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The Servant Problem
In Search of the Lost Battalion of America’s Unemployed

By Lewis H. Lapham


 Man must be doing something, or fancy that he is doing something, for in
him throbs the creative impulse; the mere basker in the sunshine is not a
natural, but an abnormal man. -- Henry George

 The news media these days look to outperform one another in their
showings of concern for the lost battalion of America’s unemployed. Consult
any newspaper, wander the Internet or the television talk-show circuit, and
at the top of the column or the hour the headline is jobs. Jobs, the bedrock
of America’s world-beating prosperity, the cornerstones of its future comfort
and well-being -- gone to Mexico or China, deleted from payrolls in Michigan
and Ohio, mothballed in the Arizona desert.

 The nation’s unemployment rate, officially pegged at 9.4% but probably
nearer to 17%, in any event no fewer than 25 million Americans, a number
more than equal to the entire population of North Korea, out of work or on
the run. The metrics, so say President Obama, the Wall Street Journal, and A
Prairie Home Companion, are not good. The stock markets may have
weathered the storm of the recession, as have the country’s corporate profit
margins, but unless jobs can be found, we wave goodbye to America the

 Not being an economist and never having been at ease in the company of
flow charts, I don’t question the expert testimony, but I notice that it doesn’t
have much to do with human beings, much less with the understanding of a
man’s work as the meaning of his life or the freedom of his mind. Purse-
lipped and solemn, the commentators for the Financial Times and MSNBC
mention the harm done to the country’s credit rating, deplore the trade and
budget deficits, discuss the cutting back of pensions and public services.
From the tone of the conversation, I can imagine myself at a lawn party
somewhere in Fairfield County, Connecticut, listening to the lady in the
flowered hat talk about the difficulty of finding decent help.

 Speaking Tools Versus Busy Bees

 The framing of the country’s unemployment trouble as an unfortunate
metastasis of the servant problem should come as no surprise. The country
is in the hands of an affluent oligarchy content with Voltaire’s observation
that “the comfort of the rich depends upon an abundant supply of the poor.”
During Ronald Reagan’s terms as president, the income that individual
American families received from rents, dividends, and interest surpassed
the income earned in wages. Over the last 30 years, the wealth of the
emergent rentier class has been sustained by an increasingly unequal
sharing of the gross domestic product; the percentage of GDP accounted for
by manufacturing fell from 21% to 14%, and the percentage accounted for by
finance rose from 14% to 21%.

 The imbalances become greater over time; as between compensations
awarded to the high-end baskers in the sunshine and those provided to the
low-end squatters in the shade, the differential at last count in 2009 stood at
263 to 1. With wealth comes power in Washington, so it’s also no surprise
that the government, whether graspingly Republican or scavengingly
Democratic, adopts the attitudes and prejudices of the monied sultanate. So
do most of the nation’s news media, their showings of concern expressed in
the lawn-party voices of the caterers distributing the strawberries.

 The lines of work are as numberless as the hooks in the sea, but they
divide broadly into employments bent to one’s own purpose and those
bound to a purpose other than one’s own. It is the former that reflects the
founding idea of America. The Puritan settlers of the seventeenth-century
New England wilderness arrived from an old world in which the civilizations
both east and west of Suez fetched their food and shelter from the work of
variously denominated slaves.

 The ruling classes of antiquity, like those in medieval and early
Renaissance Europe, regarded the necessity of having to earn a living as a
mortification of the body and a degradation of the mind. Aristotle had
classified slaves as “speaking tools,” available for every purpose except
their own, and for the next 2,000 years, in Asia as in Europe, it was generally
understood that the terms of a man’s employment were settled at birth. The
newfound land of North America afforded an escape from the burdens of the
past imposed by the divine right of inherited privilege as well as those
enforced by Barbary pirates and British naval officers, the architects of the
New Jerusalem bringing with them the Protestant belief that it was by a man’
s work that he was known, not only to himself, but also to God and to his
fellow men.

