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California’s growers were still dependent on low-wage nonwhite workers, especially with the labor demand crunch of World War I, which meant they had to get by on loopholes. Fearing the quota consequences, growers began importing Filipino workers in large numbers starting in 1923, and they attracted over 30,000 workers to the state by the end of the decade.46 As American nationals (the Philippines was a U.S. territory at the time), Filipinos were entitled to travel freely within the American empire; as phenotypically distinguishable from whites and Mexicans, they could be relegated by growers to a lower wage tier. It didn’t seem to hurt that most Filipinos spoke English and were familiar with American customs and culture. With racial wage scales came a segregated production process: lower-wage Mexican and Filipino workers were overused in the fields, while higher-wage whites worked in the packing sheds and canneries. In the beginning, the Filipino immigrants worked for the lowest wages and under the worst conditions—their pay documented at under $10 a month—but the young Filipino men proved more assimilable in practice than growers and policy makers imagined. With their fluent English and American nationality, Filipino immigrants felt entitled to interact with white women, whether on the beaches or at the taxi dance halls, where (still relatively scarce in the state) women danced one-on-one in exchange for ticket vouchers. Under the law, the Filipino men weren’t wrong; though California had banned marriages between whites and “Negroes and mulattoes” since 1850, adding “Mongolians” in 1905, Filipinos were “Malay” under the original eighteenth-century racial typology.47 California, having relied on the broad stretch of the Asiatic Barred Zone to exclude South Asians up to that point, did not include them in the anti-miscegenation statute. But in 1933, as Filipino farmers posed an increasing sexual threat to white men (and as they organized for higher wages), the state added “Malay” to the rule.
crazy
The first revolutionary party to form in California during the twentieth century was called the Social Revolutionary Party, and the society it sought to overthrow was Japan’s. Its founder was Kōtoku Shūsui, a Japanese left-wing writer and organizer who came to the States in 1905 after being released from jail amid a nationalist crackdown in his home country. His 1901 pamphlet Imperialism: Monster of the Twentieth Century, written in conversation with both Western and Eastern thinkers and history, is one of the world’s earliest and most coherent analyses of the phenomenon; Kōtoku had it pegged.xi A translator of The Communist Manifesto and cofounder of the Social Democratic Party in Japan—based on the German party of the same name and banned immediately—Kōtoku was relieved to find that Japanese leftists had more breathing room in the Bay Area than they did at home. It was a crucial time in the development of the world’s revolutionary political tendencies, and Kōtoku quickly came to reject ineffective parliamentarianism and embrace bomb-throwing anarchist insurrectionism as the only solution to the problem of empire. The Social Revolutionary Party wasn’t based on the Germans, it was based on the Socialist Revolutionary Party of Russia, whose members, called SRs, sought the overthrow of the czar and the redistribution of royal land.
Kōtoku didn’t become an anarchist in California—he thanked the emperor’s jail for that—but his politics were further shaped there, and as the acknowledged leader of the Japanese ultra-left in the United States, he had his own serious impact on the development of the racially integrated West Coast labor movement. The California trade unions continued to exclude nonwhite workers, limiting their potential impact in the state. As a result, Kōtoku found his friends in the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW), or Wobblies, a revolutionary coalition of unions open to all laborers, which was founded the same year he arrived, 1905. Like the ultra-left factions in Germany and Russia, their idealized tactics were the general strike and the bomb, but the IWW was more like a militant labor union with big dreams than a revolutionary conspiracy. They scrapped with hired thugs at mines and sawmills throughout the West in particular. Compared to the craft workers of the American Federation of Labor (AFL), IWWers were rough-and-tumble, noted for getting in fights, moving around, and changing their names to escape bad reputations. The West, where they were strongest, was considered the country’s backwater at the time, but the West was also closest to the Eastern Hemisphere, and the internationalist dissidents who made their way to the coast even temporarily, like Kōtoku—who was only in the country for eight months total—pulled still-emerging California into the global class struggle.
