White Man’s Burden.”197 Kipling’s poem helped shape arguments concerning annexation, imperialism, and in a more abstract sense, American identity. However much Americans disagreed with each other about their national image—with specific regard to annexation as taking on the “burden” of non-white people, a policy of “Manifest Destiny” to spread American civilization, and a duplicity of American values—they saw the poem through their own belief of possessing a “special mission.”198 Whether they agreed or disagreed with the principle, “The White Man’s Burden” represented an ideal, a calling for America to unite and perform its duty as an empire.

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Fung – In Pursuit of a Strange Neo-Imperialism Despite the multiple, conflicting reactions to Kipling’s poem that emerged on both sides of the Atlantic immediately following its publication, President McKinley and the imperial party remained firm in their beliefs and convinced that the American government had a duty, according to Senator Albert Beveridge, to “administer government among savage and senile peoples.”199 The PhilippineAmerican War ended in 1902, but not until 4,200 U.S. soldiers and 250,000 to a million Filipinos died.200 This quest to annex the Philippines and make it a U.S. colony resulted in a “savage war of peace” in which Philippine resistance ultimately broke down in the face of the American army. But whether or not Philippine democracy was actually achieved as a result of America’s pursuit of fulfilling the “white man’s burden,” it is apparent that Kipling’s poem and the immediate and divisive reactions to it reflected the controversial nature of the U.S. actions.

Kipling’s poem was used to justify vastly differing ideological positions regarding annexation and imperialism at the turn of the century. If we accept that the Philippine-American War represented American engagement with those questions, a striking historical parallel emerges with the Iraq War in the twenty-first century. In 2003 Michael Ignatieff stated that “the Iraq operation most resembles the conquest of the Philippines between 1898 and 1902 . . . both were wars of conquest, both were urged by an ideological elite on a divided country and both cost much more than anyone had bargained for.”201 The question to consider now, as we analyze the past and regard the present, is how the significance and interpretation of Kipling’s poem has changed, if at all, over the span of more than a century. In light of current events, perhaps we can see how the use of “The White Man’s Burden” in contemporary media and studies has influenced the way America sees herself now. Critic Judith Plotz claims that the poem— which was historically more ridiculed than honoured—has since become, after the September 11 terrorist attacks on America, “part of a larger stream of discourse relegitimising imperialism. Instead of being parodied and mocked, the poem is being seriously, respectfully and frequently invoked both through direct quotation and through indirect dependence on its line of argument.”202 In August 2003, the Economist rhetorically posed the question of whether the U.S. “would really be prepared to shoulder the white man’s burden across the Middle East.”203 This statement suggests how Kipling’s phrase has lost its

archaic and embarrassing tone, instead becoming an “attractive” term, according to Max Boot. In his book, The Savage Wars of Peace: Small Wars and the Rise of American Power, Boot argues that although the term, “the white man’s burden,” may seem discomforting, the U.S. should continue to “embrace the practice” and “its imperial role unapologetically.”204 In this sense, Boot’s argument is representative of the new imperialists’ stance. Imperialism remains a reality as the American military continues to assert its dominance over the Middle East. Indeed, such neo-imperial rhetoric as Boot’s has also been emphasized by human rights activists such as Ignatieff, who argues, “Imperialism used to be the white man’s burden. This gave it a bad reputation. But imperialism doesn’t stop being necessary because it is politically incorrect.”205 In a way, the use of the term by contemporary politicians and the media has almost desensitized us to the phrase “the white man’s burden,” suggesting an interpretation less focused on racial discrimination and white supremacy that once made it so provocative. Instead, it now suggests a struggle to fulfill a utopian ideal centred on an aspiration of cultural relations. As such, the Middle Eastern example demonstrates that Kipling’s words remain relevant even today: his poem continues to strike a chord in debates over American identity and global responsibility.

Kipling’s “The White Man’s Burden” has been understood from an array of perspectives since it was first published in 1899.

Written to encourage the U.S. to sign the Treaty of Paris, the poem reinforced Britain’s image of itself as a colonial authority and helped to portray the British Empire as an older sibling instructing a young America in its ascent to imperial power. Yet the degree to which it was cited, criticized, and satirized to express a diversity of ideological sentiments also suggests the significance of the poem in shaping American political culture and identity, a phenomenon that continues to this day. Although Kipling’s construction of “the white man” continues to stir controversy among its readers, perceptions have generally evolved over time. While the U.S. has persisted in the pursuit of expansionism in the Iraq War, contemporary critics such as Ignatieff indicate that the term has come to mean a utopian ideal based on the aspiration of cultural interaction, possibly to justify neoimperialist aims. If this is the case, perhaps we can also contend that “The White Man’s Burden” continues to maintain its relevance in 58

Fung – In Pursuit of a Strange Neo-Imperialism society not just because of historical parallels between the PhilippineAmerican War and the Iraq War, and related political discourse, but also because the foreign policy issues raised today are largely based on nineteenth-century British and American understandings of identity and of how to interact across nations, which further suggests that the idea of democratic progress—of a postcolonial era that has moved beyond imperial rule—is not a reality, but an illusion.

On the Politics of Suspicion: American responses to the Pentagon Papers and revelations of government deception during the Vietnam War Fabian Jankovic The Vietnam War marks an important stage in American history and in the history of the Cold War. Only a decade removed from involvement in Korea and World War Two before it, the United States soon found itself mired in another military engagement far from home. In Indochina, they prosecuted a war against an enemy largely unknown to Washington through a method of combat wholly unfamiliar to the American war machine, while simultaneously trying to prop up a succession of unstable and unpopular governments in Saigon. Nonetheless, American inability to succeed in any of these endeavours did not deter policymakers from maintaining the status quo. American intransigence, however, began to be compromised in the wake of military setbacks on the ground and growing antiwar sentiment at home. Finally, in the spring of 1971, Daniel Ellsberg presented the Pentagon Papers to Neil Sheehan of the New York Times, and in the following weeks and months, they revealed to the American public the lies, secrets, and general deception that lay behind American involvement in Vietnam for over two decades. This essay will argue that the Pentagon Papers, as a result of the gravity of their revelations, sealed a perception of government betrayal and long-term deception over the state of affairs in Southeast Asia, thereafter establishing the “politics of suspicion” as a way of life and thought for the American people. This essay will begin by defining the term “politics of suspicion” and how it interacts with such conceptual ideas as lying, secrecy, and the “credibility gap.” The second part of the paper will examine the publication of the Pentagon Papers and the revelations of government deception during the Vietnam War era, examining the conflict’s central themes before moving to analyze some of the most significant examples of government deceit, including the Gulf of Tonkin incident and Washington’s responses to the 1968 Tet Offensive. Third, this essay will show how the politics of suspicion were legitimated in American political life by tracing American attitudes toward Washington, the emergence of alternative media sources during the Vietnam War, and President Nixon’s vindictive 60

Jankovic – On the Politics of Suspicion responses to the publication of the Papers. Overall, this essay will show how the Pentagon Papers inaugurated the politics of suspicion in American public life, a phenomenon that remains with the American people through to the present day.

Defining the “politics of suspicion” In his seminal work Freud and Philosophy: An Essay on Interpretation, Paul Ricoeur outlined what he called the “hermeneutics of suspicion.” Essentially, Ricoeur argued that hermeneutics—the study of how written texts are interpreted—inherently involves suspicion, and that the meaning of a given text is arrived at only through its critical interpretation. This style of interpretation—a middle road between the credulousness of total trust and the nihilism of complete distrust—strives to separate the apparent from the real; it argues that underneath stated intentions often lay a different kind of reality. Ricoeur illustrated the hermeneutics of suspicion through a study of the meaning of religion, as interpreted by Karl Marx, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Sigmund Freud. Marx argued that religion’s true purpose was to provide a flight from “the reality of inhuman working conditions" and to make "the misery of life more endurable.”206 Religion in this way served as "the opiate of the masses.” Nietzsche saw religion as “the refuge of the weak,” elevating weakness to a position of strength in order to make weakness “respectable" and life a little more endurable.207 Freud believed religion to be an illusion that merely expressed “one’s wish for a father-god.”208 These three men, whom Ricoeur dubbed the “masters of suspicion,” disagreed in their interpretations of religion, but were nonetheless united in their “suspicion[s] concerning the illusions of consciousness.”209 David Stewart writes that the three intellectuals were unified by their “common interest in finding the true meaning by stripping away the false meaning.”210 Suspicion, through its critical approach, can thus open up a text to a new reading, one which is often “even more powerful than the first reading,” and which correspondingly can evoke in us “an even stronger response.”211 This critical approach is the essence of what I call the “politics of suspicion.” As adapted to this essay, it describes the post-Vietnam War consciousness of the American public, whereby those searching for truth could no longer rely on the official government or mainstream

media interpretation of events, but instead had to look underneath the mainstream interpretation of events for the underlying reality. As its hermeneutical namesake, the politics of suspicion engages the American people to seek out the truth, to separate the apparent from the real. Paul Ricoeur’s work can thus provide a starting point for how to analyze governmental behaviour and American responses to it.

The concept behind the politics of suspicion is reflected in the works of other intellectuals as well. In 1964, Richard Hofstadter identified this common critical sentiment as the “paranoid style” in American politics, in a famous essay by the same name. Hofstadter referred to the paranoid style as an old and recurrent phenomenon in American public life that has been frequently linked with movements of public discontent.212 As Hofstadter acknowledged, the concept of the paranoid style as a force in politics “would have little contemporary relevance or historical value if it were applied only to men with profoundly disturbed minds. It is the use of paranoid modes of expression by more or less normal people that makes the phenomenon significant.”213 Moreover, this paranoid style was further justified by its “frequent historical recurrence.”214 Former Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan identified the term “postmodern paranoia” to refer to an aesthetic preference for “alternative” modes of thought that led to a playful interest in conspiracy theories about government secrecy “just for the hell of it.”215 Daniel Hellinger has argued that conspiracy theories sometimes serve popular resistance and empowerment because they cast suspicion on the transparency and legitimacy of actions undertaken by the police, military, and intelligence agencies, whose missions sometimes include “actually undertaking conspiracies.”216 The creator of the science fiction hit The X-Files, a former television series that dealt with conspiracy theories, affirmed that his own personal “paranoia and mistrust of authority came of age during Watergate.”217 The politics of suspicion often flourish where a “credibility gap” exists between the leaders of a society and that society’s citizens.

Imaginably, a credibility gap opens up when policies of official secrecy and deception begin to come undone. This begs the question: can secrecy and deception be reconciled in a democracy? While government secrecy may appear to be inherently undemocratic, John Orman argued that “paradoxically, a certain amount of government 62

Jankovic – On the Politics of Suspicion secrecy is required for the maintenance of a political system.”218 Orman conceded that secrecy can benefit society in several ways, such as through the protection of intelligence, the guarding of other nations’ information, and in allowing for greater flexibility in the conduct of diplomacy. Like Orman, Sissela Bok allowed for a more consequentialist reading of secrecy, recognizing that while it may be “prima facie wrong,” lying and secrecy “may accompany the most innocent as well as the most lethal acts.”219 Nonetheless, secrecy in governance is inherently undemocratic because, as Orman reasoned, it “encourages presidential lying and further abuses of secrecy, it hides dissent within the executive over major policy decisions, and perhaps most importantly, creates a loss of trust and support for the government among the public, where a “real or imagined credibility gap” exists or may emerge.220 Bruce Franklin identified the historical trap associated with lying and secrecy: A consequence of decades-long deception is the widespread belief that government is not to be trusted.

Whatever the government denies may be true, and the more the government denies, the more likely it is deceiving the people in the first place.221 This cycle only results in the exacerbation of the credibility gap in societies and as such, there is clearly an inherent contradiction between government secrecy and Western liberal democracy. Citing Vietnam, Eric Alterman noted that “A policy asking that young men be sent into battle to become killers, and even die for reasons no one can sensibly explain, is hardly tenable for long in a political democracy.”222 Noam Chomsky, writing in 1970 during his travels to Indochina, noted the irreconcilability of a democratic country fighting an imperialistic war: The plain fact is that a democracy cannot fight a brutal, drawn-out war of aggression. Most people are not gangsters. Unless public concern can be deflected, unless intervention is discreet and covert, there will be protest, disaffection, and resistance. Either the war will have to go, or the democracy.223 With the definition and meaning of the term established, this essay will now turn to discover how the politics of suspicion emerged as a reality of American political life.

The publication of the Pentagon Papers and revelations of government deception during the Vietnam War In the spring of 1967, Secretary of Defense Robert S. McNamara authorized a study to answer fundamental questions concerning how the U.S. became bogged down in the war in Vietnam.

Officially titled “History of U.S. Decision-making in Vietnam, 19451968,” the Pentagon Papers project was commissioned by McNamara for two purposes: to write an “encyclopedic history of the Vietnam War” compiling for future scholars the essential raw materials for historical analysis of the war, but more pressingly to help Washington policymakers understand the course and trajectory of American involvement in Indochina over the previous two decades.224 Beginning in 1967 under the direction of Morton H. Halperin and Leslie H. Gelb, the study was completed two years later, a year after McNamara had left office in 1968, eroding any likelihood that its publication could have spurred a change in policy from within Washington. Fifteen copies were made of the study, two of which were given to the RAND Corporation, the think-tank where Daniel Ellsberg worked after serving in Vietnam. Ellsberg, beginning to grow disillusioned with the war, decided one day to read the study in its entirety, and upon completion, he became convinced that if the American people had a chance to read the Papers, they would demand an immediate end to the war.225 As he later recalled, “As I saw it then, the war not only needed to be resisted but remained to be understood.”226 For Ellsberg, Nixon’s Vietnamization policy had been a “bloody, hopeless, uncompelled, hence surely immoral prolongation of US involvement in this war.”227 After deciding that the documents needed to be leaked into the public sphere, Ellsberg approached several Congressmen and Senators with the study. However, nobody on Capitol Hill was willing to present the documents to the public, and so Ellsberg turned to his friend at the New York Times, Neil Sheehan. On Sunday, 13 June 1971, the Times began publishing excerpts of the Pentagon Papers and in doing so, confirmed the American people’s suspicions of the government’s dishonest portrayal of events in Vietnam.