 On no less an authority than that of John Calvin, they had been given to
understand that there was “no employment so mean and sordid (provided
we follow our own vocation) as not to appear truly respectable and be
deemed highly important in the sight of God.” The thought embraced St.
Benedict’s Catholic certainty that “Idleness is the enemy of the soul,” as well
as the meditation of the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius, who likens the
work for which men are by their nature born to that of “craftsmen who love
their trade,” equivalent in turn to that of the “sparrows, ants, spiders, bees,
all busy at their own tasks, each doing his own part toward a coherent world

 Further searches for a coherent world order on the western shores of the
Atlantic encouraged the authors of the Constitution to conceive the
document as a tool turned to the making of things, of laws as well as of ships
and cider mills and songs. As with the plow and the surveyor’s plumb line,
the instruments of government were meant to support the liberties of the
people, not the ambitions of the state. In answer to questions being asked in
Europe about what sort of persons were likely to be well received in the new
republic, Benjamin Franklin in 1782 published a pamphlet, Information to
Those Who Would Remove to America, in which he observed that in America
people “do not inquire concerning a stranger, What is he? but, What can he
do? If he has a useful art, he is welcome… But a mere man of quality, who on
that account wants to live upon the public by some office or salary will be
despised and disregarded.”

 The love of country followed from the love of its freedoms of thought and
action, not from a pride in its armies, its monuments, its manners, or its
debts. Thomas Jefferson, writing his Notes on the State of Virginia in 1781,
envisioned a republic of free-standing husbandmen who till the earth, “the
chosen people of God… whose breasts He has made His peculiar deposit for
substantial and genuine virtue.” The newfound land and its newfound
independence both were to be cultivated by employments bent to purposes
of the individual, their joint venture resting on a democratic holding of one’s
fellow citizens in thoughtful regard not because they were rich or beautiful
or famous but because they were fellow citizens.

 The Elephant on the Table of American Politics

 So at least was the spirit and intent if not always the practice or the case. In
return for the Constitution’s ratification by the Southern slave-holding
states, the politicians in Philadelphia in 1789 had compromised the principle
that all men are created free and equal. They assumed that slavery was soon
to become extinct, certain to be swept away on the rising tide of freedom,
and so they allowed the Southern planters to temporarily retain their prize
collections of speaking tools.

 The invention of the cotton gin in 1793 remanded the case for liberty to the
higher court of money. Between 1800 and 1860 the demand for cotton on the
part of Britain’s satanic textile mills furnished the newly minted United States
with its richest flow of capital, serving the purpose that the Saudi Arabians
now extract from oil. The opulence of the trade (60% of America’s export in
1860), in large part conducted, to their immense profit, by New York banks
and New England ship owners, financed the country’s westward expansion
and the early development of its commerce. Without cotton, there would
have been no industry, and without slavery, no cotton.

 The “darkies” said by Stephen Foster to be singing sweetly in the fields
subsidized the music that Walt Whitman heard elsewhere in the country in
the singing of “the carpenter,” “the deckhand,” “the mason,” “the
shoemaker,” “the hatter,” “the woodcutter,” and “the plowboy” -- the voices
of America’s leaves of grass, the fellow citizens in the 1830s and 1840s plying
trades in Massachusetts and Ohio, felling trees and building roads in Illinois,
piloting Missouri and Mississippi River steamboats, tinkering with farm
equipment and firing pins, going west to Texas and California.

 Victory in the war with Mexico added another 529,017 square miles 
to the
inventory of spacious skies and purple mountain majesties acquired in the
Louisiana Purchase; the population went forth and multiplied (9,638,453 in
1820; 31,443,321 in 1860), its restless collective energies geared to vocations
apt to prove to be their own reward. Frontier people holding fast to what
Mark Twain later claimed as “a maxim of mine that whenever a man preferred
being fed by any other man to starving in independence, he ought to be

 During the second half of the nineteenth century, the shooting would have
needed to become extensive. The Civil War had rousted slavery from the
plantations of the South, but the industrial revolution in the North required
an even greater supply of hired hands bound to purposes other than their
own. The employments on offer in the Kentucky coal mines and the
Pennsylvania steel mills matched Karl Marx’s job description of alienated
labor -- a “diabolical activity,” entailing the loss of self. “What is animal
becomes human and what is human becomes animal.”

