Chapter Eleven takes up Rogers’ engagment with the Great Depression of the 1930s, the economic disaster that marked the culmination of his influence as a commentator on American political life. The Oklahoman castigated Wall Street for foolish financial practices and criticized Americans for buying on credit, two practices in the 1920s he believed underlay the economic collapse. With typical good-humored civility, he initially sympathized with Herbert Hoover as a victim of circumstances but soon denounced the president’s refusal to promote relief programs and job-creation initiatives. Rogers became an enthusiastic supporter of Franklin Roosevelt and the New Deal. The humorist became one of the biggest boosters of FDR’s programs as necessary to save the American system. While suspicious of federal government overreach and the encouragement of labor radicalism, he deemed the New Deal largely a success. Throughout the Depression, Rogers maintained his populist outlook, consistently criticizing economic and social elites while laboring to protect and uplife America’s common, working citizens. His acclaim for "the little fellow" further elevated his public stature in America.

The genre at the center of this essay—the Anglophone transmasculinity narrative in the long eighteenth century—was a popular and ubiquitous genre for imagining gender transformation and queer relations to sex, desire, and embodiment. I argue that the transmasculine figure was a crucial one for imagining transatlantic biopolitics, often embodying aspects of transformability long associated specifically with white masculinity in a settler colony. Thus, the genre is arguably more representative for the history of whiteness than it is for the history of either queer or trans imaginative or embodied life in the eighteenth-century Atlantic world. However, it offers a compelling case study of a genre that can seem spectacularly hyperlegible for contemporary identification. These texts show how sexuality and gender came to be narrative genres in a print/public sphere with privileged relations to intertwined origin stories of the nation, American literary history, and modern queer/trans identities—and a very useful case study in the limits of looking for queer/trans representation in the genres that seem most readily assimilable into a legible prehistory of “queer American literature.”

This chapter examines the relationship between poems and the commodities that structure both our intimate lives and the vast social geographies of the globe. If the content of a poem must often be discovered through interpretative work, reading between the lines of its figurative expressions and other such devices, the commodity, too, is a form of appearance which conceals its origins in labor and the exploitation of that labor. Beginning with this correspondence, and analyzing examples by Bernadette Mayer, Claude McKay, Keston Sutherland, and others, the chapter maps out several ways in which poems both present and negate the commodity. It discusses the poetic representation of labor itself as a commodity, of nonremunerative care work, of the factory and global commodity chains, and of the circulation of commodities through colonial networks. In conclusion, the chapter argues that learning to read the poem is inseparable from learning to read the commodity, for in both cases, the reader's success lies in the ability to re-suture the text to, rather than rescue it from, its worldly net.

“’Flung out of Space’: Class and Sexuality in American Literary History" explores the relationship between class and queer sexuality in American literary history, suggesting how neither of these histories can be understood without accounting for the other. Reading literary texts such as Patricia Highsmith’s The Price of Salt and Richard Bruce Nugent’s “Smoke, Lilies and Jade” alongside queer theory and LGBTQ history, Lecklider suggests how class structures queer literature throughout American history, particularly since the 19th century. Particularly emphasizing how labor structures desire, this chapter argues that working-class sexualities – and their intersections with race and gender – must be taken seriously in order to fully appreciate both the contributions of queer literature and the legibility of labor in American history.

This chapter reorients readings of Harriet Jacobs’s and Harriet Wilson’s (semi)autobiographies as narratives of disability. I underscore the inextricable links between girlhood, labor, and disability began in their self-authored texts, alongside Jean Fagan Yellin’s publication of The Harriet Jacobs Family Papers and other documents which detail the life of Harriet Wilson. I argue that these life writings demonstrate each woman’s post-captivity labors as a challenge to nineteenth-century extractive economies of bondage. Studying the (semi)autobiographies, public and private correspondence, journal entries, and newspaper advertisements related to Harriet Jacobs and Harriet Wilson not only makes legible their disabled lives, but also provides a complex understanding of the interrelation between labor, disability, capacity, and resistance.

Much translanguaging and translinguality scholarship focuses on defending and celebrating recognizable forms of language difference – e.g., “Chinglish” – as creativity and agency by the socioeconomically precarious manifesting a micropolitics of resistance. This focus obscures the concrete labour of all utterances, whether deemed conventional or not, by all language users, whether “native” or not, contributing to maintaining and revising language as practice, and, hence, obscures the dependence of dominant culture’s continuity on such labor and, hence, its precarity. Samples from the assigned writing of a bilingual (French/English) student attending a required US undergraduate writing course are shown to exhibit a mix of conventional and unconventional linguistic forms and, more importantly, writerly agency in the writing’s manifestation of criticality toward dominant views of first-year undergraduate writing students as mere recipients of others’ knowledge and its deft deployment of language to produce knowledge. Shifting to a focus on language users’ contribution of their labor to maintaining and revising language and knowledge can bring out the agency of all utterances, the status of criticality and creativity as the norm of language use, the emergent character of language, and, thus, the precarity of dominant culture.

When the Australia Labor Party (led at the time by Kevin Rudd) was elected to federal office in November 2007, almost two years into the period under review, many commentators anticipated a substantial and substantive change in Australia’s foreign environmental policy. The change in rhetoric before and after November 2007 was, indeed, pronounced. These were governments with apparently very different world views: Labor articulating an internationalist and multilateralist model of international relations and global governance, and the Coalition eschewing ‘ideology’ and idealism in favour of what it saw as a hard-headed realism and a willingness to walk away from multilateral opportunities that did not deliver the outcomes they wanted.

