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Communist History: An Annual Bibliography (2005)

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This article complements studies on 1968 in Poland that have explained the anti-Semitic campaign by pointing to the Soviet factor, traditional Polish anti-Semitism, or factional conflict within the Polish Communist Party. The article attributes March 1968 to the communists' growing reliance on Polish nationalism. It narrows the scale of historical observation to the case of Bolesław Piasecki (1915-79), a prominent nationalist politician. A fascist in the 1930s and a proregime Catholic activist after the war, Piasecki was the leading proponent of the mutual reinforcement of nationalism and communism. Melding Piasecki's role in the 1968 drama with the ideological metamorphosis of the Polish Communist Party, the article argues that under certain conditions, not only did the communists utilize nationalism, but they also prolonged the existence of the nationalist radical right, which supplied the chauvinistic message during the anti-Semitic campaign. © 2005 by the American Council of Learned Societies. All rights reserved.
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This study examines, distinguishes and discusses as grounded theory the changes of the past 20 years in the Chinese media system as a result of the economic reforms. While the new media market challenges the current Chinese Party orthodoxy by initiating a redistribution of power and interests, this study argues that the western model of a libertarian press system is hardly a possibility. With a convolution of the Party line and the bottom line, a Chinese media system is moving from totalitarianism to market authoritarianism. Building on the premise that previous western press systems based on the Four Theories and their updates have failed to fit the unique case of China, the authors propose new theoretical perspectives in studying media systems in transition.
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Begun at the instigation of Secours rouge international at the end of the 1920s, the Association juridique internationale (The International Juridical Association) aimed first at fighting anti-Communist repression legally and in jurisprudence. The AJI's first target was law professors and lawyers, hiding its links with the SRI and trying to put law in the service of political fighting while maintaining the forms of legal accuracy and presenting itself as an association beyond partisan categories. The AJI publications were somewhere between professional legal literature and militant literature - doctrinal thinking and sensitization to the ideological stakes through the prism of the law. Within the AJI, the group of young communist lawyers surrounding Robert Foissin and Marcel Willard was emblematic of a new figure, the lawyer-militant - whose particularity continued even after the disappearance of the AJI, which didn't survive the fading away of the anti-fascist fight and the Germano-Soviet Pact.
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This book, which will come as a surprise to many educated observers and historians, suggests that Jews and Jewish intellectuals have played a considerable role in the development and shaping of modern American conservatism. The focus is on the rise of a group of Jewish intellectuals and activists known as neoconservatives, who began to impact on American public policy during the Cold War with the Soviet Union and, most recently, were influential in the lead-up to the invasion of Iraq. It presents a portrait of the life and work of the original small group of neocons, including Irving Kristol, Norman Podhoretz, and Sidney Hook. This group has grown into a new generation who operate as columnists; in conservative think tanks such as the Heritage Foundation and the American Enterprise Institute; at colleges and universities; and in government in the second Bush administration, including such lightning-rod figures as Paul D. Wolfowitz, Richard Perle, Douglas Feith, and Elliott Abrams. The book proposes that the neocons have been so significant in reshaping modern American conservatism and public policy that they constitute a neoconservative revolution.
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At the height of the Cold War, dozens of radical and progressive writers, illustrators, editors, librarians, booksellers, and teachers cooperated to create and disseminate children's books that challenged the status quo. This book provides the first historic overview of their work. Spanning from the 1920s, when both children's book publishing and American Communism were becoming significant on the American scene, to the late 1960s, when youth who had been raised on many of the books in this study unequivocally rejected the values of the Cold War, this book shows how "radical" values and ideas that have now become mainstream (including cooperation, interracial friendship, critical thinking, the dignity of labor, feminism, and the history of marginalized people), were communicated to children in repressive times. A range of popular and critically acclaimed children's books, many by former teachers and others who had been blacklisted because of their political beliefs, made commonplace the ideas that McCarthyism tended to call "subversive". These books, about history, science, and contemporary social conditions as well as imaginative works like Harold and the Purple Crayon, Danny and the Dinosaur, and Millions of Cats; science fiction such as the Danny Dunn books, and popular girls' mystery series like the Kathy Martin books were readily available to children: most could be found in public and school libraries, and some could even be purchased in classrooms through book clubs that catered to educational audiences. Drawing upon interviews, archival research, and hundreds of children's books published from the 1920s through the 1970s, the book offers a history of the children's book in light of the history of the Left, and a new perspective on the links between the Old Left of the 1930s and the New Left of the 1960s.
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Эссе Дэвида Шнира открывается ссылкой на статью одного из ведущих идишистских писателей довоенного поколения – Давида Бергельсона “Три центра” (1926 г.). Подобно Ю. Слёзкину сегодня, Бергельсон делил мир на три идеологические еврейские “культурные зоны”: США, где еврейству грозила полная ассимиляция; Польша, где традиционный еврейский образ жизни окостеневал; и СССР, которому принадлежало еврейское будущее (и куда отправился Бергельсон в 1933 г., чтобы погибнуть в 1952 г.). Книга Слёзкина отчасти воспроизводит и подтверждает ментальную карту Бергельсона, убедительно реконструируя три еврейские центра, воплощавшие определенную идеологическую реакцию на модерность. Д. Шнир разделяет предложенное в книге прочтение и домысливание сюжета “Тевье Молочника” Шолом-Алейхема – выбор каждой из дочерей Тевье у Слёзкина воплощает одну из логик модерна и ведет в один из его “центров”. Шнир также подчеркивает параллели между взглядами Слёзкина и израильского историка Б. Харшава на ХХ век как на эпоху “современной еврейской революции”. Разница между ними лежит в оценке государства Израиль (попытки утвердить евреев как апполонийцев) как одного из завоеваний этой революции. Шнир перечисляет проблематичные для массового восприятия выводы Слёзкина относительно высокой доли участия евреев в революционном и коммунистическом движениях, органах насилия (и успешного саморепрезентирования как жертв режимов ХХ века), считая эти выводы, тем не менее, хорошо обоснованными. Заслугу Слёзкина он видит в том, что он сумел подойти к данным фактам вне антисемитского дискурса, серьезно задумавшись над их значением. Некоторые возражения вызывает у Шнира вывод Слёзкина о конце века идеологических революций, что, в логике книги, означает, собственно, конец современной еврейской истории. Шнир призывает видеть “еврейский век” как длящийся процесс с открытым концом.