The Pentagon Papers revealed several narratives about the war.

Foremost, the Papers showed the American people that four administrations—Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Johnson— 64

Jankovic – On the Politics of Suspicion progressively developed a sense of commitment to a non-communist Vietnam, a willingness to protect South Vietnam at almost all costs, and an ultimate frustration with this effort.228 They showed that Washington’s Vietnam policy had been cloaked in secrecy going all the way back to 1945. When the White House decided to support France’s efforts to recolonize Vietnam militarily and financially, they tried from the very beginning to keep their actions secret.229 Similarly the documents showed that Lyndon Johnson had been the inheritor and not the originator of Vietnam policy. Beginning in May 1961, Kennedy had ordered the CIA to begin a program of covert action against North Vietnam, which included the infiltration of agents into North Vietnam to gather intelligence and commit acts of sabotage.

However, these actions were expanded in December 1963 at Lyndon Johnson’s request.230 The Papers also illustrated how the internal justification for the war shifted over time from the containment of communism to the protection of American national prestige abroad.231 They indicated that the CIA had already been publishing pessimistic intelligence reports for several years, painting a grim picture of the situation on the ground and revealing a lack of optimism about American chances for success in Indochina. As the Papers exposed, those intelligence reports were frequently ignored by policymakers who were foremost preoccupied with not “losing” Vietnam the same way that Truman had “lost” China. Moreover, the Papers revealed that the Johnson administration was concerned about the public opinion of the nation’s Southeast Asia policy, which was already “badly divided” by this time, as early as the spring of 1964.232 Unwilling to make all-out war because of the general opposition that would cause among the voters, Washington instead favoured a policy of “gradual escalation.”233 Further, the Papers illustrated how U.S. policy in Indochina was rooted in total denial and ignorance of the region’s history and culture. American policy ignored the legality and authority of the Geneva Accords, the origin and character of Ngo Dinh Diem’s dictatorship in South Vietnam, the indigenous roots of the rebellion against his regime, and the identity of forces on all sides of the conflict.234 Those Americans who knew anything about Vietnam before the war would have known that the U.S. had been allied with the Viet Minh during World War II, providing arms and support to the guerilla forces of Vo Nguyen Giap. However, in the following two

months after the war, the U.S. committed its first act of warfare against the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, by arming and transporting French colonial forces and French Legionnaires who were working to recolonize Indochina. Soon after, the U.S. portrayed Ho Chi Minh as a man with communist credentials and ignored Vietnamese appeals for American support, going back on their wartime alliance.235 Perhaps most tragically, however, the Papers revealed that at no time over a period of twenty-three years did Washington ever take into account the human and material costs to the Vietnamese themselves.236 Rarely, if ever, did American policymakers show any regard for the loss of Vietnamese life during the conflict.

Perhaps the most important revelation of the Papers was that the American people were deliberately deceived by the Gulf of Tonkin incident to secure popular support and Congressional approval for a ground war in Vietnam. On 4 August 1964 (incidentally, Ellsberg’s first day in the Pentagon as a staffer for Assistant Secretary of Defense John McNaughton), two days after the American destroyer USS Maddox engaged three North Vietnamese warships in the Gulf of Tonkin, it was alleged that another incident took place. However, the Pentagon Papers have since revealed that there was no attack on the fateful night.237 Before the second incident could be confirmed, Johnson had already decided that retaliatory action would take place.

Johnson went to Congress and told the House “Some of our boys are floating around in the water.”238 Congress believed that an attack had taken place in the Tonkin Gulf because Johnson and company offered no reason for Congressional leaders to doubt it. On 7 August 1964 Congress approved the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, which read: “Congress approves and supports the determination of the President, as Commander-in-Chief, to take all necessary measures to repel any armed attack against the forces of the United States and to prevent further aggression [original emphasis].239 There was some unease about the vague language of the resolution; Senator Wayne Morse called it “a predated declaration of war.”240 Senator J. William Fulbright, who sponsored the resolution in the upper house, acknowledged the broadness of the language but reassured the senators that, after talks with Johnson, “there was no consideration in the administration of using the resolution as an authorization for changing the American role in the war.”241 The Senate also passed the resolution.

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Jankovic – On the Politics of Suspicion As events would soon reveal, the Tonkin Gulf Resolution was used as the only constitutional base for the expansion of the war in Vietnam.

The Papers showed how Johnson and Defense Secretary Robert McNamara misled Congress, the media, and the American public about the U.S. presence in the Gulf and the incident itself. The reports Washington issued were intended to portray the Vietnamese as more aggressive than they had been, the Americans as more pacific, and the situation in Indochina to be simpler than it really was.242 For Senator Moynihan, the case for going to war was built on “an edifice of information that would not survive even the most cursory of audits.”243 It remained to Lyndon Johnson to sum up what really happened in the Gulf of Tonkin, which he did four years after the fact. “Hell,” said the president, “those damn stupid sailors were just shooting at flying fish.”244 The presidential election later that year pitted Lyndon Johnson against the Republican war hawk Barry Goldwater. The Democratic incumbent won in a landslide after pledging during the campaign “I shall never send American boys to Vietnam to do the job that Asian boys should do,”245 and in the wake of the passing of the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, “We still seek no wider war.”246 It was not until the publication of the Pentagon Papers in 1971 when Americans would finally learn that within four days of assuming the presidency in November 1963, Johnson had secretly signed National Security Action Memorandum 273 which implemented an undercover plan for a fullscale war in Vietnam to be covered by “the plausibility of denial.”247 In Secrets, Ellsberg detailed how every Washington insider expected a wider war under President Johnson to begin no later than the start of the New Year.248 After the Papers were released in 1971, Barry Goldwater later revealed that “During the campaign, President Johnson kept reiterating that he would never send American boys to fight in Vietnam… I was being called trigger-happy, warmonger, bomb happy, and all the time Johnson was saying he would never send American boys, I knew damn well he would.”249 The Pentagon Papers also showed how policymakers in Washington were forced to reconsider their chances of success in Vietnam after the success of the Tet Offensive. At this point of the war, in 1968, “the Tet Offensive showed that progress in many ways had been illusory… a clear-cut military victory was probably not possible.”250 To continue the war after 1968, something was needed to

spoil the Paris peace negotiations, to counter the antiwar movement, and to generate some zeal for continued war. After South Vietnamese President Nguyen Van Thieu scuttled the negotiations by refusing to sign the treaty, Nixon and future presidential candidate Henry Ross Perot solved the problem by concocting a brand new issue after Nixon’s inauguration in 1969: they demanded a “full accounting” for Americans missing in action and the release of American prisoners of war as a precondition of any peace accord.251 This demand, what came to be known as the POW/MIA issue, deadlocked the Paris negotiations for over four years. However, as Franklin observed, “We know with as much certainty as could ever be possible that there are not now, and never have been, American prisoners held in Vietnam after the war.”252 In the words of a former Victory in Vietnam Association (VIVA) chair, an organization that embraced the POW/MIA issue, “Nixon and Kissinger just used the POW issue to prolong the war.”253 The two years between Johnson’s announcement not to run for president on 31 March 1968 and Nixon’s invasion of Cambodia on 30 April 1970 were thus characterized by a misguided public confidence that peace was at hand, as American warplanes stopped bombing North Vietnam during this interval. As Ellsberg noted, however, they had simply shifted their targets to South Vietnam and, secretly, to Laos and Cambodia as well, while dropping a higher total tonnage than before.254 Because of their early termination, the Papers did not provide a clear record of the secret war in Laos, though the documents did offer some evidence of American efforts stop North Vietnamese troop movements within the country, in addition to showing Johnson to have expanded the secret war into a brutal air war while the CIA funded a secret ground campaign fought by their makeshift group of Meo tribesmen, other Lao minorities, and Thai recruits.255 Neil Sheehan observed that “To read the Pentagon Papers in their vast detail is to step through the looking glass into a new and different world. This world has a set of values, a dynamic, a language and a perspective quite distinct from the public world of the ordinary citizen and of the other two branches of the Republic – Congress and the judiciary.”256 Sheehan likened the contents of the Papers to “a thermonuclear vial.”257 Hannah Arendt noted that “the administration’s policy of lying was hardly ever aimed at the enemy… but was destined chiefly, if not exclusively, for domestic consumption, for propaganda 68

Jankovic – On the Politics of Suspicion at home, and especially for the purpose of deceiving Congress.”258 Peter Schrag believed that the publication of the Papers “threatened the larger faith in the candor of the federal government and the common theory that Vietnam was an aberration in American history, a momentary departure from a tradition… of just wars waged in a just cause by a just government.”259 American poet W.D. Ehrhart described his experience of reading the Pentagon Papers as “a journey through an unholy house of horrors where all one’s worst fears and darkest nightmares had suddenly become reality, hard, cold, and immutable; where all of the ugliest questions that had first arisen in the ricefields [sic] and jungles of Vietnam had suddenly been answered in the starkest and most unmerciful terms.”260 Senator Mike Gravel argued that only a person who “has failed to read the Pentagon Papers” can believe in “[America’s] good intentions” or that [America was] fighting for “freedom and liberty in Southeast Asia.”261 The revelations of the Pentagon Papers brought these dark conclusions home to the American people, thereafter inaugurating the politics of suspicion as a state of consciousness for the American people.

The legitimation of the politics of suspicion in American political life The examples of deception listed above all contributed to shaping the politics of suspicion as a way of life and thought for the American people. While it is argued here that this transformation was confirmed by the publication of the Pentagon Papers, it is still difficult to determine precisely how much the Papers and their revelations about the Vietnam War contributed directly to the emergence of this phenomenon in American public life. However, public attitudes toward Washington have been traced every two years since 1958 by the University of Michigan’s Center for Political Studies and analyzing those numbers may help to understand this development. In 1958, on the eve of direct U.S. military involvement in Vietnam, 76.3 percent of the American people believed that the government was run “for the benefit of all,” while only 17.6 percent believed that it was run “by a few big interests.” By late 1972, after the presidential election,

those numbers had reversed themselves: only 37.7 percent of people still thought that the government was run for the benefit of all, while 53.3 percent now believed Washington to be run by a few big interests.

Admittedly, economic worries and social strife likely played a role in these measurements, in addition to multiple political assassinations and Nixon’s felonies during the Watergate scandal, but as Bruce Franklin noted in Vietnam and Other American Fantasies, none of these events were unrelated to the war. As Franklin concluded, it was first during the Vietnam War that distrust of Washington became “rampant.”262 In addition to the examples of government subterfuge revealed in the Papers, the politics of suspicion were further legitimated by two other phenomena: the quality of journalism produced by the mainstream media and Nixon’s responses to the publication of the Pentagon Papers. The failures of the mainstream media to report the events in Vietnam fairly or accurately eventually resulted in the creation of an alternative press that sought to paint a different picture of the war. The underground press came into force around 1968, the decisive year of the conflict, to challenge the hegemony of the establishment media, what historian Bruce Franklin has referred to as “the traditional organs of corporate America.”263 The discrepancy between their reporting can be shown through the comparative reporting of events in late 1967 and in early 1968. When Lyndon Johnson summoned General William Westmoreland home in November 1967 for a “public relations offensive,” the President wanted the military leader to paint an optimistic picture of the course of the war in Vietnam, to which the establishment media duly obliged.

This was contrasted by the reporting of the alternative media, and that of Wilfred Burchett in particular, who protested in the National Guardian on 6 January 1968 that: the true facts about the war have been denied the US public by the extraordinary antics of Gen. William Westmoreland and his public relations team in Saigon…

Unable to present any successes in terms of terrain reoccupied or population won back from areas controlled by the NLF, the US-Saigon command has resorted to an old trick the French used until the fall of Dien Bien Phu – 70

Jankovic – On the Politics of Suspicion the claim to be wiping out tens of thousands of enemy troops for the loss of a handful of their own.264 Burchett, whose reporting on the war was informed by his personal experiences reporting alongside the NVA and NLF combat units, also went on to boldly predict a North Vietnamese victory in the conflict.265 The comparative reliability of the establishment and underground press was also demonstrated by their conflicting reporting of events during the month-long Tet Offensive in early 1968. For people who only got their news from the television and the mainstream press, the offensive had come out of nowhere, while in contrast, the offensive and its eventual success legitimated the reporting of the underground press, which had, according to Franklin, “accurately assessed the military situation and predicted such an eventuality.”266 Likewise, with the military and the Pentagon exaggerating American progress on the ground throughout the conflict, the public was given no reliable information from the government, the military or the mainstream media to prepare it for the possibility that the U.S. could actually lose the war.267 The impact of the Pentagon Papers on the politics of suspicion was further exacerbated by Nixon’s ham-handed efforts to keep them secret. Though few people read the Papers in their entirety, many Americans witnessed the White House’s vindictive campaign against Ellsberg. Nixon was initially ambivalent about their publication, since the misdeeds the Papers revealed were the work of the Democrats.