When Jordan met Lala Har Dayal in 1911, I suspect what most impressed the president was the line in the twenty-seven-year-old’s résumé about studying Sanskrit at Oxford, along with his salary requirements as an instructor of Indian philosophy: $0. FACULTY ELECTS A HINDU, announced the New York Times, elevating the story to a national one because Har Dayal was “perhaps the first Hindu professor to hold a position in an American college.”58 (The vast majority of so-called Hindus in California were Sikhs from the Punjab region, where British commodity wheat made the agricultural system fragile and nearly two million people died of starvation in the mid-1870s.) Har Dayal’s background was exceptional for a California East Indian: he was a highly educated young man from a Hindu family, another aspect of his credentials that must have attracted the elitist Jordan. What his new employer probably didn’t know is that he bailed halfway through his Oxford scholarship to be a radical writer-editor and spread hard-line Indian nationalism. Politically, he swam in the same ultra-left streams as Kōtoku Shūsui did, reading Karl Marx and the Russian anarchists, including Peter Kropotkin (whom he met when he was at Oxford) and especially Mikhail Bakunin. Har Dayal weaved together atheism, Buddhism, and Marxism into a single practice, one that involved personal asceticism and social extravagance. After spells in France, Algeria, Martinique, and Hawaii, and after an attempt to return to India, he came to the Bay Area, which was a center of East Indian labor on the West Coast as well as a global nexus for radical thought. The Stanford gig was little more than a cover, and Har Dayal used the position to gather the Palo Alto community’s revolutionaries into what he called the Radical Club, or, in its full glory, the International-Radical-Communist Anarchist Club. Not exactly the “Indian philosophy” Jordan had in mind. As connected and experienced an intellectual as the ultra-left had on the West Coast, Har Dayal became secretary of the Oakland IWW.
hell yeah
By the time he went solo, Hoover was less an engineer than what we might recognize today as the head of a private equity firm.11 He had a few stakes in genuinely productive mines, and new techniques for processing mine tailings for their base metals led to novel Westralia revenue, but finance ruled the world now. He found that rationalization and efficiency were good ways to attract capital, but the ultimate results didn’t always correlate with his gains. Hoover didn’t have to invest a ton of money or reorganize production in order to prosper on a new project. He just had to convince other financiers that something previously uninvestable was now a good bet; then he could sell them his stake at a profit and do it again. Instead of South Africa and Westralia, his five offices were in San Francisco, New York, London, Paris, and Petrograd. In the years following settlement of the Russo-Japanese War he advised both the Russian czar and Japanese capital on carving up the Siberia-Korea-Manchuria nexus, but he spent most of his time in the world’s Paper Belt, traveling between his five offices and Belgium, where a spike in rubber prices combined with the Crown’s superexploitation of African slave labor on the Congo plantations enriched King Leopold II and his affiliated financiers.
The Chief’s primary stated goal was to lower the price of wheat in the face of intense global demand, which he did by setting the price lower, enraging farmers. The processors, however, had nothing to complain about. For them Hoover used a “cost-plus” formula, paying contractors an agreed-upon percentage above their costs rather than setting a price.iii He earned the ire of staple-farmer populists, the loyalty of the processing industries, and the admiration of anyone who believed what was printed in the corporate press. America won the war, and the boys came home with an appreciation for canned food and candy. Rather than scale down mass production when soldiers went back to their local food systems, the processors plowed their wartime profits into advertising designed to convince the country that processed foods from national companies were better and safer.
Even when the associative state triumphs, there are always malcontents complaining about the relationship between capital and government. Once Hoover was gone, Congress took a closer look at the airmail contracts and the flurry of corporate activity surrounding them. Pop Hanshue told the legislators exactly how Western became so successful. Why had the company been confident it was going to get the mail contract? He testified that the company’s friends Robinson (“the banks”) and Chandler (“the newspapers”) had friends in the Hoover administration.19 He laid it out plainly, in a way that has convinced many historians that the whole mess was a corrupt blunder corrected by Roosevelt. But Hoover never hid his intentions. That was the way it was supposed to work. The government facilitated leading men, who in turn facilitated the government’s facilitation. It wasn’t corruption that enabled Herbert Hoover Jr., after being the first person to take a class in radio engineering at Stanford, to study aeronautical economics at Harvard on a Guggenheim grant and then get hired to run radio development at the Chandler-and-Robinson-financed federal-Guggenheim contractor Western Air Express. It was coordination, the way royal families arrange marriages. There weren’t any planes and then there were a lot of planes—that was the important part, not who got rich. After all, somebody had to. The tangle of names and firms, partnerships and stock offerings and board positions, starts to sound less like the tense strings of a conspiracy network and more like the dull thrum of business as usual.