Article
The formation of the Cominform in 1947 was a decisive moment in the Cold War. Although many rank-and-file activists in the Labor and Communist parties in Great Britain and Australia continued to cooperate with each other, the formal relationship between the two parties sharply deteriorated. In Britain, the formation of the Cominform shattered the Communist Party's hopes of post-war class peace. Communists' critical attitude to the Labour Party became openly hostile. However, no fundamental change to Communist Party policy occurred. In industry, the Party became more militant but, generally, continued to pursue an approach that involved collaboration more than confrontation. In Australia, the situation was different. Cominform perspectives significantly altered the position of the Communist Party, which shifted from conciliation to intransigence, from a desire to cooperate with the Labor Party to an intention to 'liquidate' reformism. Enmity was mutual: influenced by both the Cold War environment and the increasingly powerful anti-communist Industrial Groups, the hostility of Labor to communism became palpable. The article examines the post-war decline of both communist parties in the context of the interplay between Communist Party policy, Labor Party antagonism, and the international environment of the early Cold War.
Article
Historians can learn much about the anxieties, beliefs and activities of early Australian anti-communists and the political Right more generally by situating them in a comparative context. This reveals common motives and activities by conservative and reactionary political elements throughout the western world. Further, comparing the situation of the Australian political Right between 1917 and 1935 with that of its counterpart in the United States provides significant insights into the centrality of historical context and its role in determining why and how events unfold and political movements develop as they do. We can thus see how and why the political and social power of labour, Australia's inherited system of government and other peculiar local conditions made Australia's founding anti-communists and the radical right an only partially effective lobby.
Article
Cinema Journal 44.4 (2005) 79-85 At the conclusion of Torero, a feature-length documentary my father wrote and directed in Mexico during the blacklist, a matador, Luis Procuna, is triumphantly brought home on the shoulders of ecstatic fans after a superb faena in the Plaza México. But even as he embraces his wife, his joy is displaced by fear because "I know," his voice informs us, "that next Sunday I face the bulls again." This knell of recognition was certainly not unique to Procuna. For the cost of a ticket, a cigar, and a couple of Coronas quaffed from waxed-paper cups, my father might enjoy two hours' diversion every Sunday at the bullfights, but on Monday, glancing at the Mexico City News, he could hardly avoid the reminder that five hundred miles to the north lived millions of U.S. citizens who wouldn't have thought twice about rounding up his family, his friends, and their families too and jailing every one of them. One sunny afternoon in 1951—I hadn't seen him for several weeks—my father proudly parked an immense black car outside our rented house in Hollywood. He didn't explain why he'd traded our '49 Chevrolet for a ten-year-old Cadillac. He hadn't explained why he and my mother had sold the wonderful house on Briarcliff that we'd formerly lived in. Now, evidently, we were leaving the Serrano house too. At this juncture, we, in addition to Hugo and Jean, meant me and my three younger sisters: Susie, Mary, and Emily. With a luggage rack clamped to the Cadillac's roof, we headed south to Ensenada. Here the Trumbos eventually met us, Trumbo having been released from prison. When we'd all recovered from a series of obligatory typhoid shots, our caravan—three vehicles, a trailer, seven children, four adults, a sheepdog, and a cat—set out for the heartland of Mexico. If you were to ask me when the blacklist ceased to be an abstraction, I would try to describe a cold November night on a hilltop half an hour's ride by car and burro from the town of Uruapan. The ponchos we're wearing have been borrowed from the campesinos who have brought us here. In front of us is an arroyo whose opposite side is actually the slope of a volcano named Paricutín. The volcano has been rumbling intermittently and hurling incandescent magma high into the sky, but when the real event occurs the sky is pale gray with dawn and the volcano has been briefly quiet. Then, like ripples spreading from a pebble's impact with a pond, a number of immense dark circles—crescents really—appear in the airborne dust above the cone of the volcano, moving outward at unthinkable speed. The circles disappear as suddenly as they'd materialized, and now—our hilltop being half a mile from the summit—the appalling sound of the eruption hits us. I was ten years old, and it may not be stretching the truth to assume that the shock waves generated by HUAC are resonating still. I can no longer recall what I knew then about the path my parents had chosen. To be sure, religion was a sham and money was vile; those potent bills and cunning coins were carriers of maladies unnamed. I wasn't aware that on several occasions the FBI had knocked on our door in the hopes of finding my father at home and serving him with a subpoena. I was aware that Trumbo and Ring were in jail, but the why of their imprisonment was hard to fathom. They were friends of ours. I knew they hadn't committed a crime to the extent that I understood crime from my weekly attention to Sky King and The Lone Ranger on the radio. Apparently we were leaving Los Angeles because my father was part of something that Trumbo and Ring were part of. I had no idea what it was. Arriving in Mexico City, we rented a house in the Lomas de Chapultepec area. One morning, six of us children—three Trumbos and three Butlers&#x02014...