However, he was pressured into action by his Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, who was engaged in secret negotiations with Chinese leaders and was told that Chinese secret parleys of intelligence would end if Washington was seen as being unable to keep its own secrets.268 Nixon thereafter embarked on a mission to discredit Ellsberg and the Papers: “[G]oddamn it, somebody has to go to jail! [original emphasis]... [T]hat’s all there is to it!... Can you haul in that son-of-abitch Ellsberg right away?” Nixon demanded of his Attorney General, John Mitchell.269 Nixon used all the legal and extralegal means at his disposal, seeking a court-ordered injunction against the New York Times and Washington Post on further publication of the Papers and indicting Ellsberg and Anthony Russo under the Espionage Act of 1917, in addition to sending the Plumbers to break into the office of Ellsberg’s psychoanalyst. Nixon’s efforts were in vain, however, as the

courts found that there was no law and no precedent in the broadlyworded Espionage Act preventing the publication of the Papers.270 Justice Hugo L. Black wrote that “The guarding of military and diplomatic secrets at the expense of informed representative government provides no real security to the public.”271 Even Nixon’s Solicitor General Erwin N. Griswold, who accordingly had argued the government’s case before the Supreme Court, admitted nearly two decades after the fact that: I have never seen any trace of a threat to the national security from the publication… There may be some basis for short-term classification while plans are being made, or negotiations are going on, but apart from details of weapons systems, there is very rarely any real risk to current national security from the publication of facts relating to transactions of the past, even the fairly recent past. This is the lesson of the Pentagon Papers experience.272 This essay has shown how the politics of suspicion became established as a way of life and thought for the American people during the Vietnam War era. While the historical process has been presented here, the politics of suspicion is more than just a historical movement: it remains today part and parcel of the American consciousness and is arguably even more relevant in 2013. Since Vietnam and Watergate, the American people have been forced to think twice about many events, including the CIA backing of the mujahideen during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in the 1980s, the Iran-contra affair, Ronald Reagan’s policies in Latin America, the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, the hastily-organized wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, President Obama’s drone policy in the Middle East, and the indefinite detention of Bradley Manning (who is accused of the same “crime” as Daniel Ellsberg was forty years ago), to name but a few examples. While government secrecy and deception continued with the conscious aim of deceiving the American public, after the Pentagon Papers experience, the American people became armed with the knowledge that, to discover the underlying truth, they must first separate the apparent from the real.

72

Sanden – The Growth of Vancouver Leisure Culture The Growth of Vancouver Leisure Culture: Grouse Mountain Resort Karl Sanden It is almost impossible to imagine the city of Vancouver as a logger’s camp at the end of a railway line. The city has grown so rapidly that the small-town feeling is almost non-existent. Vancouver has developed from these humble beginnings into one of the most diverse metropolitan economies in the world, and its cultural diversity is just as extensive. Most people in Vancouver today find employment in secondary or tertiary industries, rather than the resource extraction common in the late nineteenth century. However, most Vancouver residents prefer spending time at activities unrelated to their means of employment, and this trend will be investigated in the following discussion. Leisure culture developed in Vancouver under a specific set of circumstances which sets it apart from other comparable metropolitan centres; the 1920s and ’30s in particular were critical years in the development of the robust tourist industry that exists today.

In his short article, Robert Strom describes a “hierarchy of needs” as it pertains to leisure, where a lack of security causes anxiety, a lack of stimulation causes boredom, and a lack of identity causes anonymity.273 In our highly industrialized economy, the need for security is largely met. Not only do we feel reasonably secure from the sabre-rattling of competing nations, but the cost of basic necessities and readily available medical care is relatively low when viewed in the context of centuries past. In North America, outsourced labour and cheap fossil fuels have given us a very low cost of production relative to our average personal income. According to the logic of Robert Strom, our priority has shifted from the pursuit of security to a desire for stimulation, which in turn causes an increase in the development of recreational activities. Although this phenomenon accelerated sharply after the 1950s, it began in the 1920s as prosperity in the West reached unprecedented levels and people turned to leisure activities in search of novel stimulation. Previously, leisure was merely a pastime of the upper classes, and those in the lower and middle classes seldom had the time, energy, or resources to participate. A shift occurred in the 1920s as incomes rose and people made use of easily available credit.

According to James Walvin’s study of leisure in England during this

period, “the leisure pursuits of most people were slowly changed, often out of all recognition, by the joint forces of industrialisation and urbanisation.”274 The process of industrialization was central to the development of leisure, since “the monotonous tasks being created by automation have caused an increasing number of job holders to begin to find their major life interests outside their jobs.”275 Although average income increased with industrialization, job satisfaction decreased as industry shifted from the home to the factory. The monotony of working life propelled many to develop leisure interests in order to compensate for this imbalance.

In Vancouver, now one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world and one of the most sought-after travel destinations, the development of leisure is closely linked with the development of the city as a whole. The many kilometres of beaches, the diverse mosaic of cultures and related opportunities for cultural experiences, the careful preservation of natural spaces within the city such as Stanley Park and Pacific Spirit Park, and the city’s close proximity to the North Shore mountains and ski resorts made Vancouver a magnet for tourism and drew many visitors solely for the purpose of enjoyment. Consequently, international investors view the city primarily as a destination for vacationers and as a hub for the rich to congregate, rather than for extensive industrialization, easy employment, or a large working class.

This creates a dilemma for the historian, as it is not immediately apparent how and when this shift occurred. When did Vancouver residents begin to define their city by its plethora of leisure activities rather than as an industrial port city? Of course, industry and logistics still play a huge role in the economy of Greater Vancouver, but they are not the primary concern of government policy. Why do many Vancouver residents often define themselves in terms of their leisure activities as an alternative to ethnic, religious, social, or workplace identity?

Although this discourse will not answer this second question directly, it will hopefully begin to explain how this leisure-based identity developed. The “Grouse Grind,” an approximately hour-long hike within Grouse Mountain Resort, has a symbolic significance for this leisure culture in Vancouver. Using the early history of Grouse Mountain Resort as a case study, this discourse will seek to discover how this culture developed in the 1920s and ’30s, and how Grouse 74

Sanden – The Growth of Vancouver Leisure Culture Mountain came to hold symbolic significance for the beauty of Vancouver. Since the archival sources are limited to the late ’20s and early ’30s, the discussion will focus on how the Great Depression affected trends in advertising and caused businessmen to intentionally create the image of Vancouver as a tourist destination in order to keep their enterprises and the municipal economy solvent during the 1930s.

Even in its infancy, Vancouver residents saw the Grouse Mountain Resort as an avenue for increasing the prestige of the city. In an article dated May 29, 1926 from the Morning Star regarding the opening of the Grouse Mountain Scenic Highway, the author states that when the highway is completed, “Vancouver will have the unique distinction of being the only city in the world where winter and summer lie an hour apart,” and that the city will have “all the sports and scenery of Switzerland within an hour’s ride of Vancouver.”276 The author prophetically suggests that the development of the resort “establishes a major attraction that will prove of tremendous value and increase the flow of visitors to this city.”277 During highway construction, which opened to the public on October 2, 1926,278 the company made every effort to preserve the natural surroundings for the enjoyment of the public. The Morning Star quotes Arthur S. Williamson, the managing director of the company, regarding the construction process: Everything is being done to preserve the natural beauty of the scenery, with the rugged grandeur of the surroundings . . . and the great tracts of virgin forests. . .

We realize it is a public charge on us to preserve it as a natural park for the benefit of the public for all time.279 There is clearly an understanding between this private company and the residents of the city regarding the symbolic value of the resort. The Sunday Province featured a full page article with photographs on November 21, 1926 entitled “Wilderness is Transformed into Huge Natural Playground by Safe Scenic Highway to Grouse” extolling the unique opportunity for visitors to “look upon those stupendous wonders of Nature which are good to see and contemplate.”280 A fullpage advertisement in the Los Angeles Evening Herald dated March 1, 1927 promotes the whole northwest coast as a “cool green vacation land” with a “climate tempered by the mountains and cool breezes

from the Straits of Juan de Fuca.”281 The advertisement lists the Grouse Mountain Highway along with “many other scenic wonders in Vancouver and environs: Capilano Canyon, Stanley Park, Marine Drive, Howe Sound, Lynn Canyon, Indian River Park, and Harrison Hot Springs.”282 In an article dated July 28, 1926,283 the editor of the Vancouver World expressed this symbolism quite clearly: “Grouse Mountain is a great MOUNTAIN. Vancouver is a great NAME. Why not combine them and put them to work for Greater Vancouver? [emphasis original].”284 Even two years after its initial opening, the resort continued to receive significant attention in the press. The Daily Colonist featured a full front-page article complete with photographs on April 22, 1928 which described in detail how anyone can enjoy the pleasures of the “Grouse Mountain Chalet, an inviting structure with a huge, warm, cobblestone fireplace within.”285 Well into 1929, the newspapers continued to sensationalize the importance of Grouse Mountain for the future of Vancouver, and when the company began to run into financial trouble, an interested third party suggested that an appeal be made to the provincial government for public funding in order to keep the resort open.286 The mountain resort was not the only recreational enterprise facing difficult financial circumstances as the Depression took hold.

Vancouverites saw the success of the resort as a turning point in the life of the city, since after a mere six months, “the building [the Grouse Mountain Chalet] has been found too small for the crowds.”287 Regardless of the actual economic effects created in the city at that time by the opening of the resort, the discourse surrounding its success is worth noting, since public opinion held significant influence on future development. Although it was a private enterprise, the impact of the resort was important for the city as a whole and residents saw it as a factor in establishing the reputation of the city worldwide. Only a few months after the opening of the Grouse Mountain Highway, journalists in several publications extolled the North Shore Mountains as a playground for locals and internationals alike. On April 9, 1927, J. N. Brown predicted in The Vancouver Sun that “ten years from now the north shore wonderland may be a place of vast summer resort hotels” and “should be calling people from all across Canada and far 76

Sanden – The Growth of Vancouver Leisure Culture into the United States.” Brown states that the “grand climax” of this wonderland was to be Grouse Mountain.288 Both print advertisements and residents themselves encouraged international visitors to travel up the mountain to see the view, using the resort to showcase the prestige of the city to outsiders. For example, an undated article from The Daily Province describes how “consular representatives of twenty nations” combined “pleasure and business” at a unique luncheon, and how the representatives praised the new highway.289 The Viceroy of India, Lord Willingdon, after a Sunday visit to Grouse Mountain, stated that he had “seen nothing to equal this since [he] came to Canada.”290 A memorandum dated Tuesday, March 2, 1935 lists a number of important visitors from locations outside the Lower Mainland, including Calcutta, India; Aberdeen, Scotland; New York City; Toronto and Hamilton, Ontario; San Francisco, California; Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania; Sydney and Melbourne, Australia; Quesnel and Victoria, BC; and London, England.291 The visits of important dignitaries and internationals often centred more on the view of Vancouver and the food served at the Chalet than on the quality of the skiing, almost as though the resort was an extension of Vancouver rather than its own separate entity. One of these dignitaries, Mr. Brittan, “was very much thrilled with the Chalet and the sight of the city at night.”292 The resort managers put great importance on these international dignitaries, as they would draw publicity from their social circles. In this case, Mr. Brittan suggested that a photo be sent to a “Mr. Bullwinkel,” who would “see that this picture was shown in an agents [sic] circular issued in the south with quite a heavy circulation.”293 In December 1932, new managers Leon C. Shelly, Harry Boyce, and Kenneth Thurston immediately dealt with a fire that consumed parts of the Chalet just a few weeks into the new year. 294 Surprisingly, this fire had little effect on the operation of the resort, proving the loyalty of its clientele. 295 As the Depression deepened throughout the province, politicians and businessmen increased their efforts to promote tourism in order to offset the losses in voluntary clientele. After the eager consumption of the 1920s began to dwindle, a new and more aggressive approach became necessary, and “the 1930s were, in fact, a crucial decade for the development of organized tourism promotion in British Columbia and elsewhere in Canada.”296 A favourable political climate encouraged tourism promotion, in which many “embraced

tourism as a panacea to the problems of the Depression.�297 This trend is specifically evident in the source material for Grouse Mountain in three separate ways: the increase in advertising expenses of the company, an expressed desire for increased publicity by senior employees within company correspondence, and the encouragement by newspapers to intentionally promote Vancouver attractions.

The first of these efforts to promote the resort is quantitatively evident in a comparison of the “Monthly Operating & General Profit & Loss Statement� from October 1933 and the same from October 1934, since both statements give values for all subdivided revenue and expenses within the company for the previous 12 months. These records show that in 1933, $1,322.57 was spent on advertising, and the company more than doubled this expenditure in 1934. 298 Although the records are limited to those two years, preventing further examination of this trend, it would seem that by increasing the spending on advertising, gross revenue proportionately increased from $18,501.56 in 1933 to $25,631.79 in 1934.299 As well, for both 1933 and 1934 the company operated at a net loss rather than a profit, but the loss was reduced from $7,819.25 in 1933 to $5,753.17 in 1934.300 Either the Depression was beginning to lessen by 1934, or the increase in advertising had a direct effect on revenue, and therefore a reduced loss. It is hard to ignore this direct correlation, since expense changes in other departments were much more dependent on actual demand.

On the other hand, a twofold increase in advertising was most likely the result of an arbitrary decision by company executives based on market perceptions. To some degree, this represents an intentional effort to promote leisure culture in Vancouver and along the West Coast, and it demonstrates that the continuing symbolic value of the resort was not completely spontaneous; it was partly a result of the company agenda.