 How then to accommodate both man and beast under the same beach
umbrella of the American dream, make the freedom-loving argument that
Franklin’s craftsmen and Jefferson’s husbandmen differ only in their angles
to the sun from the hostess in the bunny costume checking coats in a
Playboy club? By the turn of the twentieth century, the question of what
constitutes the meaning of labor as well as a fair return on its performance
was the elephant on the table of American politics.

 An alienated proletariat had been imported from China to build America’s
western railroads, from Ireland and Eastern Europe to service its eastern
factories, and between 1870 and 1914, the bitter, often violent division
between the differently purposed lines of work was made manifest in the
financial markets and the streets. The great railroad strike in 1877 moved
Thomas Alexander Scott, the president of the Pennsylvania Railroad, to
suggest that the strikers be given “a rifle diet for a few days and see how
they like that kind of bread.” State militia and federal troops complied with
the suggestion, killing more than 100 strikers in Maryland and Pennsylvania.
The putting down of the Haymarket Riot in Chicago in 1886, and the breaking
of the Homestead Strike in Andrew Carnegie’s steel works in 1892,
reinforced the rule of money; the bank panics of 1893 and 1907, preceded by
heedless speculation in the stock markets, led to widespread
unemployment, bankruptcy, foreclosure, and depression.

 The disputes varied in their particulars (the protective tariff, the prices paid
for gold and silver, the legitimacy of the labor unions), but in every instance
what was at issue were the terms of service as defined on the one hand by
President Teddy Roosevelt in a Labor Day speech at Syracuse, New York, in
1903: “Far and away the best prize that life offers is the chance to work hard
at work worth doing”; on the other hand by Woodrow Wilson, still president
of Princeton University in 1909, speaking to the New York City High School
Teachers Association: “We want one class of persons to have a liberal
education, and we want another class of persons, a very much larger class of
necessity in every society, to forego the privilege of a liberal education and
fit themselves to perform specific difficult manual tasks.”

 Wilson’s way of looking at things aligns itself with what was to become
America’s chrome-plated future, Roosevelt’s with its homespun past. The
Rough Rider was trading in nostalgia, looking back to his days as a young
man, a young man who also happened to be rich, shooting buffaloes in the
Dakota Territory. The sentiment shows up in Norman Maclean’s
remembrance of the way it was out among the tall trees in the summer of
1927, “As to the big thing, sawing, it is something beautiful when you are
working together -- at times, you forget what you are doing and get lost in
abstractions of motion and power. But when sawing isn’t rhythmical, even for
a short time, it becomes a kind of mental illness -- maybe even something
more deeply disturbing than that. It is as if your heart isn’t working right.”

 It is here that one finds the dignity of labor and the expression of man’s
humanity to man. One can illuminate the feeling on which Eugene V. 
president of the American Railway Union, mounted his candidacy for U.S.
president in the election of 1912, attracting over 900,000 votes on the
strength of his belief that “the workers are the saviors of society, the
redeemers of the race.”

 Wilson didn’t think so, and Wilson won the election, defeating Roosevelt as
well as Debs. The establishment in 1913 of the Federal Reserve Bank
overruled the prolonged objection by the instruments of labor to their uses
in the hands of capital, shifting control of the nation’s currency from the
public to the private sector.

 The Labor of Consumption

 It is man’s nature to be doing something, or at least to fancy that he’s doing
something, but to what purpose, and for whom? Satisfactory answers to the
questions lately have been hard to find, not only for the unemployed poor
but also for the underemployed remnant of what was once a diligently
aspiring middle class. It isn’t simply that the consumer markets don’t value
work worth doing; it’s that the society’s ruling and possessing classes
regard working for a living as the mark of inferior or damaged goods.