Article
Employing survey data, this article highlights the following characteristics of the Romanian Communist Party (RCP):With an estimated membership of 33 percent of Romania’s employed population, the late RCP was proportionally the largest Leninist party in Eastern Europe. Consistent with the socalled “deproletarianization” thesis, the RCP manifested a marked preference toward recruiting well-educated individuals and professionals among its ranks. The RCP also tended to recruit from among disadvantaged classes (in particular, peasants and their offspring). Despite some prowomen “affirmative action” policies, women were underrepresented among Party members. Some ethnic minorities had fewer chances of joining the RCP than ethnic Romanians. As compared to other communist parties, the RCP had one of the highest rates of intergenerational political reproduction among its ranks. This article suggests that the amorphous character of the RCP and its closed elite could also explain why Party members did not bother to save their historically obsolete leader.
Article
For a quarter of a century, from its founding years, the NAACP stood against pejorative stereotyping in the movies, but with only sporadic success. Then during World War II, the goals of the organization coincided with the war aims of the Allies. Walter White of the NAACP grasped an opportunity—to affect movies at their source by means of a "Hollywood bureau" rather than be restricted to the single tactic of censorship. White's attempt, when analyzed, offers "the lessons of history" to the founders of the new NAACP Hollywood bureau and makes a broader point about the perils of one person or group seeking to represent blocs of individuals who deserve to have input about actions that will affect their livelihoods.
Article
Les italiens dans la M.O.I et les FTP-MOI à Lyon et Grenoble In spite of the great number of Italians present in Rhône-Alpes just before the outbreak of the Second World War, their organisation by the MOI (Main-d’œuvre immigrée), the structure set up by the French communist party to enable foreign communist in France to work together, barely existed in the region. Already integrated into the French society, many of them were active members of the French communist party, others received their instructions directly from leading members of the Italian communist party who had taken refuge in France. This fact explains why, at the very beginning, the military organisation of the FTP-MOI (Francs-tireurs et partisans de la Main-d’œuvre immigrée) was mainly composed of fighters from the Jewish section of the MOI, those from the Paris aera who had taked refuge in Lyon or Grenoble. This being said, some Italians – admittedly only a few took part from the start and, as the months passed, their number increased until it reached at the Liberation 20 % or even 40 % – depending on the place – of the total of the FTP-MOI fighters in the Rhône-Alpes region.
Article
Begun at the instigation of Secours rouge international at the end of the 1920s, the Association juridique internationale (The International Juridical Association) aimed first at fighting anti-Communist repression legally and in jurisprudence. The AJI’s first target was law professors and lawyers, hiding its links with the SRI and trying to put law in the service of political fighting while maintaining the forms of legal accuracy and presenting itself as an association beyond partisan categories. The AJI publications were somewhere between professional legal literature and militant literature – doctrinal thinking and sensitization to the ideological stakes through the prism of the law. Within the AJI, the group of young communist lawyers surrounding Robert Foissin and Marcel Willard was emblematic of a new figure, the lawyer-militant – whose particularity continued even after the disappearance of the AJI, which didn’t survive the fading away of the anti-fascist fight and the Germano-Soviet Pact.
Article
Kenneth Burke's important 1934 essay "My Approach to Communism" is often read as "a commitment to Communism" celebrating the movement. A typescript (recently discovered in the Kenneth Burke Papers) of a speech given by Burke in January, 1934 invites a reconsideration of "My Approach." The speech, delivered to the New York John Reed Club, is concerned with finding a solution to America's contemporary economic and social derangements and is more committed to this search and the desired effects of social change than any specific political system or party. Resituating "My Approach to Communism" as a revised and abridged version of this speech encourages a re-reading of the essay as an extended critique of capitalism and an argument for social conditions that foster cultural stability for art's sake.
Article
Cinema Journal 44.4 (2005) 96-100 I stood watching the man tack up the red notice with large black print on our front door. QUARANTINE, it read, and I was impressed. As a child of eight I understood the sign to mean no one could come into or leave our house for two weeks except Dr. Riemer who, apparently, was unable to transport germs. As an adult it becomes a metaphor for my experiences during the thirteen years in which my father was subpoenaed, blacklisted, and imprisoned. Our family was cast out of the American experience and, although technically I belonged, I never felt like a welcome participant in the culture. For two weeks I wouldn't have to go to school, which made me happy because I didn't enjoy school. I didn't have trouble learning, but I was shy and had few friends. I felt that I didn't fit in, and perhaps I didn't. Early photographs of me show an olive-skinned, fat-cheeked child who looks distinctly Native American or Mexican. Perhaps the teachers and children thought I was the child of a gardener or servant—someone who didn't belong in the posh Beverly Hills school I attended. So I wasn't unhappy to be quarantined for two weeks. I looked forward to playing cowboys with my brother, Chris. My father was sick, which was the reason for the quarantine. Several weeks earlier, we had moved from our large house on Beverly Drive into a smaller house just south of Wilshire. The move was precipitated by warnings that the FBI was investigating us and my parents thought it prudent to move to less expensive quarters while they figured out what to do about a possible subpoena to testify before HUAC. Their plan was to move us to the ranch, nestled in a valley in the Maricopa Mountains, eighty miles north of Los Angeles, which my parents had bought in 1938 just before I was born. An extravagant man, my father had been busy transforming it into a gentleman's ranch with barns and outbuildings, living quarters for a foreman, a sprawling ranch house for the family, and a small man-made lake stocked with trout. Just before we moved from Beverly Drive, we were invited to a goodbye dinner in Little Tokyo by the Yamashiro family. Chris and I played with Louie and Lily, the younger Yamashiro children, while their father tended the gardens of the house across the alley from ours. Our families had become friendly. Shortly after that evening, my father developed a dangerously high fever and Dr. Riemer diagnosed diphtheria, the only reported case in Los Angeles County, which he speculated my father contracted in Little Tokyo. I wonder now whether Dr. Riemer was making an ignorant assumption about the residents of Little Tokyo, but the story went down in Trumbo family lore. My father was very sick and for a couple of days was delirious. I could hear him ranting loudly from his bedroom, castigating the FBI for tapping his phone line as he tried to talk to friends. Although frightened, I found all this quite exciting. The family moved to the ranch not long after the diphtheria incident. We were five miles from the nearest neighbor, twelve miles from the nearest town (population 280), and twenty-four miles from our school. The altitude was six thousand feet so we had snow every winter and sometimes even a white Christmas. We had electricity and our own back-up generator for emergencies, but no telephone. Chris and I were enrolled in El Tejon School, a small four-room schoolhouse in Lebec staffed by wonderful teachers and a sympathetic principal who apparently made sure that my brother and I weren't ostracized while we were there, which spanned the time of the HUAC hearings, the appeals process, and my father's year in jail. The ranch and the school were a haven for us away from the maelstrom of hysteria and fear that engulfed the rest of the country, and particularly the Hollywood community. Our friends were all left-leaning and many were under suspicion. Some would visit...