Although Michael Dawson argues that those promoting tourism in British Columbia were not personally involved in the industry themselves,301 the executives of Grouse Mountain Resort provide the researcher with an unambiguous exception to this claim, as the desire for increased publicity during the Depression is clearly evident in the day-to-day correspondence between senior employees of the resort. In a memorandum dated February 4, 1935, Leon C. Shelly, the resort manager, instructed Mr. Crane to give special attention to an 78

Sanden – The Growth of Vancouver Leisure Culture important customer who had plans to hike the mountain and dine at the Chalet. Tom Foster was the owner of a men’s clothing store on Granville Street and he had business connections with “many tourists and local people from day to day and he [would] be an excellent booster for us.”302 Mr. Shelly saw a great opportunity for positive publicity, since “merchants on Granville Street [could] very often do even more for [business] than any ticket agent.”303 The company always gave priority to important corporate executives due to their connections in the city, and this included a certain “J. Anderson,” the representative of “British Properties,” who “usually arrang[ed] for lunch or dinner and always [had] prominent visitors with him.”304 As well as cultivating a more distinguished clientele, the company also tried to maintain solvency by reducing existing expenses. In February of 1935 the company began to run into financial difficulties, to the point where even obtaining gasoline for the snow plow from its creditor was a burden.305 The company tried to cut corners wherever it could, including hiring a certain “Herman Leisk,” who was “willing to work steadily from now on at [50¢ per day],” and laying off one of the higher-paid men.306 Mr. Shelly suggested Saturday night dances atop the mountain with free admission for SkiClub members in an effort that club members might “react to the advantage of all concerned,”307 presumably referring to a sales-related advantage. J. H. Crane responded in the negative to this idea, contending that the ski club members were “a very rowdy lot,” and “they [had] no intention of spending any money.”308 The Depression compelled the company to exploit every opportunity to increase revenue and reduce expenses.

The local newspapers played the central role in promoting Vancouver attractions and in sponsoring a sales-focused agenda during this period. Beginning in 1933, a short article from The Sun encouraged residents to mention Vancouver’s diverse range of leisure activities “next time [they] write a letter to a friend,” and to “let [their friend] know what [they] have learned . . . - that it’s a great place to live.”309 A month later, in an article dated May 12, 1933, the News Herald revealed that: To make skiing, mountaineering and outdoor life more understandable and more enjoyable, the directors of . . .

Grouse Mountain Chalet . . . headed by Leon Shelly [the

Chalet manager] are working with the above objective and have made Nels Nelson, former ski champion of the world, the director of athletic endeavours of the Chalet.310 This was done to “instil the idea of the jump and run sport in the young,”311 for the implicit purpose of boosting business at the resort.

The newspapers deliberately made an effort to portray the city as a holiday destination, dispensing with subtleties in direct statements like “vacation time is here. Vancouver is the place to cheaply and thoroughly enjoy it,” since one could “swim and ski in the same afternoon.”312 Everyone was doing their utmost to attract and retain tourists and, by November 1933, those in commercial leadership of the city made marketing a priority. According to Dr. G.H. Worthington, the chairman of the Bureau Advertising Committee, “there was a time when businesses did not need to advertise,” but due to increased competition, “we must keep pace with other countries in their endeavours to attract tourist [sic] and exploit our wares.”313 Promotion of tourism and leisure culture in Vancouver began to be an intentional, aggressive agenda in the face of declining sales.

This trend of marketing a specific municipal image also took the form of the “Know Vancouver” campaign which occurred in the summer of 1934. Leon C. Shelly and others launched the campaign after the Junior Chamber of Civic Affairs discovered that “each day the stay of the tourist population is prolonged, the neat little sum of $170,000 flows into Vancouver’s coffers.”314 Vancouver civic officials and businessmen began to understand the importance of the tourist industry; however, they were concerned that tourists knew little more about Vancouver than the “nice drive around Stanley Park.”315 The rationale behind the campaign was “the contention of the Junior Chamber that if Vancouver citizens will familiarize themselves to a greater extent with the city’s attractions and points of interest, many tourists will be encouraged to lengthen their stay.”316 Important business executives gave speeches at events to promote the initiative, including Howard S. Coulter, who spoke to “eight thousand persons” after a concert, exhorting them to “know Vancouver better, so that others should know it.”317 Many major Vancouver businesses endorsed the campaign,318 which emphasized that “Vancouver should make a name for itself as the friendly city,” since “a spirit of friendly courtesy 80

Sanden – The Growth of Vancouver Leisure Culture will go a long way toward increasing the number of tourists which visit Vancouver each year, as well as lengthening the stay of those already here.”319 Those in charge of the campaign hoped that “each individual in Vancouver should become a voluntary selling agent of Vancouver’s attractions.”320 The most vocal proponent of this initiative was none other than Leon C. Shelly, the manager for Grouse Mountain, who headed the campaign committee; it was not by accident that the resort came to represent the Vancouver tourist industry almost as much as Stanley Park.

Upon careful examination, hundreds of newspaper clippings preserved in the Grouse Mountain Scrapbook provide concrete evidence for the origins of Vancouver’s present status as a world-class tourist destination.321 The public nature of the construction project, the initial popularity of the attraction among tourists and Vancouver residents, the careful marketing strategies of management staff, and the direction of development during its first few years of operation all serve to indicate the central role played by the resort in the prestige of the city. Investors founded the company at a critical point in the history of Vancouver when working class citizens were beginning to develop enough time and disposable income to pursue leisure activities more consistently, and Grouse Mountain established Vancouver as a world-class destination for these tourists. Coinciding perfectly with automobile production, which was just beginning to flourish in the 1920s, visitors were initially attracted to the resort to experience the ‘drive to the top of the world’322. The interwar years in North America saw a shift in the tourist industry from “railways and hotels to one in which the automobile assumed central importance,”323 and Grouse Mountain Resort stood to benefit directly from this trend. This is evident in the press coverage of its initial success, the correspondence of key executives within the company, and the international appeal of the resort.324 It was during these interwar years that much of Vancouver began to define itself by the plethora of leisure activities available to consumers. The prestige of the city, which developed during this time, was not only tied closely with the parallel development of the Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort and the tourist industry, it was carefully engineered by those with personal ties to the company. The fact that non-residents see Vancouver as a friendly, safe, and exciting tourist destination is not solely the result of the natural surroundings. Although they did not invent it, and were not

alone in following it, smart businessmen and civic officials enhanced and gave form to this leisure-based identity of Vancouver residents during years of declining economic activity, especially in the early 1930s, with the purpose of increasing tourism revenue within the city.

82

Dur – Sending Aid or Ideology?

Sending Aid or Ideology?:CUSO and the Federal Government in the 1960s Jenna Dur The unequal distribution of wealth and widespread poverty of the “developing” world led many optimistic Canadian youth to plunge headlong into international development during the 1960s. These dogooders hoped to immerse themselves in a new culture, contributing in whatever small way to the communities they volunteered in while also gaining invaluable experience and personal growth. The Canadian University Service Overseas (CUSO) appealed to many students who were eager to provide support to developing nations without perpetuating ideas of Western hegemony. And yet, the obstacle of aiding without propagating Western ideals or foreign policy initiatives was an increasing concern for students and the organization’s leadership in the 1960s. Even though the government provided a considerable portion of CUSO’s budget, its student members were critical of what they perceived to be Canada’s foreign policy agenda and therefore gradually attempted to break ties with the government.

In this paper, I will first briefly establish how the federal government’s international development policy evolved over the 1960s. Second, I will utilize a variety of primary documents from the John Conway Fonds to explore the government’s complex relationship with CUSO. The majority of the evidence I present is relevant to the organization in general but the specific examples provided are drawn from University of British Columbia (UBC) publications. Finally, I will argue that students aimed to contribute their individual talents and efforts to CUSO’s cause instead of simply representing Canada or promoting the Canadian way of life. As the organization matured throughout the 1960s, CUSO members increasingly advocated for separation from the Canadian federal government in order to facilitate their goal of being autonomous volunteers.

The Cold War dominated the foreign policy of Canada in the late 1950s and the risk of communist expansion was seen by the Canadian government as a threat that had to be curtailed as quickly as possible. The Colombo Plan of 1950 was indicative of Canada’s shifting policy towards the suppression of worldwide communism through development aid.325 During this period, Canada began to support a foreign aid program that targeted unindustrialized

commonwealth countries. The Colombo Plan was motivated by the context of the Cold War as well as by the fear that former British colonies that were rapidly gaining independence were particularly susceptible to the influences of communism.326 Canadians were initially skeptical of the plan’s aims but with the outbreak of the Korean War, the initiative quickly gained momentum and public support. With the emergence of a new war so soon after World War II, the perceived imminent threat of communism convinced the public that Canada needed to be a beacon of democracy to the “developing” world.327 As early as 1961, Member of Parliament J.M. Macdonnell argued in front of the House of Commons that, “it is tremendously in our interests…that these underdeveloped countries shall develop economically under free institutions and not under communist institutions.”328 From the beginning Canadian international development policy was at least partially set in the context of the Cold War. The 1960s was declared the United Nations’ first “development decade” and countries throughout the Western world increased their foreign aid initiatives, becoming more involved in international development.329 With the election of Prime Minister Lester Pearson’s Liberal government, Canadian foreign aid expanded significantly beyond the initial constraints of the Colombo Plan. Under Pearson’s predecessor, John Diefenbaker, Canadian foreign aid had primarily been in the form of food aid, which solved the wheat surplus problem of the Prairies, but was not particularly helpful for nations desperately trying to catch up to the industrialization levels of the rest of the world.330 With Pearson in office, however, the budget for Canada’s international aid programs doubled. Pearson understood the perceived necessity of curbing the spread of communism and felt that aid initiatives were critical for the stability and continued prosperity of the “free world.” In addition, Pearson intended to integrate an element of humanism into Canada’s foreign policy initiatives.331 Pierre Elliot Trudeau succeeded Pearson as Prime Minister and continued to increase international aid, though with a slightly different emphasis: he skillfully linked international development with domestic security. He argued that the most menacing threat Canada faced was vast global inequality.332 Under Trudeau the External Aid Office (EAO) was transformed into the Canadian International Development Agency 84

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(CIDA) in 1968 and received additional support and funding.333 The founding president of CIDA, Maurice Strong, also played an important role in ensuring the expansion of a variety of international development programs.334 CUSO was the first development non-government organization (NGO) in Canada to receive federal funding for its initiatives.335 In fact, in the early 1960s almost all industrialized nations developed NGOs to send citizens to volunteer in “developing” countries.

According to historian Elizabeth Cobbs Hoffman, these governments were attempting to utilize the optimism of the emerging generation and demonstrate that even in the perilous times of war and arms races, citizens could still be proud of their nations.336 The government’s initiative to include students in development was especially successful because it coincided with a significant rise in the number of young people attending university. Between 1963 and 1968, enrolment in Canadian universities increased dramatically due to the unprecedented affluence of post-World War II Canada. This prosperity gave students new channels of access to Canadian politics.337 For example, the CUSO Student Committee at UBC was made up of concerned students who sought to educate their peers about the problems of the so-called “Third World.” In a promotional publication produced by the group in 1969, their stated priority was to “do something constructive about the intolerable world situation in which 20% of the world’s population holds 80% of the world’s wealth.”338 Students in Canada, and indeed around the world, were inspired by their studies to help solve the crisis of global inequality.339 Many students were unquestionably eager to help, but in the late 1950s the mechanisms for widespread student service overseas were not yet in place. The youthful founders of CUSO recognized the strong desire students had to participate in international development and service projects overseas and strived to create an outlet for that passion. Lewis Perinbam, Keith Spicer and Guy Arnold were crucial figures in the eventual emergence of the national CUSO organization.

All three men began working on separate initiatives to involve Canadian students in international development in the late 1950s, independent of the government.340 Perinbam in particular was concerned with promoting a sense of international and “cross-cultural” acceptance, mutual understanding and respect.341

Since its origins, CUSO had a nuanced relationship with the federal government. Both Spicer and Perinbam had presented their ideas to the federal government under Diefenbaker prior to the creation of CUSO, and both were promised “moral support” but did not receive any federal funding.342 Similarly, UBC also sent a proposal to the EAO requesting funding for a program that was inspired by the “Spicer Plan.” It explicitly stated that, “as to the sources of funds, it would be desirable on many accounts if this could be thought of as a partnership of Government, public and students.”343 This statement indicates how the proponents of this international student service project envisioned a program that would receive federal funding but not be dominated by government influence. Although this type of aid program is relatively common today, it was unprecedented when the proposal was drafted in 1961. Interestingly, in the proposal drafted in Montreal on June 6, 1961, during the meeting at which CUSO was officially founded, the organizers stressed that CUSO should be a student run and influenced association. They argued that the program had been inspired and created by a “youthful initiative…therefore any effort to render the programs more ‘efficient’ or more ’stable’ at the expense of student control would seem an abandonment of the whole inspiration and raison dʹêtre of this great idea.”344 Furthermore, they went on to write that any government funding might lead to a distrust of CUSO in host countries and therefore the organization should remain privately funded.345 I argue that this change in sentiment arose because leaders from all the major Canadian universities and development charities were invited to the meeting, thus a large support base for the program was already prearranged. Conversely, when Spicer, Perinbam and Arnold were working on their respective proposals they were doing so on their own initiative, with few prospects for extensive funding, and were therefore more dependent on the federal government.346 Because the CUSO committee was not as concerned about financial stability, they had the freedom to distance themselves from the government and its potentially suspect foreign policy. After receiving support from a variety of organizations, CUSO was officially established as a completely independent organization in 1961, only shortly after the American government sponsored the creation of the Peace Corps.

After its establishment, CUSO expanded rapidly and the need for government financial support was imperative if the organization 86

Dur – Sending Aid or Ideology? wanted to sustain its remarkable rate of growth.347 CUSO began petitioning the federal government for financial support in 1964. After a long struggle with government officials, they were successful in securing transportation for the 1964 volunteers through the Royal Canadian Air Force.348 Moreover, the government promised a grant of $500,000 for the 1965 volunteers. The CUSO Bulletin praised the federal support and featured the news on the front page of its May 1964 issue.349 In subsequent years, CUSO continued to expand and government assistance increased accordingly. By 1967 government support for CUSO had increased to $1.8 million. This dramatic increase was partly due to the new director of the EAO, Maurice Strong, who was committed to expanding Canada’s international aid programs through Canadian NGOs.350 CUSO was no longer a privately funded charity, but now relied substantially on government funds in order to send an ever-increasing number of students abroad.