World War I ended with the collapse of Europe’s global empires, and with them went the colonial model of the California engineer. As new countries formed, some repudiated the debts and concessions imposed on them by previous unelected governments. But if populations held some sort of fundamental right to cancel these contracts unilaterally under a principle we might call “economic democracy,” then how could anyone make investments in the first place? And it wasn’t just Europe and Russia; in Mexico, where a lot of California capital lived, the 1917 constitution declared that “the Nation shall at all times have the right to impose on private property such limitations as the public interest may demand, as well as the right to regulate the utilization of natural resources which are susceptible of appropriation, in order to conserve them and to insure a more equitable distribution of public wealth.”27 This began a two-decade process of expropriation as the Mexican state dispossessed American owners such as Hearst and Chandler. What was next—America’s new Panama Canal?
It’s an understatement to say that much of the world was devastated by its second war, but the United States got off relatively easy. As one of the two superpowers left standing, America was responsible for rebuilding its half (or third, depending on whom you asked) of the world, and that meant getting money to flow through the global financial system again. The Marshall Plan to rebuild Europe and develop occupied Japan moved some cash, but the execution wasn’t big or fast enough. In a memo titled “NSC 68,” the secretary of state, Dean Acheson, and the chief of Truman’s Policy Planning Staff, Paul Nitze, suggested a way to spend novel amounts of government money without appearing to crowd out private industry: rearmament. By paying for peacetime arsenals in America and western Europe (and “on behalf of” Japan), they could prepare for war with the communists as Shockley theorized it and boost global demand without driving down prices, kick-starting what we now think of as capitalism’s twentieth-century golden age. This plan also rescued military contractors in the ACE sectors who were looking at peacetime layoffs. Acheson and Nitze wanted Truman to triple the Pentagon’s budget ask for 1950.15 Of all the smart-stupid state-capitalist plans, military Keynesianism, which called for the state to finance the expansion of the global economy by building machines designed to blow up the world, was one of the smartest-stupidest. And, of course, it worked.
relevant to pano bg
The postwar compact between labor and capital was that a privileged segment of workers shared in the profits from rocketing productivity. In exchange, the labor elite agreed to spend a lot and stay away from communists. And build the best bombs in the world. But freed from the wartime no-strike pledges, other workers—for whom suburban military Keynesianism looked to be a Worse Deal—tried to pick up where they left off in the 1930s. The postwar American economy was a site of high-stakes conflict: In 1946, the country set new records for corporate profits and number of labor strikes.33 Both sides sought to consolidate wartime gains and claim larger shares of expanding output, while workers struggled to keep up with rapidly increasing consumer prices newly liberated from wartime controls. In Oakland, a conflict that began with 1,000 striking department store workers escalated to a citywide general strike of 100,000.34 But the evenhandedness that characterized the Roosevelt administration’s mediation (at its best) was gone.
One of Santa Clara County’s virtues for firms looking to relocate or expand there was the lack of a strong industrial union presence—not an uncommon rationale for selecting a rural factory site. Like railroad engineers, salaried engineers at firms such as HP and IBM remained tough to organize, but some hourly production workers armed themselves with the National Labor Relations Act and bargained collectively. At military contractor Westinghouse’s Sunnyvale plant, the left-wing United Electrical Workers won an election to represent hundreds of workers, beating out more conservative unions. The UE entered the postwar period as the third-largest member union in the CIO with 700,000 workers, including around 300,000 women.35 But the UE had a strong communist current, and in 1947 when the Republican congress passed the Taft-Hartley Act, which required union leaders working with the National Labor Relations Board to affirm that they were not communists, the UE refused to comply. Soon they split entirely with the CIO, preparing it to merge with the tamer and less radical AFL. Marginalized by the increasingly anticommunist mainstream labor movement and shackled by Taft-Hartley, with its ban on sympathy strikes, the UE withered. In 1956 it lost its Westinghouse reelection, and by the end of the ’50s it was redbaited out of burgeoning Silicon Valley. This hit women on the production lines particularly hard. Historian Glenna Matthews writes that “[w]hen the UE lost its vital presence in the Valley, women workers lost their best chance of having labor commit resources to organize them.”36 Uncoincidentally, Silicon Valley firms used immigrant women to fill nonunion low-wage assembly jobs in the coming decades. Warned by example and freed from internal competition by Taft-Hartley, Santa Clara County union leaders stayed friendly with management.37