Article
Cinema Journal 44.4 (2005) 85-89 I grew up in Westwood, then a small suburban town, in West Los Angeles. The ideal childhood environment was little impacted by my father's politics in Hollywood, although I do remember a strike of Walt Disney animators and of huddling with others on a cold night in a demonstration for the Hollywood Ten at the Los Angeles airport. I was aware that the shows, if not the films, my father helped write in Hollywood had social content. Meet the People (Mortimer Offner and Danny Dare, 1943–44) had just that. And the "they" in They Can't Get You Down (Offner and Dare, 1943) were the forces of repression, although I might not have been able to articulate that at the time. As a child, I had birthday parties on movie sets and autographed pictures of movie stars on my bedroom walls. But eventually, the effects of the blacklist hit home. At age thirteen, in 1950, after a summer at camp in the idyllic Northern California Trinity Alps, the family squeezed into our pale-green 1948 Chevrolet convertible coupe and set out for New York. The trip seemed like one long quarrel between my brother and me, but finally we arrived in the monstrous, filthy, noisy West Side of Manhattan, where we lived in various apartments for the next fifteen years. I eventually adjusted to all the changes, and made friends at Joan of Arc Junior High School, but discovered no one who had a similar political family background. When I transferred to a small private school in Greenwich Village, I found other children of the blacklist. In fact, most of the teachers had been its victims. During this time, the early 1950s, my father secured successful employment as a writer in live-television drama. He adapted famous American plays, such as The Late Christopher Bean, Sinclair Lewis's Bethel Merriday, with stars like Helen Hayes, Jack Lemmon, and Barbara Bel Geddes, for the Schlitz Pulitzer Prize Playhouse and General Electric Television Theatre. But after two years, the boom was lowered. Red Channels had been in circulation for some time, and rumors that the blacklist was moving east came true. I remember my father telling me how Ad Schulberg, his agent, told him that if he didn't name names, the work would cease. "Don't worry," Ad said to him, "you can name people who've already been named—or dead people!" My father shuddered and left her office. But that marked the end of his career in television. When I was in high school, I was warned that those clicking noises I heard on the telephone meant our telephone was probably being tapped. I remember hearing stories daily about people who were out of work, those who had named others, and friends and foes who were appearing before congressional committees. I remember attending Camp Woodland in the 1950s, One visiting day, my father appeared shaken. He told me how he had cold-shouldered another parent who had greeted him. He was referring to one-time neighbor Robert Rossen, who had named my father a short time before to HUAC and had attempted to greet him as if nothing had happened. Another incident stands out from this period. I had come home from school; my father was out, but my mother was home and went to answer the doorbell of our eighth-floor apartment. From behind her, I could see two men in business suits and trenchcoats. I knew they were from the FBI. They had a subpoena for my father. They asked if they could come in. My mother had been briefed and knew she did not have to let them in or accept the subpoena. She told them that my father was out, and they said that they would wait for him in the lobby. Then she and I devised a plan. I would go on a "shopping" trip and wait to intercept my father before he entered the building. As I went through the lobby after descending from the elevator, the men were sitting there but didn't give me a second glance. I ran to...