Despite the financial and moral support of the government, the two main objectives stated in CUSO’s “Philosophy and Programme Policy” brochure were to “serve and learn.”351 CUSO stressed that the experience was even more valuable to the individual volunteering than it was for the host country who received the students. The organization encouraged volunteers to participate in activities outside of their required work assignments in order to gain a greater understanding of the community and increased cultural awareness. Students were sent as open-minded and progressive individuals rather than as representatives of the benefits of Westernization. The students were not meant to consider themselves as superior or better qualified than local people, which is why in the original plan for CUSO the students were to receive a stipend comparable to a local worker’s wage.352 CUSO also refused to send volunteers as promoters of the Canadian image. For example, the CUSO “Philosophy and Programme Policy” publication explicitly stated that, “CUSO is sending out individual Canadians rather than exponents of, for example, Canadian democracy or free enterprise… volunteers are not sent overseas specifically to change the prevailing system, regardless of their assignment.”353 This statement highlights the role of the individual volunteer in CUSO and overtly denies any desire to use the program to promote Westernization or to encourage the spread of democracy over communism. Another important goal was to “cooperate with the governments of the Third World to help them meet their defined needs.”354 In doing so, CUSO

recognized that “developing” nations were fully capable of generating solutions and needed aid rather than formal guidance.355 Even though CUSO was an international development program, its goals were to promote understanding and acceptance. They sought to provide students with a chance to engage in meaningful volunteer work in positions that would benefit the host country.

Throughout the 1960s, the Canadian public began to question the American led anti-communist agenda, especially as the US became increasingly involved in Vietnam. University students in particular tended to oppose any connection between Canada and Cold War-era foreign policies. For example, in 1966 the Canadian Union of Students argued that travelling to Cuba was one method to differentiate Canadians from Americans. It became not only a symbol of the dissimilarity between Canada and the U.S. but also a way for students to observe and judge the Cuban communist revolution for themselves rather than simply trusting government and media rhetoric.356 Furthermore, because the U.S. had provided foreign aid to Vietnam prior to military intervention, some Canadian students began to instinctively disapprove of Canadian foreign aid policy as well. An article in the UBC student newspaper, The Ubyssey, in March 1968 argued that U.S. aid undermined the sovereignty of the Vietnamese government and thus military intervention was the next logical step.357 Canadian students perceived government-sponsored international aid programs as perpetuating the American anti-communist alliance.

Whether or not such a connection existed is irrelevant because the students’ perceptions drove their behaviour and criticism.

Similarly, the public also expressed concerns about the future of CUSO and the implications of its association with government agencies. An article in the UBC Alumni Chronicle in 1969 warned that CUSO had become too bureaucratic. There was a concern that “the bureaucracy and expanding budget of CUSO eventually will promote a top-directed organization tied too closely to Canada’s foreign policy.”358 The article claimed that CUSO’s reliance on government aid would lead to it becoming both financially and politically committed to upholding Canada’s foreign policy initiatives.359 Such an organization could no longer expect to send solely hard-working students abroad but would also be entangled in Canadian foreign politics. The Globe and Mail also took up this story in an article by 88

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Clyde Sanger entitled, “Turbulence in CUSO over its goals.” Sanger described how the CIDA grant quota system forced CUSO to “scramble to reach the target number,” compromising the competitive selection process.360 He also explained how the true nature of the contract between CIDA and CUSO was not originally made public. So when returned volunteers (RVs) were informed of the conditions of the government’s funding, they felt betrayed.361 This article identifies a blatant transformation from earlier public sentiment about CUSO, as evidenced by the 1965 Globe and Mail editorial, “They may learn enough to give us a conscience.” Even though this earlier article also announced the first government grant from CIDA, there was no sign of this action being considered a threat to the organization’s autonomy. In fact, the article repeatedly praised the volunteers for their actions, claiming that, “their idealism sets an example and their awareness will help to communicate a true sense of urgency of world need.”362 The dramatic difference in tone between these two articles in the Globe and Mail suggests how quickly the public’s support of a CUSO funded

by CIDA changed as the contract became more demanding. The unease over CUSO’s goals also shows how wary the public was about the role of the government in CUSO in the late 1960s.

RV’s discontent over government intervention in CUSO mirrored the greater public’s concern with Canadian foreign aid policy. In CUSO’s Bulletin from October 1967, RV Normand Tellier argued that CUSO’s relationship with CIDA should not be tolerated.

He discussed CUSO’s commitment to sending individuals, rather than ideologies, abroad and asserted that CUSO must remain apolitical in order to continue its work effectively. He stated that, “for us, being under the domination of a political power is equivalent… to going forth to others with an ulterior motive.”363 Similarly, at a conference of B.C. RVs held in 1969, the vast majority of participants argued that it was necessary to revise CUSO’s contract with the government. The RVs were concerned about the future of CUSO and were especially worried that it was becoming too similar to the Peace Corps, which had already faced scrutiny because of suspicions that it had been infiltrated by the CIA to gain intelligence about “developing” nations.364 The RVs were evidently worried that this would also begin to occur with CUSO and the RCMP. They explicitly stated that they did not want to be an “arm of Canadian foreign policy.”365 CUSO’s RVs expressed an aversion to the increased cooperation between

CUSO and CIDA and felt that it undermined the purpose and value of their placements.

The RVs’ discontent eventually culminated in a deliberate attempt to change CUSO’s framework. In 1969, a group of RVs and local committee members developed “a Critical Analysis of CUSO/SUCO 1968/1969.” In this report, they criticized the many issues associated with the current contract with CIDA, in addition to other structural problems within the organization. Firstly, they reiterated that the “quality” of the volunteers had decreased after CIDA’s aid increased. They were careful to use the word “contract” rather than “grant” to describe the federal funding because “grant” implies that there were no restrictions on the money received from the government. They also highlighted how the terms of the contract gave CIDA the right to “ensure that Canadian aid funds are used in a manner consistent with the Government of Canada’s international development assistance area priorities.”366 They argued that this clause meant that CUSO was not an independent agency and representing it as such was misleading and would discourage competent individuals from joining CUSO. Through this connection with CIDA, CUSO was implicitly responsible for CIDA’s goals, which was a role RVs were unwilling to accept.367 In the report, concerned members cited a CIDA paper that was quoted in a Globe and Mail article in order to establish that CIDA and CUSO’s goals were disparate. The CIDA paper reiterated that a prime motivation for increasing foreign aid was to “assist Canada or Canada’s Western allies to maintain a reasonably stable and secure international political system.”368 The analysis concluded by arguing that if considerable changes were not made to the organization, it would inevitably fail.369 CUSO attempted to respond to concerns from the RVs by proposing changes to “CUSO’s Memorandum of Agreement and Bylaws” in 1969. Most notably, an amendment was added to the 1963 agreement which stipulated that members would “serve in any country which has indicated its readiness to utilize such persons.”370 This change was likely in response to the concern that CIDA would authorize where volunteers would be sent based on which countries would further Canada’s political goals.371 There was also the addition of the objective to, “increase the awareness of the Canadian public concerning the problems of international development.”372 This too can 90

Dur – Sending Aid or Ideology? be seen as a response to the concern that RVs would no longer be allowed to share their experiences if their opinions did not support the federal government’s initiatives.373 Overall, the concern over the relationship between CUSO and CIDA resulted in turmoil, which the organization attempted to remedy by making small changes and restating CUSO’s goals.

CUSO also attempted to quell concerns by celebrating the achievements of CIDA and Canada’s foreign policy. I argue that in spite of the dissatisfaction amongst RVs and local committees, as an organization CUSO understood the importance of federal funding to maintain the breadth of the organization. For this reason, the national committee did not initiate a complete overhaul of the agreement with CIDA. The 89% of CUSO’s budget provided by the government was undeniable and the organization did not seem prepared to sacrifice that funding in 1969.374 In the midst of the heated debate over the terms of their agreement with CIDA, CUSO published a Bulletin which was almost exclusively devoted to highlighting the successes of the federal government’s international development plan. This was most likely an attempt to persuade members of the benefits of the arrangement in the face of widespread discontent. The front cover of this particular Bulletin from the summer of 1969 featured a letter from Prime Minister Trudeau which stressed that CUSO was and always had been an NGO. Furthermore, he wrote that the “partnership between governmental and private support has been important for CUSO’s development,” thereby establishing the significance of government assistance.375 Another notable feature of this Bulletin was an article devoted to celebrating former CUSO staff that later took jobs with CIDA.376 This reinforced the mutually advantageous relationship between CIDA and CUSO, refuting claims that CIDA benefited more from the arrangement. In this way, rather than addressing members’ concerns about the increasing role of the government in CUSO, the organization attempted to suppress fears by glorifying CIDA. CIDA had become such a prominent supplier of funding to the organization that CUSO could not publically condemn it or its obtrusive grant terms, despite increasing pressure to do so from members.

The turmoil and controversy over CIDA’s role in CUSO reflects the complexities of the broader society in the 1960s. During this time student activism and radicalism prospered, which led to a mutually distrustful relationship between the government and

university students. Their opinions of how international development should best be achieved and for what reasons were understandably different. CUSO was determined to spread knowledge and awareness of the “developing” world in Canada, and in order to do this most effectively, they needed to expand their organization beyond its initial size constraints. The federal government played a prominent role in the expansion by providing financial support to the program. However, as students became increasingly more aware and critical of the Cold War rhetoric that influenced Canada’s foreign policy they gradually rejected the relationship between CIDA and CUSO. CUSO’s attempts to address these issues, while still accepting and utilizing government funds, demonstrates how the conflict was never fully resolved. CIDA and CUSO’s motivations for international development and overseas volunteer service projects were not always complementary; however, the two groups remained intertwined throughout the 1960s for many different reasons.

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1

Geoffrey Koziol, “Truth and Its Consequences: Why Carolingianists Don’t Speak of Myth,” in Myth in Early Northwest Europe, ed. Stephen O. Glosecki (Tempe, 2007), 71–94.

2 Dundes, Sacred Narrative: Readings in the Theory of Myth (Berkeley, 1984), 41.

3 Ibid., 42.

4 Theodor Mommsen, “St. Augustine and the Christian Idea of Progress: The Background of The City of God,” in Medieval and Renaissance Studies, ed. Eugene F. Rice, Jr. (Ithaca, 1959), 276.

5 Claude Lévi-Strauss, La Pensée Sauvage (The Savage Mind), trans. George Weidenfeld (Chicago, 1966), 16.

6 Roger Ray, “The Triumph of Greco-Roman Rhetorical Assumptions in Pre-Carolingian Historiography,” in The Inheritance of Historiography 350-900, ed. Christopher Holdsworth and T.P. Wiseman (Exeter, 1986), 68.

7 Cicero, De Inventione 1.9, trans. C.D. Yonge, http://classicpersuasion.org/pw/cicero/dnv1-1.htm.

8 Lucian, Quomodo Historia conscribenda sit 48, trans. H.W. Fowler and F.G. Fowler (Oxford, 1905), 131.

9 George A. Kennedy, The Art of Rhetoric in the Roman World: 300 B.C.–A.D. 300 (Princeton, 1972), 33.

10 Lévi-Strauss, La Pensée Sauvage, 17.

11 Koziol, “Truth and Its Consequences,” 74.

12 Lévi-Strauss, La Pensée Sauvage, 19.

13 Clifford R. Backman, The Worlds of Medieval Europe (Oxford, 2003), 57.

14 Ibid., 48.

15 Judith M. Bennett, Medieval Europe: A Short History (Boston, 2006), 43.

16 Martin Heinzelmann, Gregory of Tours: History and Society in the Sixth Century, trans. Christopher Carroll (Cambridge, 2001), 151.

17 Annales Regni Francorum, s.a. 772, 796, ed. F. Kurze, in MGH Scriptores rerum germanicarum in usum scholarum 6 (Hanover, 1895), 32–4, 98, trans. In Bernard Scholz and Barbara Rogers, Carolingian Chronicles (Ann Arbor, 1972), 48–9, 74.

18 Agobard of Lyons, Liber Contra Insulam Vulgi Opinionem de Grandine et Tonitruis 2, ed. and trans. Paul Edward Dutton in Carolingian Civilization: A Reader (Peterborough, 2004), 220–23.

19 Liber Contra Insulam…, trans. Dutton, 222.

20 Paul Edward Dutton, Charlemagne’s Mustache and Other Cultural Clusters of a Dark Age (New York, 2004), 170.

21 Rosamond McKitterick, The Frankish Church and the Carolingian Reforms, 789–895 (London, 1977), 208.

22 Koziol, “Truth and Its Consequences,” 82.

23 Ibid., 87.

24 Ibid., 91.

25 Dhuoda, Handbook for Her Warrior Son: Liber Manualis, ed. and trans. Marcelle Thiebaux) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 223.

26 For a detailed account of the circumstances surrounding the writing of the Liber Manualis, see Marcelle Thiebaux, Introduction to Handbook for Her Warrior Son: Liber Manualis, 1-39.

27 The speculum principis form and the Liber Manualis's relation to it are explored extensively in Steven A. Stofferahn, "The Many Faces in Dhuoda's Mirror: The Liber Manualis and a Century of Scholarship,"Magistra 4 (1998): 89-134.

28 Phillipe Ariès, Centuries of Childhood: A Social History of Family Life, trans. Robert Baldick (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1962), 125.

29 Janet L. Nelson, “Parents, Children, and the Church in the Earlier Middle Ages,” in Studies in Church History 31: The Church and Childhood, ed. Diana Wood (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994), 81-82.

30 Valerie Garver, “The Influence of Monastic Ideals upon Carolingian Conceptions of Childhood,” in Childhood in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance: The Results of a Paradigm Shift in the History of Mentality, ed. Albrecht Classen (Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2005), 84.