 The attitude made its first appearance on the American scene during the
Gilded Age, dancing with the newly crowned kings of finance under the
ballroom chandeliers in Newport and New York. Thorstein Veblen took note
of the arrival in 1899, his Theory of the Leisure Class suggesting that it is the
conspicuous consumption of the product of other people’s time and effort
that makes up the sum of one’s own worth and meaning. Not the doing of the
work, the digesting of it. “Leisure, considered as an employment,” said
Veblen, “is closely allied in kind with the life of exploit, and the
achievements which characterize a life of leisure and which remain as its
decorous criteria, have much in common with the trophies of exploit.”

 During the years prior to the Second World War, the attitude was safely
confined to a small number of people preserved in the aspic of what was
then big money. The victories over Germany and Japan fostered extensions
of the franchise. Rescued by force of arms from the Great Depression,
America seemed blessed with the enchantments of both Croesus and
Colossus, the indisputable proofs of its wealth and military power giving rise
to the notion that all its children were the inheritors of a vast fortune and
therefore deserving of the best of all possible worlds that money could buy.
No reason not to have it all -- a new frontier, a great society, guns for a
splendid little war in Asia, butter for the old folks at home, a house in the
country, a boat on the lake, the face and fortune in the ad for one of Ralph
Lauren’s tennis dresses.

 Much of the world in 1945 was either bankrupt or in ruins, and the
refurnishing of it supplied the American economy over the next 30 years with
an abundance of jobs that afforded the means of independence and a
measure of self-worth, while at the same time bringing forth the trophies of
exploit to a consumer market more wonderful than the wonderful world of
Oz, seeding ever broader acres of the nation’s human topsoil with the
presumptions of entitlement favored by Veblen’s Newport heiresses. Don’t
worry, be happy; go forth and shop. Leisure considered as employment.

 Which was all well and good until it turned out, somewhere in the middle of
the 1980s on the yellow brick road with Toto and the Gipper, that the Wizard
was easy access to conspicuous credit. For how else could the American
leaves of grass join their top-dressed companions on a golf course unless
they borrowed money? The country’s working and middle classes
discovered that it wasn’t the value of the work itself, or its manufacture of a
decent living (as architect, bus driver, sales clerk, actress, lathe operator,
automobile mechanic) that made up the sum of the country’s wealth and well-

 Their great collective enterprise was the labor of consumption, and with it
the derivative of debt, a byproduct, like the methane exuded by factory-
farmed pigs, that funded the patriotic service owing to God, country, and the
American Express card. The work was maybe mindless, a substitution of what
is animal for what is human, but it fattened the gross domestic product,
enriched the insurance companies and the banks, welcomed the second
coming of an American Gilded Age, and now accounts for the increasingly
grotesque disparity between the income earned as wages and the revenue
collected as rent, interest, dividend, stock option, and year-end bonus.

 Americans with jobs imagine they now work longer and harder hours than
did their forebears on Mark Twain’s Missouri frontier; if so, their labor
serves a purpose other than the one in hand. Finance accounted for 47% of
total U.S. corporate profits in 2007; 58% of Harvard University’s male
graduates in that same year (the heirs and assigns of Woodrow Wilson’s
small class of persons deserving of a liberal education) took up careers as
high-end traffickers in the drug of debt. It’s a lucrative trade, up to the
standard of the cotton export from the dear old antebellum South. That it
doesn’t add to the sum of human happiness or meaning is probably why the
gentry on the lawns of Connecticut, together with their upper servants in
Washington and the news media, talk about the lost battalion of America’s
unemployed as a set of conveniently invisible numbers rather than as a body
of fellow citizens.

 Lewis H. Lapham is editor of Lapham’s Quarterly. Formerly editor of Harper’s
Magazine, he is the author of numerous books, including Money and Class in
America, Theater of War, Gag Rule, and, most recently, Pretensions to
Empire. The New York Times has likened him to H.L. Mencken; Vanity Fair has
suggested a strong resemblance to Mark Twain; and Tom Wolfe has
compared him to Montaigne.