Article
Cinema Journal 44.4 (2005) 100-104 As I try now to draw back the curtains from the windows of our apartment on the third floor, facing tall buildings on West 86th Street in Manhattan, the drapes are heavy and the pulley strings wobble a bit under the weight. I'm trying to look back again through those windows. It's the fifties. I'm the middle child in my family of five. In the world outside, the mood is dark—fear of witch-hunts, communists, stool pigeons, and liars—McCarthy having stirred up a fever of patriotic terrorism. Inside our apartment, a furnished rental, there was dust, especially visible when a sunbeam tried to sneak in past the drapes. The curtain fabric, a maroon and beige floral print, which for some odd reason I vividly remember, was very formal and from another era, at odds with the plaid couch and the green shag rug in the living room. The rooms had walls the color of earth and grass without sunlight. The kitchen, tucked in the back down a long narrow pantry, faced the air shaft, where pigeons cooed or flew in and left droppings and feathers as we battled them out again. Maids cooked and slept and came and went in quick succession. The apartment smelled of their cooking, of grease and unfamiliar flavors of Hispanic or southern fried food that we disliked as much as the stranger who lived with us as "help." Our parents never told us why we had to move here from our house near the river in Norwich, Vermont, also a rental, or why we'd moved to that house from a farm in Flemington, New Jersey, another rental, where we withstood the blizzard of '47 and where my brother, Bill, age one then, learned to toddle on the dirt road as it turned to spring mud. We'd started out in Los Angeles and left all our stuff behind. Each move just happened, no questions, no answers, though the truth, revealed much later, was that we were fleeing L.A. because my father, a screenwriter, was blacklisted and no longer employable by Disney, where he'd worked, or by the movie industry anywhere. From that New York apartment, though, my father left for work each morning, or so it seemed. He had an in with friends at a place called TransFilm, where, anonymously or under some alias, he made commercial documentaries, animated ones. He dressed for the job—a jacket and tie, a V-necked sweater, tan or red. He wore hats, even a fedora, and he smoked a pipe, which I cleaned for him for five cents apiece on Saturdays while he worked at his desk at home and had the radio tuned to the Texaco opera from the Met. In my room, the sound of the opera would make me cry. I heard it as something melancholy that signaled my father was busy, otherwise absorbed. I hated opera. It took years to get over that. My father was seldom home. Maybe he was working hard on scripts, but often he was at the Tip Toe Inn on Broadway and 86th Street at the bar. He'd meet my mother there for martinis. They both drank, and my memories of those blacklist years are deeply colored by alcohol. My mother, in particular, was overwhelmed by depression and booze. Her eyes would turn a kind of liquid blue, so I always feared coming home from school and encountering that look. If I saw it, I'd hide in the hall closet and call my best friend, Betsy. I hid in the closet a lot. And I often slept in the bathtub, too, with pillows and blankets and the door locked, to be safe. If I slept in bed, I'd check under it first for demons and say a prayer, kneeling, out of superstition, not sure if there was a god but just in case. On one of those afternoons, I came home from school to find my mother lying on the bathroom floor with a bottle of vodka seemingly flung into the corner near the sink...
Article
Drawing on feminist and historical institutionalist studies of the welfare state as well as the concept of classification struggles developed by French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu, this article examines how the creation of the Works Progress Administration (WPA) influenced the subsequent political mobilization of the unemployed in the United States. The WPA combined features of both the liberal, nationally administered social insurance tier and the nonliberal, state-administered public assistance tier of the U.S. welfare state. By positioning its workers in contradictory ways that resembled both public employment and public assistance, the WPA gave rise to a struggle over their status and rights, manifested in part by the activities and claims of the Workers Alliance of America. A careful examination of this struggle suggests that although the constitution of relief recipients as a clearly demarcated pariah class may facilitate social control, attempts by the state to regulate ill-defined subjects encourage political contention over how those subjects will be constituted.
Article
The Communist Party of Great Britain consistently supported a trade union strategy after the second world war designed to eliminate the Labour Party. Yet by the 1990s leading members of the Party claimed that the organization’s last major contribution to British politics, before it dissolved itself in 1991, was to help rescue Labour from the left-wing ghetto into which it had been consigned during the 1980s. This article explains communist strategy in the postwar decades and the paradoxical outcomes to which it led.
Article
At the end of World War II the Greek Communist party (KKE) claimed that it would seek an accommodation with its domestic opponents, but the party soon launched a full-scale insurrection on its own initiative in the expectation of receiving decisive support from the Soviet Union.With civil war under way, the head of the KKE, Nikos Zahariadis, repeatedly told Soviet of ficials that victory was certain if the Greek Communists could obtain funding, weapons, and other equipment from the USSR and its allies.Although Soviet leaders were concerned that the KKE's aggressiveness would provoke a U.S. reaction, they permitted the clandestine shipment of large quantities of supplies that delayed but could not avert the insurgents'defeat.U.S.of ficials at the time largely misperceived the causes of the insurrection, but they correctly sensed that the KKE's dependence on Soviet-bloc assistance would ensure that a Communist victory would bring Greece into Moscow's orbit.
Article
Klaus Fuchs was one of the most infamous spies of the Cold War, whose espionage feats altered the nature of the early postwar period. Drawing on newly released archival documents and witness testimony, this article considers the events surrounding his arrest and conviction. These sources reveal that even before Fuchs was arrested, he was used as a pawn.Because of his supreme importance to the British nuclear weapons program, some British of ficials initially believed that he should remain in his position, despite his admission of guilt. Until the matter was resolved, Fuchs was used unwittingly as a wedge between the British and U.S. intelligence services.Moreover, when the United States criticized British security standards, the Fuchs case was used by MI5 to cajole and mislead Parliament and the public.