31 Dhuoda, 41.

32 See “Nithard’s History” in Carolingian Civilization: A Reader (2nd Ed.), ed. Paul Edward Dutton (North York, Ont.: University of Toronto Press, 2009), 297-331.

33 Meg Leja, “The Making of Men, not Masters: Right Order and Lay Masculinity according to Dhuoda and Nithard,” Comitatus 39 (2008), 11.

34 Ibid., 18.

35 Janet L. Nelson, “Dhuoda,” in Lay Intellectuals in the Carolingian World, eds. Janet L. Nelson, Patrick Wormald (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2007), 109.

36 Dhuoda, 43.

37 Nelson, “Dhuoda,” 118, wonders whether, much earlier than the time of her wedding, Dhuoda was “one of that crowd of noble girls (as well as women) that congregated at Aachen, at Charlemagne’s court (though Dhuoda was presumably very young when Charlemagne died in 814), and, after Charlemagne’s daughter’s and cousin had been expelled, was then reconstructed by Louis the Pious.” Though this fascinating query is probably impossible to prove, it would suggest entirely new avenues of exploration into Dhuoda’s text.

38

Dhuoda, 49: “In the eleventh year of our departed lord Ludovic [Louis], who ruled in splendour by the will of Christ, I was given in lawful marriage on June 29, 824 in the palace of Aachen, to my lord Bernard, your father.”

39 Dhuoda, 61.

40 Nelson, “Dhuoda,” 109, discusses this important point, writing: “It is certainly true that Dhuoda saw herself, like her children, as subject to the authority of a husband who was dominus et senior, and her cutting-and-pasting of biblical statements on parental authority often omitted occasional references to mothers, leaving the impression that parental meant paternal. Yet patriarchy depended on mothers as well, as well as, obviously, on fathers. Mothers, like fathers, had parental rights as well as obligations. Their children owed them a debt, and honor.” Dhuoda's constructed “impression that parental meant paternal,” might then subsequently, if indirectly, support her association of herself with her son, William. Much, however, has been written on the nature of Dhuoda's authority, with some conflicting views. See, also: Martin A. Claussen, "Fathers of Power and Mothers of Authority: Dhuoda and the Liber manualis," French Historical Studies 19 (1996): 785809, 787-788; and Juanita Feros Ruys, "Mater Litterata: Considerations of Maternity and Latinity in the Post-medieval Reception of Dhuoda's Liber Manualis," New Medieval Literatures 10 (2008): 191-220.

41 Dhuoda, 71.

42 Marie Anne Majeski interestingly notes of Dhuoda’s recurring uses of the humility topos that, “At first glance, a reader might assume that her self-disclaiming statements reflect her feelings of inferiority as a woman. A closer reading, however, reveals, that she consistently identifies her ‘unworthiness’ with her humanity, not her femininity....The sense of the evanescence of all human things is not just a kind of Platonic Weltanschauung for Dhuoda. Rather, her sense of the world passing is historical and social. In the Carolingian world that itself faces decline through civil war, she is literally both weak and insignificant because her family (her birth family, not that unto which she has married) has been on the downside of historical forces and no longer either power or authority.” See Marie Anne Mayeski, Dhuoda: Ninth Century Mother and Theologian (Scranton, Penn: University of Scranton Press, 1995), 20.

43 See Steven A. Stofferahn, "The Many Faces in Dhuoda's Mirror: The Liber Manualis and a Century of Scholarship," Magistra 4 (1998): 89-134.

44 Dhuoda, 85.

45 Ibid., 99.

46 Ibid.

47 Stuart Airlie, “The world, the text, and the Carolingian: royal, aristocratic, and masculine identities in Nithard’s Histories,” in Lay Intellectuals, labels Nithard’s text as “one of the bleakest pros works of the Carolingian era.” And for good reason! Nithard ends his grim history of the Carolingians as follows: “About this time, on March 20 [843], there occurred an eclipse of the moon. Besides, a great deal of snow fell in the same night and the just judgment of God, as I said before, filled every heart with sorrow. I mention this because rapine and wrongs of every sort were rampant on all sides, and now the unseasonable weather killed the last hope of any good to come.” See: Nithard, 331. Dhuoda’s estimation that “the hope of finding help from any one remains dim” is at least marginally less doom-laden than Nithard’s absolute final pronouncement.

48 Dhuoda, 93.

49 William’s commendation is discussed in Marcelle Thiebaux, “Introduction,” 18-21.

50 Edward James, “Family, Kin and Law,” in The Origins of France: From the Clovis to the Capetians, 500-1000 (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 1982), 73.

51 Ibid., 80: James adds that the “attitude of the church was ultimately that of St. Paul: it was better to marry than to burn.”

52 Ibid., 76.

53 Nelson, “Parents, Children, and the Church in the Earlier Middle Ages,” 83, translates the prayer from Latin as: “Mary exulted in her most holy childbearing; and the Church exults in the substance of the bringing to birth of her children.”

54 James B. Williams, “The Adoptive Son of God, the Pregnant Virgin, and the Fortification of the True Faith: Heterodoxy, the Cult of the Virgin Mary, and Benedict of Aniane in the Carolingian Age” (PhD diss: Purdue University, 2009), 13.

55 In Martin A. Claussen, "Fathers of Power and Mothers of Authority: Dhuoda and the Liber manualis," French Historical Studies 19 (1996): 787-788, Claussen writes: “Dhuoda, by her own reading and personal interpretation of two specific texts—the Bible and the Rule of St. Benedict—makes an argument regarding power, authority, and society that turns traditional medieval notions on their head and sheds surprising new light on her own authorial voice and her personal claims to authority.”

56 Peleg Folger, Remarkable Observations the Whaling Journal of Peleg Folger, ed. Thomas Philbrick (Nantucket, MA: Mill Hill Press, 2006), 32.

57 Eric Jay Dolin, Leviathan (New York: W. W. Norton & Company Inc, 2007), 95.

58 Daniel Vickers, “Nantucket Whalemen in the Deep-Sea Fishery: The Changing Anatomy of an Early American Labour Force,” The Journal of American History 72, no. 2 (September 1985): 281.

59 Dolin, Leviathan, 49.

60 Vickers, “Nantucket Whalmen in the Deep-Sea Fishery,” 281.

61

Ibid., 281.

Ibid., 281.

63 Nathaniel Philbrick, foreword to Remarkable Observations the Whaling Journal of Peleg Folger, by Peleg Folger, ed.

Thomas Philbrick, (Nantucket, MA: Mill Hill Press, 2006), vii.

64 Ibid., vii.

65 Dolin, Leviathan, 108, 96.

66 Folger, Remarkable Observations, 1-8.

67 Ibid., 8-15.

68 Ibid., 15-21.

69 Folger, Remarkable Observations, 29-60. The percentage of mateship kills for 1753 is not clear-cut because Folger is unclear as to whether one of the kills was done alone or while mated, Folger, Remarkable Observations, 55. However, the variability of this one kill does not compromise the statistics too much as it is still clear that 1752 and 1753 both saw massive spikes in instances of mateship while at sea.

70 Ibid., 32.

71 Ibid., 32.

72 Ibid., 55.

73 Dolin, Leviathan, 97-101.

74 Ibid., 97-101.

75 Ibid., 101.

76 Folger, Remarkable Observations, 1-84.

77 It should be noted that although Folger does not mention his own crew mating very often during 1754, in the entry dated August 6, 1754 he mentions talking with two pairs of ships who had mated successfully: the first pair had split one whale while the second had split three. The successful mateship of these vessels suggests that mateship’s prevalence was not limited to Folger’s experiences, and was becoming relatively common among whalers in the area, Folger, Remarkable Observations, 70.

78 Ibid., 32.

79 Elmo P. Hohman, The American Whaleman (New York: Longmans, Green & Company, 1928), 16; Dolin, Leviathan, 276.

80 Dolin, Leviathan, 276.

81 Ibid., 276.

82 Hohman, The American Whaleman,16.

83 Dolin, Leviathan, 91.

84 Edward Byers, The Nation of Nantucket (Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1987), 150.

85 Original form of “hoisted.”

86 Folger, Remarkable Observations, 16.

87 Philbrick, foreword to Remarkable Observations, viii.

88 Folger, Remarkable Observations, 73.

89 Ibid., 73.

90 Philbrick, foreword to Remarkable Observations, x.

91 Hohman, The American Whaleman, 170.

92 Octavius Pickering, “Baxter et al. v. Rodman,” in Reports of Cases Argued and Determined in the Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusettes, vol. 3 (Boston, MA: Hilliard, Gray, Little, and Wilkins, 1827), 436.

93 Ibid., 436.

94 Ibid., 440.

95 Langston Hughes, “Let America Be America Again,” in The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, ed. Arnold Rampersad (New York: Knopf, 1994), 191.

96 By this date, the Civil War was over in some regions, but would continue for several months in other parts of the South. Ira Berlin, Barbara J. Fields, Steven F. Miller, Joseph P. Reidy, and Leslie S. Rowland, eds., Free at Last: A Documentary History of Slavery, Freedom, and the Civil War (New York: New Press, 1992), 314.

97 Eric Foner in Reconstruction: The Second Civil War, directed by Llewellyn M. Smith (Boston: American Experience for WBGH, 2004), DVD. 98 These rights were enshrined in the United States Constitution by the 14th and 15th Amendments, ratified in 1868 and 1870, respectively.

99 “Redemption” refers to white Southerner’s project to reinstate antebellum social and economic conditions, particularly with regard to race relations and African Americans’ economic independence. The name works in opposition to the Northern government’s project of “Reconstruction.”

100 Nicholas Lemann, Redemption: The Last Battle of the Civil War (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2006).

62

101

Russell Duncan, Freedom’s Shore: Tunis Campbell and the Georgia Freedmen, (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1986), 36.

102 Throughout this essay, I have made a conscious effort to use the term “freed people” as opposed to “freedmen.” I acknowledge that the gendered nature of the original term, “freedmen,” is actually reflective of the patriarchal society of the nineteenth century.

103 William T. Sherman, Sherman’s Civil War: Selected Correspondence of William T. Sherman, 1860-1865, ed. Brooks D. Simpson and Jean V. Berlin (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1999), 795.

104 Special Field Orders, No. 15, Headquarters Military Division of the Mississippi, 16 Jan. 1865, Orders & Circulars, ser. 44, Adjutant General's Office, Record Group 94, National Archives, Forty Acres and a Mule, last modified December 19, 2003, PBS, http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/reconstruction/40acres/ps_so15.html.

105 “Law Creating the Freedmen’s Bureau,” Freedmen and Southern Society Project, accessed March 20, 2012, .

106 Elizabeth Ware Pearson, ed., Letters from Port Royal 1862-1868 (New York: Arno Press, 1969).

107 Paul A. Cimbala called Saxton an “ardent supporter of black land acquisition.”; Paul A. Cimbala, “The Freedmen’s Bureau, the Freedmen, and Sherman’s Grant in Reconstruction Georgia, 1865-1867,” Journal of Southern History 55, no. 4 (1989): 600, http://www.jstor.org/stable/2209042.

108 Claude F. Oubre, Forty Acres and a Mule: The Freedmen’s Bureau and Black Land Ownership (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1978), 49.

109 William S. McFeely, Yankee Stepfather: General O. O. Howard and the Freedmen (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1968), 50.

110 Cimbala, “The Freedmen’s Bureau,” 609.

111 President Johnson’s wishes were embodied both by his own Amnesty Proclamation (May 1865) and by his forcing Freedmen’s Bureau Commissioner O. O. Howard to issue Circular 15 (September 1865), which retracted Howard’s earlier, expansive position on the lands at the Freedmen’s Bureau’s disposal. Cimbala, “The Freedmen’s Bureau,” 607; Oubre, Forty Acres, 56-9.

112 Historian Russell Duncan, an ardent fan of Campbell who completed the most detailed study of Campbell to date, asserts that Campbell was “an American who wanted to create a true color blind democracy.” Similarly, the PBS documentary Reconstruction: The Second Civil War makes Campbell out as a figure of mythic proportions. By contrast, an earlier historian, Merton Coulter, vilified Campbell, following the trend set by Tillson, who was convinced that Campbell was “a negative influence on the freedmen and an obstacle to them,” and by reports in contemporary newspapers of the “bad effects” of “Tycoon” Campbell’s rule. Duncan, Freedom’s Shore, xi, 31; E. Merton Coulter, “Tunis G. Campbell, Negro Reconstructionist in Georgia,” in The Georgia Historical Quarterly 51, no. 4 (1967); Reconstruction: The Second Civil War, directed by Llewellyn M. Smith; “St. Catherines Island – A Black Monarch Deposed.” Georgia Weekly Telegraph (Macon, GA), June 4, 1866. http://telegraph.galileo.usg.edu/telegraph/view?docId=news/mwt1866/mwt1866-0145.xml 113 There is a discrepancy between Campbell’s own claims and the conclusions of scholars about just how many islands he was appointed to oversee. I will move forward on the understanding that Campbell was certainly charged with Sapelo, Ossabaw, and St. Catherines Islands.

114 T. G. Campbell, The Sufferings of the Rev. T. G. Campbell and His Family, in Georgia. Washington: Enterprise Publishing Company, 1877. Internet Archive. http://www.archive.org/stream/sufferingsofrevt00camprich#page/6/mode/1up, 7n.

115 Duncan, Freedom’s Shore, 36, 112; Campbell, Sufferings, 7.

116 William S. McFeely, who studied the General as a window into the sentiments and workings of the agency he headed, determined that “much of the work of General Howard in the Freedmen’s Bureau served to preclude rather than promote Negro freedom.” Yet it seems that it was Howard’s bumbling that prevented him helping the freed people rather than a concerted campaign against them: Duncan concedes that Howard’s appointment of Davis Tillson was benevolent but misguided, a major concession given that Duncan tends to vilify Tillson. McFeely, Yankee Stepfather, 5; Duncan, Freedom’s Shore, 29.