This chapter explains how and why Topsy – a “little negro girl” featured in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin (1852) – became a symbol of artificial life during the long wake of slave emancipation in the United States. It begins by recontextualizing Stowe’s abolitionist melodrama in relation to arguments about human–machine difference in the industrial North. Because the automated Black slave girl was a perfect foil to the autonomous white man, Topsy could critique slavery while affirming the race and gender hierarchies of white bourgeois society. Turning to the material history of plush “Topsy” dolls – the handicraft of enslaved women turned into factory-made commodities – the chapter argues that Topsy as doll gained its cultural power as a reaction to fears of Black autonomy in the South and white automatization in the North. It concludes by considering Topsy’s unruly afterlife in the “technopoetics” of Black modernism in the Jazz Age.

This chapter investigates monastic experience, which has been a deliberate pursuit of religious life for most of Christian history and also appears in other religious traditions. It argues that monasticism is especially characterized by structures of stability that are achieved through communally shared rules and vows of stability. The tasks of prayer and labor – often accomplished in silence – mark monastic life and often interpenetrate each other, as prayer becomes labor and work is infused with prayer. The monastic self is shaped through obedience to the rule, shared communal practices, and mutual love. It is a profoundly communal religious way of life to the point that the individual is entirely absorbed into the monastic community. In this regard, it carries human plural experience – usually pursued in a more temporally limited fashion – to its height.

When Ilf and Petrov visited the recently completed Boulder Dam, they took surprisingly little notice of the workers or their working conditions. What troubled them was the fact that no one in America knew the names of those who constructed the “biggest dam in the world.” Chapter 21 argues that this failure to accord the builders their due provided Ilf and Petrov with a means of at once praising American technology and criticizing American capitalism. They contrasted Boulder Dam with an imagined Soviet Boulder Dam that would generate both electricity and heroes of socialist labor. Their tour guide at the dam, GE engineer Charles John Thomson, was well positioned to help them draw such comparisons. In charge of installing the generating turbines at Boulder Dam, he had received the Order of the Red Banner of Labor for doing the same job at Dneprostroi.

Men’s and women’s work fueled the increasingly sophisticated goods Aztecs produced and the large amounts of trade conducted and tribute paid by Aztecs. While much labor was performed at the household level, workshops grew in number. Craft production became more complex as population increased, political organization became more elaborate, and demand for goods increased. The increasing output of producers and growing number of commercial endeavors by merchants underwrote an increasingly rigid hierarchy. Women’s cooking and weaving fed and clothed ordinary families, Aztec armies, and royal palaces. The special province of women of all social levels, weaving created the most common and among the most valuable of tribute items, woven cloth. Other important forms of production included mining obsidian and making it into tools. Pottery production was crucial for cooking, eating, and carrying and using water among other uses. Both food producers and craftspeople, often one and the same, sold their wares in local markets. Economic descriptions often focus on long-distance trading by the pochteca and oztomeca (long-distance and spying merchants), but trading ranged from producer-sellers, selling goods in local marketplaces to the more illustrious pochteca and oztomeca. Those merchants traveled to distant regions to obtain luxury goods.

This chapter assesses the interplay among social class and the growing centralization of African American literature in the marketplace. Since the 1980s the production of black literature has been increasingly shaped by the economic and aesthetic priorities of commercial bookselling. Contemporary African American writers have expressed their awareness of the ways that the commodification of black literary expression has both imposed limits and created new possibilities for literary art. These authors have been particularly attentive to new patterns of consumption and reception that emphasize class distinctions among consumers and genres of writing. These changes have prompted writers to rethink traditional assumptions about the social and aesthetic obligations of black middle-class writers in forging alliances with the working class. The chapter considers these shifting social relations with reference to literary works by Paul Beatty, Trey Ellis, Percival Everett, Mat Johnson, Claudia Rankine, and Colson Whitehead.

Chapter 6 scrutinizes how the corporate structures set up by Texaco shaped social dynamics and daily life in the oil fields. Texaco’s facilities constituted fenced-off and almost independent spatial enclaves in the rainforest that ensured an unobstructed resource extraction based on imported labor and a “masculine” work ethic. The discriminatory hierarchies established within the oil industry shaped the experiences of the Ecuadorean and international oilmen. The workers’ position within the hierarchy of power also predisposed their relationship with nature: While the executive level was able to keep as much physical and emotional distance as possible, most oilmen were exposed to the hardships brought on by working in a tropical environment. While state institutions showed little presence in the region, national policies and military forces protected the oil companies’ interests, subdued protests by oilmen and the public, and contributed to solidify the new social order. This chapter explores for the first time the oilmen’s experiences from their own perspective, offering insights into the social dimension of the metamorphosis of the Amazon.

This chapter considers the material and violent circumstances that surrounded Black performers such as Louis Armstrong, Ethel Waters, Bessie Smith, Duke Ellington, Fredi Washington, and Fats Waller, as they produced some of the most memorable work of the Harlem Renaissance. To survive, these artists employed strategies of gender fugitivity to navigate a world of labor, poverty, and policing, while claiming spaces of survival and creativity. The first of three sections explores fugitive gender, arguing that the purposeful instability caused through the relationship between gender and Blackness created the conditions of possibility in everyday life for Black folks. The second section excavates the meanings of Duke Ellington’s cosmopolitan dandyism as seen in the 1929 film Black and Tan.The final section considers the fugitive sociality of rent parties, informal musical venues born of necessity and delight, which served the community of Harlem by providing shelter, food, entertainment, and sexual pleasure.