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American Literary History 17.1 (2005) 118-134 When Winfried Fluck invited me to come to Berlin and discuss "the theory of American studies," he suggested that I should feel free to be "shamelessly autobiographical." By now, it seems, my firsthand impressions of the American studies project in its infancy have acquired a certain documentary value. Although I was not present at the creation, I arrived on the scene almost immediately afterward, and so I accept the proffered license to draw on my fallible memories of those early years. They go back to September 1937, when I entered Harvard as a freshman—the same month, coincidentally, that Henry Nash Smith and Daniel Aaron took up residence as the first doctoral candidates in Harvard's brand-new graduate program in the History of American Civilization. The beginning of their graduate studies often has been said to mark the beginning of interdisciplinary American studies as a field of teaching and research. During the next four years, while Smith and Aaron (whom I did not know at that time) were earning their doctorates, I took a bachelor's degree in History and Literature. The History and Literature program, which had been established in 1906, was an interdisciplinary undergraduate concentration (or major), and the American subfield in effect was a precursor of the new graduate program in the History of American Civilization. Although the two programs were separately administered, they relied on much the same faculty—Americanists interested in teaching and research that crossed the disciplinary boundaries between the study of history and literature, society and culture. My formal education was interrupted by World War II, but in 1945, after four years' military service, I enrolled as a candidate for the "Am Civ" doctoral degree. By 1949, when I completed my graduate work, I had studied with most of the men—and they were all men— who had helped to shape the new program: F. O. Matthiessen, Perry Miller, Kenneth Murdock, Samuel Eliot Morison, Ralph Barton Perry, Howard Mumford Jones, and Arthur Schlesinger Sr., as well as Smith, who was a visiting professor at Harvard during 1945–46. (Smith and I later were colleagues at the University of Minnesota, where I taught from 1949 to 1958.) At both Minnesota and Amherst College, where I taught from 1958 to 1976, I also came to know the founders of their respective American studies programs, Tremaine McDowell and George Rogers Taylor. All of these scholars were my teachers or colleagues or both, several became close personal friends, and in those early years I was party to countless discussions of the new project. If all or most of these faculty members had subscribed to a formal theory of American studies, I almost certainly would have known it. The problem is that I don't recall having heard any discussion— or even mention—of such a theory. From the vantage of our post-theory era, in fact, Harvard's doctoral program in the History of American Civilization began life in a scandalously "untheorized" condition. It was introduced without fanfare, almost casually, as a strictly local experiment in interdisciplinary teaching and research. If a theory was implicit in this modest curricular innovation, it was a rationale for interdisciplinarity. In official announcements of the new project the mantra was interdisciplinary. At that time, to be sure, the arguments against the rigid compartmentalization of knowledge within the traditional disciplines still seemed fresh, even challenging. Later, in the 1950s, a long debate about the theory and practice of interdisciplinarity began. The chief issue was whether American studies could, or should, develop a "method" of its own. After several years, Smith in effect settled the argument with his magisterial 1957 essay, "Can 'American Studies' Develop a Method?" He concluded that the formulation of a widely accepted, clearly defined interdisciplinary method was not feasible, and that for the time being Americanists had better settle for a policy of principled opportunism. In the course of his argument, incidentally, he formulated what proved...
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Chen Yun, one year younger than Deng Xiaoping, was born 100 years ago. For several decades beginning in 1931 when he joined the Central Committee at 26, he was ranked higher in the Party than Deng. Although known as an ‘economist’, Chen played a much broader role, in organization work, high-level Party discipline, urban administration, and basic Party policy. He was the key person to link China and Russia following the Zunyi Conference. He was head of the Organization Department from 1937 to 1943. He pioneered the liberation of urban areas as the leader in Harbin and later in Shenyang. He led the fight to get inflation under control during 1949–1952 and led the organization of the first five year plan. He was one of the most vocal against the leap forward and one of the most instrumental in guiding readjustment afterwards. On many occasions he withdrew from leadership and nourished his health. After 1978, he was the only person who spoke to Deng as an equal. Chen Yun was cautious, believing that progress would come from steady small steps rather than wild leaps. He believed in markets, but felt they should be bounded by plans and in 1978–1981 he helped guide the retrenchment policy that put the economy on a solid base before it began rapid growth.
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This study examines the role played by the West in the destruction of the Indonesian communist party, the PKI, and the removal of the radical Indonesian president, Sukarno, in 1965–66. After the murder of six generals in October 1965 the Indonesian army massacred thousands of communists and seized power from Sukarno. The United States secretly helped the army in this period by providing intelligence, arms, medicines and radios and by giving assurances that Britain would not attack Indonesia while the army was suppressing the PKI. The US, Britain, Australia and Malaysia also used propaganda to encourage hostility in Indonesia towards the PKI. The article assesses the impact of Western covert intervention and concludes that Western propaganda may have encouraged the mass killings of the communists.
Previous studies of the disintegration of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU), which was central to the Soviet collapse, have not paid sufficient attention to its financial aspect. However, the CPSU, in its final years, faced a financial crisis due mainly to the decline in its membership. Moreover, the elected soviets demanded the nationalization of party property. These forced the party to protect its property through engaging in commercial activity. This led in turn to unintended consequences of, first, transforming the CPSU into a commercial organization and, second, the dispersal of party property. The combined effect of these tendencies was to render the organization incapable of performing its traditional role of ruling party.
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During the early years of the Cold War, a formulaic depiction emerged in the United States linking one group of scientists - theoretical physicists - with "atomic secrets," whose possession would supposedly allow other nations to build their own nuclear weapons. Scrutiny narrowed quickly around theoretical physicists, as reporters, senators, and federal judges alike asserted that theorists were inherently a breed apart, more susceptible than any other group of people to Communist influence. © 2005 by The Regents of the University of California. All rights reserved.