117 Cimbala, “The Freedmen’s Bureau,” 607.

118 Ibid., 607.

119 LaWanda Cox and John H. Cox, eds., Reconstruction, the Negro, and the New South, (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 1973), 324.

120 Ibid., 321.

121 Cimbala, “The Freedmen’s Bureau,” 611.

122 Cimbala asserts Tillson’s “inability to understand the freedmen’s own priorities” arose because he was a “strong advocate of a free labor system based on contracts.”But he also equivocates: while Tillson followed Saxton and Ketchum’s policy because he validated even questionable possessory titles and thus failed to be completely cowed by the planters and President Johnson, he also “sailed down the coast looking over his shoulder to Washington [D.C.].” Duncan and Oubre are less sympathetic. While they all work with the same data, Duncan subjectively determines that Tillson refused to

acknowledge the land grants of freed people who refused to sign labour contracts, while Oubre determines that Tillson was “opposed to permitting the Negroes to remain on the Sherman lands.” Cimbala, “The Freedmen’s Bureau,” 607, 616-17; Duncan, Freedom’s Shore, 31; Oubre, Forty Acres, 62-3.

123 Cimbala, “The Freedmen’s Bureau,” 608; Oubre, Forty Acres, 49-51.

124 Cox and Cox, Reconstruction, 34-43.

125 Ibid., 43-53.

126 The Radical Republicans were one of three Republican factions (Conservatives, Moderates, and Radicals) at the end of the Civil War. They advocated a harsher peace for the ex-Confederates, where Confederate leaders would be punished, many Southerners would be disenfranchised, black’s legal rights would be protected, and the property of rich Southerners who had assisted the Confederacy would be redistributed among the ex-slaves. Even these Radical Republicans were, however, initially divided about whether to enfranchise the ex-slaves – primarily because most Northern states still denied blacks the right to vote in 1865. Their platform was embodied in the 1864 Wade-Davis bill, which Congress passed but President Lincoln vetoed. It was only Johnson’s excessive leniency with the ex-Confederates that drove Moderate Republicans into the Radical camp.

Alan Brinkley, Richard N. Current, Frank Freidel and T. Harry Williams, “Reconstructing the Nation,” in American History: A Survey 8th ed, (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1991), 454-61; “President Pro Tempore,” United States Senate, accessed April 18, 2012, http://www.senate.gov/artandhistory/history/common/briefing/President_Pro_Tempore.htm.

127 “Register of Land Titles Issued to Freedmen,” Records of the Assistant Commissioner for the State of Georgia, Bureau of Refugees, Freedmen and Abandoned Lands, 1865 – 1869, National Archives Publication M798 Roll 36, at Freedmen’s Bureau Online: Records of the Bureau of Refugees, Freedmen and Abandoned Lands, 1865-1869, http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:http://freedmensbureau.com/georgia/landtitles/index.htm.

128 Cimbala, “The Freedmen’s Bureau,” 604.

129 Duncan, Freedom’s Shore, 31; Allison Dorsey, “‘The great cry of our people is land!’ Black Settlement and Community Development on Ossabaw Island, Georgia, 1865-1900,” in African American Life in the Georgia Lowcountry: The Atlantic World and Gullah Geechee, ed. Philip Morgan (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2010), 235.

130 The quantity of rations Campbell distributed is extrapolated from his report to the Freedmen’s Bureau in December 1865. Dorsey, “The great cry of our people is land!” 235; Cimbala, “The Freedmen’s Bureau,” 605; Oubre, Forty Acres, 64.

131 Cimbala, “The Freedmen’s Bureau,”603-7.

132 The historian and Campbell biographer Russell Duncan suggests that Campbell’s leadership was virtually the sole enabler of the freed people’s success on the Georgia Sea Islands and that land was Campbell’s basis for establishing the freed people as responsible, literate citizens in a republican governmental framework. Campbell was committed to land reform because he drew on Jeffersonian ideals, believing that “for his charges to become truly self-reliant, they must settle on land of their own.” Duncan, Freedom’s Shore, 26.

133 Duncan, Freedom’s Shore, 22-3.

134 Campbell, Sufferings, 7; Coulter, “Tunis G. Campbell,” 403-4.

135 Duncan, Freedom’s Shore, 22-3.

136 Ibid., 23, 25.

137 Ibid., 17, 21-4.

138 The PBS documentary Reconstruction: The Second Civil War states that upward of 1000 people attended Campbell’s educational facilities. This number seems inflated, as it would suggest that virtually all of the freed people on the islands under his jurisdiction attended the schools. Dorsey, “The great cry of our people is land!” 228; Edward Magdol, A Right to the Land: Essays on the Freedmen’s Community (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1977), 104.

139 William S. McFeely, Sapelo’s People: A Long Walk into Freedom (New York: W. W. Norton, 1994), 77.

140 Dorsey, “The great cry of our people is land!” 228, 246.

141 McFeely, Sapelo’s People, 100.

142 Dorsey, “The great cry of our people is land!” 243.

143 Dorsey, “The great cry of our people is land!” 225-6, 232.

144 McFeely, Yankee Stepfather, 91-104.

145 Ibid., 97-8.

146 Oubre, Forty Acres, 56-9, 63.

147 Ibid., 59, 62-3.

148 Ibid., 59.

149 Dorsey, “The great cry of our people is land!” 239.

150 Duncan, Freedom’s Shore, 31-3.

151 Berlin et al., Free at Last, 314.

152 Ibid., 314.

153 Ibid., 314.

154 Duncan, Freedom’s Shore, 26.

155

Ibid., 26.

Ibid., 26.

157 Steven Hahn et al., eds., Freedom: A Documentary History of Emancipation, 1861-1867 Series 3: Volume 1, Land & Labor, 1865 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2008), 427-8.

158 Dorsey, “The great cry of our people is land!” 247.

159 McFeely, Sapelo’s People, 64-7.

160 Hahn, Freedom, 697-8.

161 This issue also arose on Ossabaw Island, as discussed in Dorsey, “The great cry of our people is land!” 232-3.

162 Campell, Sufferings, 7n.

163 Duncan, Freedom’s Shore, 112.

164 Campbell, Sufferings, 8.

165 Oubre, Forty Acres, 66.

166 Magdol, A Right to the Land, 164-5.

167 Ibid., 164-5.

168 Ibid., 168.

169 Dorsey, “The great cry of our people is land!” 232, 225-6.

170 Hahn et al., Freedom, 440-1.

171 Oubre, Forty Acres, 66-7.

172 Without access the records of the Freedmen’s Bureau, Merton Coulter, the first modern historian to study Tunis G. Campbell, concocted a similar story because these types of newspapers were almost the entirety of the evidence available to Campbell. Modern portrayals, such as those by Cimbala and Duncan, illustrate the flawed nature of such a portrait, even if Campbell was not above criticism.

173 “A Negro Empire in the South.” The Weekly Atlanta Intelligencer (Atlanta, GA), June 20, 1866. http://atlnewspapers.galileo.usg.edu/atlnewspapers/view?docId=news/adi1866/adi1866-0522.xml&query=tunis %20campbell&brand=atlnewspapers-brand.

174 “St. Catherines Island – A Black Monarch Deposed.” Georgia Weekly Telegraph (Macon, GA), June 4, 1866. http://telegraph.galileo.usg.edu/telegraph/view?docId=news/mwt1866/mwt1866-0145.xml.

175 Cox and Cox, Reconstruction, 324.

176 Dr. Huey P. Newton Foundation, The Black Panther Party: Service to the People Programs, ed. David Hilliard (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2008).

177 Eric Foner, “The Meaning of Freedom in the Age of Emancipation,” Journal of American History 81, no. 2 (1994): 460, http://www.jstor.org/stable/2081167.

156

178 Duncan, Freedom’s Shore, 36.

179

“Report of the National Advisory Commission on Civil Disorders,” Eisenhower Foundation, accessed April 11, 2012, http://www.eisenhowerfoundation.org/docs/kerner.pdf.

180 Paul Krause, “Looking Back on African Americans from 2011,” History 332: African American History (class lecture, University of British Columbia, September 15, 2011).

181 Alison Flood, “Rick Santorum disowns Langston Hughes line used in presidential campaign,” The Guardian, April 18, 2011, online edition, http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/apr/18/langston-hughes-rick-santorum.

182 McFeely, Sapelo’s People, 168.

183 Patrick Brantlinger, “Kipling’s ‘The White Man’s Burden’ and Its Afterlives,” English Literature in Transition 1880 -1920 50.2 (2007): 172.

184 Jose Harris, Private Lives, Public Spirit: A Social History of Britain 1870-1914, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 4.

185 Ibid., 6.

186 Sir Henry Maine, as quoted by Jose Harris, Private Lives, Public Spirit: A Social History of Britain 1870-1914, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 256.

187 Susan K. Harris, God’s Arbiters: Americans and the Philippines, 1898-1902, (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 6.

188 Rudyard Kipling, “The White Man’s Burden”.

189 Susan K. Harris, God’s Arbiters, 153.

190 Ibid., 132.

191 The Spectator (London: 1899), p. 193-4, as quoted by Susan K. Harris, God’s Arbiters: Americans and the Philippines, 1898-1902 (New York: Oxford University Press, Inc., 2011), 147.

192 Brantlinger, “Kipling’s ‘The White Man’s Burden’ and Its Afterlives”, 173-74.

193 Ibid., 173-74.

194 Susan K. Harris, God’s Arbiters, 154.

195

Johnson, H.T, “The Black Man’s Burden”.

Brantlinger, “Kipling’s ‘The White Man’s Burden’ and Its Afterlives”, 174.

197 Harper’s Weekly, (London: 1899), p. 968, as quoted by Susan K. Harris, God’s Arbiters: Americans and the Philippines, 1898-1902 (New York: Oxford University Press, Inc., 2011), 153.

198 Susan K. Harris, God’s Arbiters, 153.

199 Judith Plotz, “How ‘The White Man’s Burden’ Lost its Scare-Quotes; or Kipling and the New American Empire,” in Caroline Rooney and Kaori Nagai, eds., Kipling and Beyond: Patriotism, Globalisation and Postcolonialism (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), 37.

200 Ibid., 39.

201 Ibid., 39.

202 Ibid., 39.

203 Eds., “Kipling, the ‘White Man’s Burden,’ and U.S. Imperialism,” Monthly Review: An Independent Socialist Magazine 55 (2003): 1-11. Web. 204 Plotz, “How ‘The White Man’s Burden’ Lost its Scare-Quotes”, 39.

205 Ibid., 41.

206 G.D. Robinson, “Paul Ricoeur and the Hermeneutics of Suspicion: A Brief Overview and Critique,” Premise 2 no. 8 (27 September 1995): 12, http://www.gongfa.com/robinsonlike.htm. (Accessed 11/12/2012) 207 David Stewart, “The Hermeneutics of Suspicion,” Journal of Literature & Theology 3 (Nov 1989): 301.

208 Ibid., 302.

209 Paul Ricoeur, Freud and Philosophy: An Essay on Interpretation, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1970), 34.

210 Stewart, 298.

211 Ibid., 306.

212 Richard Hofstadter, The Paranoid Style in American Politics, and Other Essays, 1st ed. (New York: Knopf, 1965), 6.

213 Ibid., 4.

214 Ibid., 7.

215 Daniel Patrick Moynihan, Secrecy: The American Experience, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998), 47.

216 Daniel Hellinger, "Paranoia, Conspiracy and Hegemony in American Politics,” in Harry G. West and Todd Sanders, Transparency and Conspiracy: Ethnographies of Suspicion in the New World Order, (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003), 205.

217 Ibid., 216.

218 John M. Orman, Presidential Secrecy and Deception: Beyond the Power to Persuade, (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1980), 37.

219 Sissela Bok, Secrets: On the Ethics of Concealment and Revelation, Vintage Books ed. (New York: Vintage Books, 1989), xv.

220 Orman, 39.

221 H. Bruce Franklin, Vietnam and Other American Fantasies, (Amherst, Mass.: University of Massachusetts Press, 2000), 46 222 Alterman, Eric. When Presidents Lie: A History of Official Deception and its Consequences. New York: Viking, 2004, 237.

223 Noam Chomsky, At War with Asia, (Edinburgh: AK Press, 2005), 40.

224 Robert S. McNamara and Brian VanDeMark, In Retrospect: The Tragedy and Lessons of Vietnam, (New York: Times Books, 1995), 280; Mike Gravel, The Pentagon Papers: The Defense Department History of United States Decisionmaking on Vietnam, Senator Gravel edition, 5 vols. (Boston: Beacon Press, 1972), 1:x. Robert McNamara offered this ex post facto reasoning in his 1995 memoir, though the explanation given in the Pentagon Papers by Senator Mike Gravel is the more likely of the two.

225 Moynihan, 29-30.

226 Daniel Ellsberg, Secrets: A Memoir of Vietnam and the Pentagon Papers, (New York: Viking, 2002), vii.

227 Neil Sheehan, A Bright Shining Lie: John Paul Vann and America in Vietnam, (New York: Random House, 1988),739.

228 Ibid., The Pentagon Papers as Published by the New York Times, (New York: Quadrangle Books, 1971), xii.

229 Franklin, 25.

230 Moynihan, 202.

231 Gabriel Schoenfeld, “Rethinking the Pentagon Papers” National Affairs, no. 4 (Summer 2010), 81, http://www.nationalaffairs.com/publications/detail/rethinking-the-pentagon-papers (Accessed 01/12/2012) 232 Moynihan., 169-170; See also Gravel, 3:174.

233 Peter Schrag, Test of Loyalty: Daniel Ellsberg and the Rituals of Secret Government, (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1974), 57.

234 Franklin, 25.

196

235

Schrag, 57.

Ibid, 57.