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Cinema Journal 44.4 (2005) 90-96 Many years ago, a big kid pushed me over a littler kid who'd kneeled behind me. I remember thinking, "What a neat trick" as my head hit the rocks. Then, they kicked me, called me a "dirty commie," and said, "Go live in Russia if you don't like it here." I'd screamed when my mother took me to my first day at Hunter College Elementary School (HCES) and I was right. I was leaving my warm little neighborhood and home. Paralyzed with fear, I refused to let go of her hand. A granite skyscraper swallowed us. An elevator lifted us to the seventh floor, another world. The twenty-story building housed an entire college taking up a whole city block. I yelled my voice away, and then my mother left. Everyone knew HCES, a "special" school for "gifted children"—the best state school in America. They drummed it into us daily how lucky we were and that we had to "live up to our potential" or get thrown into the riffraff of the "rest" of the system. My father eased my way into that first year at school in his inimitable fashion. After the first week, we filed into the auditorium for our first assembly. There was Daddy on the stage. The principal, Dr. B, welcomed us all and introduced him to the entire school: Jay Gorney, the composer of "Brother Can You Spare a Dime," the man who discovered Shirley Temple. In his joy and pride at my acceptance to Hunter, Dad had done something I later learned to expect, but at five years old, I was surprised. Dad walked jauntily to the piano, shoulders back and head high. He adjusted the microphone, sat down, and tried a few chords. Then he spoke softly about writing music, all the while running his fingers over the keys. He told a few stories to warm up his audience, and as the lights went down, a silver screen fell slowly into place behind him and an overhead projector flashed the lyrics onto the screen. Daddy glanced behind him and then hit his dominant chord, singing: "Hunter, dear Hunter/We're thankful and true," etc. Everyone knew me after that. My daddy had given the school its song, and it was sung every morning. Hunter was my school. I was King of the Hill, that first year. At the end of my first year at Hunter, in 1953, my father was forced to sing a different tune. I'd breezed through my kindergarten classes, but at home new words reverberated through the walls of our duplex, and fear permeated our house: "witch-hunt," "subpoena," "blacklist," "HUAC," "the committee," "the Hollywood Ten," "the Fifth Amendment." The Un-American Activities Committee had caught up with us. My folks had given the FBI a run for its money, moving from California in 1947, just after my birth and around the time the Hollywood Ten were convicted. Moving put the FBI off for a while, but agents haunted our front stoop, clutching bits of paper. My mother repeatedly answered the door and told them that Daddy wasn't in. The subpoena had to be presented to my father in person to be legally binding. So they subpoenaed Mom. They called her the Cultural Commissar of Hollywood. My folks' lawyer, Bella Abzug, worked a deal whereby the FBI withdrew the subpoena for Mom and Dad accepted his. The lawyer argued that a family with two small children shouldn't have both parents endangered in this fashion. Conservatively dressed, Dad initially answered HUAC's questions. He explained how his father had arrived in America as an immigrant and...
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The combination of resistance and victimisation in Voronezh region provides important insights into popular reactions to the purges during the second half of the 1930s. Through a close reading of letters from a wide range of social strata and correspondence between various institutions on different levels of power this article analyses the actual processes of appeals, complaints and denunciations. This examination brings to light the degree of obedience of leading local officials and their competence to respond to central orders and inquiries. Based primarily on local archival materials, it argues that the lower strata of society often resisted injustice, abuses of power and the bureaucratic attitudes of the local authorities. Consequently these documents provide a vivid impression of power relations on the local level, the quality of leadership and the leaders' interaction with their subordinates and so-called ordinary people. Through a close examination of appeals and complaints this article contributes to discussion of the degree of participation of ordinary people in the purges, and their strategies to overcome various difficulties and dangers in that tense and stressful time.
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New Literary History 36.2 (2005) 247-261 In July of 1934, an American mystery novel by Alexander Laing titled The Cadaver of Gideon Wyck became an unexpected sensation, selling out its first edition by the time of publication and climbing the best-seller charts over the next several months. A hybrid of science fiction, horror, and hard-boiled detective tale, Wyck riveted readers and critics with its ghoulish subject matter—including abortions, babies born with fused lower limbs, an epileptic murderer, and a woman driven mad by sadistic research experiments. Wyck was, in fact, so gory and bizarre that the novel's book jacket warned that "people unable to sustain violent shock (should) read this book on their own responsibility," and subsequent editions of the book abridged some of its extreme passages. Eighteen months later, Laing published another novel just as peculiar (if not as commercially successful) as its predecessor, The Motives of Nicholas Holtz, Or, The Weird Tale of the Ironville Virus. In this bioterror thriller, which nowadays seems decades ahead of its time, a munitions magnate tries to weaponize a lethal virus that is created by a scientist bent on the spontaneous generation of life from inorganic matter. Seventy-odd years after they were published, Laing's two novels are obscure curiosities, rarely available in libraries and unknown to all but a few horror buffs and historians of medicine. This is because Wyck and Holtz do not fit neatly into the stories we tell about the relationship between literature, medicine, and technology in the twentieth century: they are not clearly classifiable as "science fiction," and they fall outside of the purview of literary scholars and those in the field of medical humanities. Their obscurity is unfortunate, as these novels are arguably just as relevant to any discussion of American "biotech fiction" as works such as Greg Bear's Darwin's Radio or Michael Crichton's Terminal Man. Deeply engaged with the science of their time, they can help us to chart out the prehistory of what we now think of as the biotechnology industry: the moment when new technologies of life manipulation generated utopian speculation as well as deep anxiety about their possible misuse. In what follows, I use the Laing novels to argue that in order to better understand contemporary fiction engaged with biotechnology, we need to expand our gaze to include popular texts that might have been lost in the process of literary history-making. Reading Holtz and Wyck can jolt us out of some of the presentism that informs our discussion of biotechnology: the novels serve as a reminder that the story of the messy collision of science, industry, and the human subject is hardly a late-twentieth-century invention. Scholars of American literature have combed through the first several decades of the twentieth century to find fiction that thematizes medical research or medical technology—and, for the most part, they have come up relatively empty handed. Unless we count Sinclair Lewis's Arrowsmith, no American novel about the technology of medicine has garnered the same critical attention as British texts such as H. G. Wells's The Island of Dr. Moreau or Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. I would argue, however, that this paucity of examples probably has more to do with the fallacies of generic categorization than it does with actual scarcity of material. Seduced by the intellectual pleasures of British science fiction, critics look back at American science fiction from the same period and find—disappointingly—tales of space adventure. Seeking to explain the absence of an American Huxley, some have gone as far as suggesting that medicine was simply not an interesting topic. For example, in his introduction to the collection No Cure for the Future: Disease and Medicine in Science Fiction and Fantasy, Gary Westfahl writes:
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In this essay Melnick plots a "hidden" history of Black-Jewish relations organized around the alternating currents of homerotic attraction and homophobic repulsion. Focusing on Chester Himes's underappreciated novel Lonely Crusade, this essay invites readers to move beyond the more traditional alliance-building narratives of Black-Jewish relations that have dominated critical studies.