237 Moynihan, 199.

238 Donald R. Kelly, Divided Power: the Presidency, Congress, and the Formation of American Foreign Policy, (Fayetteville: University of Arkansas Press, 2005), 53 239 Ellsberg, 16.

240 Ibid., 16.

241 Ibid., 17.

242 Moynihan, 203-204.

243 Ibid., 178.

244 Tim Weiner, Legacy of Ashes: The History of the CIA, (New York: Doubleday, 2007), 280.

245 Franklin, 54.

246 Ellsberg, 48.

247 Marvin E. Gettleman, Vietnam and America: A Documented History, 2nd ed. (New York: Grove Press, 1995), 241242.

248 Ellsberg, 48.

249 “1971 Year in Review: The Pentagon Papers,” United Press International, 1971, http://www.upi.com/Audio/Year_in_Review/Events-of-1971/The-Pentagon-Papers/12295509436546-7/#ixzz2FIO6T7ZP (Accessed 16/12/2012) 250 Gravel, 4:604.

251 Franklin, 178.

252 Ibid., 201.

253 Ibid., 186.

254 Ellsberg, 226-227 255 Orman, 102.

256 Sheehan, Pentagon Papers, xiv.

257 George C. Herring, The Secret Diplomacy of the Vietnam War: The Negotiating Volumes of the Pentagon Papers, (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1983), viii.

258 Hannah Arendt, Crises of the Republic: Lying in Politics; Civil Disobedience ; On Violence ; Thoughts on Politics and Revolution, 1st ed. (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1972), 14, quoted in Alterman, 216.

259 Schrag, 56.

260 Franklin, 34.

261 Gravel, 1:x.

262 Franklin, 43.

263 Ibid., 91.

264 Ibid., 93-94.

265 Ibid., 94.

266 Ibid., 91.

267 Moynihan, 220-221.

268 Ibid., 32.

269 Ellsberg, 426.

270 Moynihan 204.

271 Ibid., 205.

272 Erwin N. Griswold, “Secrets Not Worth Keeping,” Washington Post, February 15, 1989, quoted in Moynihan, 205206.

273 Robert Strom, “Work, Leisure and Identity,” The High School Journal 61, no. 8 (May 1978): 399.

274 James Walvin, Leisure and Society, 1830-1950 (London; New York: Longman, 1978), viii.

275 Strom, 393.

276 The Morning Star, “Mountain Top Auto Highway Opens Shortly,” May 29, 1926, newspaper clipping, page 1 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

277 Ibid.

278 The Morning Star, “Mountain Road to New Chalet Opens Today,” October 2, 1926, newspaper clipping, page 6 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

279 The Morning Star, “Rugged Grandeur of Grouse Mount Being Preserved,” July 26, 1926, newspaper clipping, page 1 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

236

280

Ernest Walter, “Wilderness is Transformed into Huge Natural Playground by Safe Scenic Highway to Grouse,” The Sunday Province, November 21, 1926, newspaper clipping, page 10 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

281 The Los Angeles Evening Herald, “Where shall I go and what shall I do when I reach the Evergreen Playground? … asks the man with a vacation,” March 1, 1927, newspaper advertisement, page 25 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

282 Ibid.

283 The Vancouver World, “Mount Vancouver,” July 28, 1926 [date handwritten, year unclear. Vol. LXXIX - No. 128.], newspaper clipping, page 1 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

284 Ibid.

285 The Daily Colonist, “Grouse Mountain - Vancouver’s Playground,” April 22, 1928. newspaper clipping, page 87 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

286 Unsigned & undated newspaper clipping, approx. February 1929, page 112 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

287 J.N. Brown, “North Shore Fast Coming Into Own as a Playground,” The Vancouver Sun, April 9, 1927, newspaper clipping, page 26 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

288 Ibid.

289 The Daily Province, “International Goodwill From Grouse Mountain Chalet,” undated newspaper clipping, page 12 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

290 The Morning Star, “Viceroy Pays Sunday Visit to Grouse Mt.,” April 11, 1927, newspaper clipping, page 31 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

291 J.H. Crane to L.M. Turnbull, memorandum no. 01616, March 2, 1935, Company Correspondence, 510-G-4 file 6, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

292 J.H. Crane to Leon C. Shelly, memorandum no. 01647, April 18, 1935, Company Correspondence, 510-G-4 file 6, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

293 Ibid.

294 The Province, “Chalet Directors Appoint Officials,” December 24, 1932, newspaper clipping, page 122 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

295 The Province, “Fire Destroys Chalet Annex,” December (or January, the date is obscured) 25, 1932, newspaper clipping, page 126 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

296 Michael Dawson, “Taking the ‘D’ out of ‘Depression’: The Promise of Tourism in British Columbia, 1935-1939,” BC Studies, no. 132 (Winter 2001/2002): 33.

297 Ibid., 34.

298 The exact figure for 1934 was $2,761.11. Page 6, “General Profit & Loss Statement,” November 20, 1934, Monthly Operating & General Profit & Loss Statements - Oct 1933-July 1935, 510-G-4 file 7, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

299 Page 5, “General Profit & Loss Statement,” November 20, 1934, Monthly Operating & General Profit & Loss Statements - Oct 1933-July 1935, 510-G-4 file 7, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 19241935, City of Vancouver Archives.

300 Page 6, “General Profit & Loss Statement.”

301 Dawson, 35.

302 Leon C. Shelly to Mr. Crane, memorandum no. 02058, February 4, 1935, Company Correspondence, 510-G-4 file 6, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

303 Ibid.

304 J.H. Crane to L.M. Turnbull, memorandum no. 01645, April 18, 1935, Company Correspondence, 510-G-4 file 6, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

305 Its creditor was Home Oil. Leon C. Shelly to Mr. Crane, memorandum no. 02063, February 16, 1935, Company Correspondence, 510-G-4 file 6, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of

Vancouver Archives.

306 L.M.T. to Mr. Crane, memorandum no. 02070, February 20, 1935, Company Correspondence, 510-G-4 file 6, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

307 Leon C. Shelly to Mr. Crane, memorandum no. 02062, February 15, 1935, Company Correspondence, 510-G-4 file 6, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

308 J.H. Crane to Leon C. Shelly, memorandum no. 01552, February 23, 1935, Company Correspondence, 510-G-4 file 6, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

309 The Vancouver Sun, “A Great Place to Live,” April 27, 1933, newspaper clipping, page 130 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

310 News Herald, “Chalet Directors Plan to Inculcate Young and Old with Skiing Spirit,” May 12, 1933, newspaper clipping, page 130 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

311 Ibid.

312 The Vancouver Sun, “Vacation Time Is Here,” June 30, 1933, newspaper clipping, page 143 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

313 The Vancouver Sun, “Advertising Draws Tourists, But We Must Keep It Up,” November 21, 1933, newspaper clipping, page 147 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

314 Bob Bouchette, “Why Do Tourists Come To Vancouver?” The Vancouver Sun, August 9, 1934, newspaper clipping, page 172 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

315 Ibid.

316 The Province, “‘Know Vancouver’ Campaign Planned,” August 7, 1934, newspaper clipping, page 172 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

317 Bob Bouchette, “‘Make the Tourists Want to Come Back’” The Vancouver Sun, August 18(?), 1934, newspaper clipping, page 172 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

318 Bob Bouchette, “‘Know Vancouver,’ Then Tell the Tourists,” The Vancouver Sun, August 10, 1934, newspaper clipping, page 172 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

319 The Province, “‘Friendly City’ Drive Objective,” August 11, 1934, newspaper clipping, page 172 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

320 Bob Buouchette, “Every Citizen a Vancouver Salesman,” The Vancouver Sun, undated article, mid-August 1934, newspaper clipping, page 172 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

321 Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

322 Paraphrase. Ernest Walter, “Wilderness is Transformed into Huge Natural Playground by Safe Scenic Highway to Grouse,” The Sunday Province, November 21, 1926, newspaper clipping, page 10 of Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort (scrapbook), 558-F file 4, Add. MSS. 76 - Grouse Mountain Highway & Scenic Resort fonds 1924-1935, City of Vancouver Archives.

323 Dawson, 32.

324 As noted previously in the discussion.

325 Brian W. Tomlin, Norman Hillmer and Fen Osler Hampson, Canada’s International Policies: Agendas, Alternatives, and Politics (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 2008), 154-157.

326 Robert Bothwell, Alliance and Illusion: Canada and the World, 1945-1984 (Vancouver, BC: UBC Press, 2007), 7577.

327 Tomlin, Hillmer and Hampson, Canada’s International Policies, 157.

328 Quoted in David R. Morrison, Aid and Ebb Tide: A History of CIDA and Canadian Development Assistance (Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1998), 161.

329 Ruth Compton Brouwer, “When Missions Become Development: Ironies of ‘NGOization’ in Mainstream Canadian Churches in the 1960s,” The Canadian Historical Review 91, no. 4 (December 2010): 662.

330 Tomlin, Hillmer, Hampson, Canada’s International Policies, 157.

331 Ibid., 166.

332

Dale C. Thompson and Roger F. Swanson, Canadian Foreign Policy: Options and Perspectives (Toronto: McGrawHill Ryerson, 1971), 92-93.

333 Tomlin, Hillmer and Hampson, Canada’s International Policies, 180-182.

334 Morrison, Aid Ebb and Tide, 58-64.

335 Ibid., xiv.

336 Elizabeth Cobbs Hoffman, All you Need is Love: The Peace Corps and the Spirit of the 1960s (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1998), 6-8.

337 Doug Owram, Born at the Right Time: A History of the Baby-Boom Generation (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1996), 181.

338 CUSO Student Committee, UBC, “CUSO Communique, No. 11/69, October 17, 1969,” John Conway Fonds, UBC Special Collections, Box 57-1(3).

339 Hoffman, All you Need is Love, 88.

340 Ibid., 82-83.

341 Ian Smillie, The Land of Lost Content: A History of CUSO (Toronto: Deneau Publishers and Company, 1985), 7.

342 Ibid., 11.

343 University of British Columbia, “Proposal for a Programme of Overseas Service for Canadian Students: Draft, January 30, 1961,”John Conway Fonds, UBC Special Collections, Box 22-3, 6.

344 “A Proposal for the National Coordination of Overseas Service by Canadians: To the Consultative Meeting on Overseas Service – Montreal- June 6, 1961,” John Conway Fonds, UBC Special Collections, Box 22-3, 6.

345 “A Proposal for the National Coordination,” 5.

346 Smillie, The Land of Lost Content, 11-19.

347 “Brief to Government,” CUSO Bulletin 2, no. 2 (Feb 1964), John Conway Fonds, UBC Special Collections, Box 364, 1-2.

348 Smillie, The Land of Lost Content, 257.

349 “Government Assistance Announced,” CUSO Bulletin 2, no. 3 (May 1964), John Conway Fonds, UBC Special Collections, Box 36-4, 1-2.

350 Smillie, The Land of Lost Content, 163.

351 CUSO, “Canadian University Service Overseas: CUSO Philosophy and Programme Policy, November 14, 1965,” John Conway Fonds, UBC Special Collections, Box 36-4, 2.

352 CUSO, “Proposal for a Programme of Overseas Service for Canadian Students: Draft, January 30, 1961” 1-2.

353 CUSO, “Philosophy and Programme Policy,” 5.

354 “Ste. Adele 1969 AGM/AGA,” Bulletin Special: CUSO Annual Meeting/Pearson Commission Report (Fall 1969), John Conway Fonds, UBC Special Collections, Box 36-3, 15.

355 Ibid., 7.

356 Owram, Born at the Right Time, 163-165.

357 John Gerassi and Steve Weissman, “On Welfare Imperialism,” The Ubyssey, March 15, 1968, accessed March 20, 2012, http://ubcpubs.library.ubc.ca.

358 Joyce Bradbury, “Has Success Spoiled Cuso?,” UBC Alumni Chronicle 23, no.4 (Autumn 1969), accessed March 20, 2012, http://www.library.ubc.ca/archives/pdfs, 11.

359 Ibid., 11.

360 Claude Sanger, “Turbulence in CUSO Over its Goals,” The Globe and Mail, November 6, 1969, accessed March 22, 2012, http://heritage.theglobeandmail.com/PageView.asp, 7.

361 Ibid.,” 7.

362 “They May Learn Enough to Give us a Conscience,” The Globe and Mail, April 16, 1965, accessed March 22, 2012, http://heritage.theglobeandmail.com/PageView.asp, 6.

363 Normand Tellier, “CUSO: In Search of an Identity,” CUSO Bulletin 6, no. 1 (Oct 1967-Jan 1968), John Conway Fonds, UBC Special Collections, Box 36-3, 13.

364 Hoffman, All you Need is Love, 160.

365 CUSO, “B.C. Returned Volunteers Conference September 27 & 28, 1969,” John Conway Fonds, UBC Special Collections, Box 22-2, 2.

366 CUSO, “A Critical Analysis of CUSO/SUCO 1968/69,” John Conway Fonds, UBC Special Collections, Box 22-5, 11.

367 CUSO, “A Critical Analysis.”

368 Ibid., 13.

369 Ibid., 33.

370 CUSO, “Draft of Amendments to be Brought to the CUSO Memorandum of Agreement and By-Laws July 1969,” John Conway Fonds, UBC Special Collections, Box 22-5, 1.

371

CUSO, “A Critical Analysis,” 14.

CUSO, “Draft of Amendments,” 1.

373 Sanger, “Turbulence in CUSO,” 7.

374 CUSO, “A Critical Analysis,” 10.

375 Letter from Prime Minister Trudeau, CUSO Bulletin (Summer 1969), John Conway Fonds, UBC Special Collections, Box 36-3, 1.

376 “CIDA and External Affairs Key Posts go to Former CUSO Staff,” CUSO Bulletin (Summer 1969), John Conway Fonds, UBC Special Collections, Box 36-3, 6.

372