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In the 1930s, John Dewey helped lead a purge of communists from the New York City teachers union. That he justified this action politically and philosophically calls into question the claim that Deweyan pragmatism was a radically democratic philosophy. Instead, Dewey's abiding belief in the exceptionally democratic character of American life allowed him to evade genuine democracy, to normalize political engagement while aligning it with national and nationalist imperatives, and to endorse the repression of legitimate political dissent.
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Legacy 22.1 (2005) 47-62 Meridel Le Sueur describes her proletarian novel The Girl (1939 /1978) as a "memorial to the great and heroic women of the depression" and a record of the varied stories of women in bus stations, food lines, and warehouses (133). Le Sueur's novel chronicles these lives to prevent their appearance as "defeated, trashed, defenseless" (133). According to Le Sueur's afterword to the novel, the writer should "urge and nourish ... social vision" and provide a historical narrative of those women "who keep us all alive" (133). Indeed, the novel closes with a birth scene celebrating the work of memory: "Memory is all we got, I cried, we got to remember. We got to remember everything.... We got to remember to be able to fight. Got to write down the names. Make a list. Nobody can be forgotten" (126). Le Sueur's text works to re-member proletarian female experience and her own position in literary history. As most people familiar with Le Sueur's biography know, although she was widely published in the 1920s and 1930 s, her popularity dwindled until the Feminist Press and John Crawford of the West End Press rediscovered her work in the late 1970s and early 1980 s. Early on, she frequently published work in journals such as Kenyon Review and Prairie Schooner and in magazines like Mademoiselle and was able to support herself financially (Pratt 255). With the onset of the McCarthy years—in Le Sueur's words "the dark of the time"—her mainstream popularity declined until she was published almost exclusively in Communist Party journals and read only within Party circles (qtd. in Pratt 255). But even during her peak period, her work was not always met with approval. One editor at Scribner's suggested Le Sueur write more like Hemingway (Coiner 108), and the Communist Party itself instructed Le Sueur to move away from lyricism as a mode of expression and write literature that "would organize" (Pratt 257). The literary left established genres, such as Malcolm Cowley's classic proletarian plot, that "codified masculine metaphors for the working-class struggle" (Rabinowitz, Labor 61); these genres kept women writers' modes of representation from being recognized as worthy forms of expression. The terms "proletarian" and "manly" often were used interchangeably, and so a female proletarian writer like Le Sueur was criticized by the dominant bourgeois culture and the Communist leadership. Le Sueur had rural roots (she was born in Iowa and lived most of her life in Minnesota) and little formal education; she found herself marginalized on all fronts. Set in St. Paul during the Great Depression, The Girl is a bildungsroman about a working-class girl. The main plot of the novel centers on her sexual awakening, the subsequent loss of her lover, and the birth of her child. The Girl explores the larger landscape of union work and "scabbing," unemployment, and social welfare for both men and women. The novel focuses on working-class struggles against larger economic forces and women's struggles against the control of men; therefore, the novel contributes substantially to discussions of gender in both modernist and proletarian fiction. Le Sueur's novel charts female experience through the body in the knowledge of sexuality, abortion, physical abuse, and birth. As a writer, Le Sueur projects a cogent social vision, and through this novel, she makes particular demands on her readers, who must serve as capable interpreters of the historical record. In interpreting this work, both writer and readers participate in constituting the cultural currency of the proletarian female experience and in assigning value to the varied subjectivities women assume in the narrative. The Girl situates the body as a register for physical, social, and political struggles. The novel asks its characters and readers to read the body as a text and chart its various discourses. In the wake of the work of Michel Foucault, the assumption that one can attain a proper reading is problematic; indeed, as Foucault argues, every reading is a misreading in some ways. Yet, I would maintain that some readings are more complete than others. In fact, Annette Kolodny...
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American Quarterly 57.1 (2005) 179-206 In 1936, a slim songbook of African American vernacular music was published by the American Music League, a Popular Front-affiliate of the Communist Party U.S.A. Negro Songs of Protest, as the volume was titled, included just twenty-four song transcriptions and accompanying musical arrangements. Nevertheless, the modest publication featured lyrics of black discontent and rebellion rarely encountered by a white readership. There were, among the striking compositions, verses of caustic irony and warning: There were also expressions of black religious disillusionment and militant worldly defiance: Such lines were characteristic of the evocations of race, class, and protest collected within the songbook. Their release in print sounded a note of revolution in terms of both the culture and politics of the modern United States. The compiler behind the book was one Lawrence Gellert, an independent white music collector who had been documenting black protest traditions in the South for more than a decade. The younger brother of prominent radical artist Hugo Gellert, Lawrence was an active proponent of the Communist movement of the era. Since 1930, he had been contributing articles of song lyrics and commentary culled from his fieldwork to such left-wing periodicals as New Masses. With this first book publication—to be followed by a second, "Me and My Captain", in 1939—Gellert received considerable acclaim. In a short profile in 1936, Time magazine applauded the "lean, scraggly-haired New Yorker" for his skill in "collecting Negro songs that few white men have ever heard." His collection, determined the New York Times, unearthed a "new genre" of black music dealing with "the realities of Negro life." The left-wing press was even more enthusiastic. The Communist Party newspaper Daily Worker called the release of Negro Songs of Protest a "landmark in American culture." Composer Lan Adomian, in New Masses, wrote that the book featured "some of the finest examples in Negro folk music" of the day. The material, he concluded, represented an "indictment" against long-standing white ignorance and denial, a stark rebuke to "the slander that a nation of thirteen million people, reduced to peonage, is nothing more than a grand minstrel show." Nearly seventy years later, Lawrence Gellert's name has fallen into obscurity. More important, his impressive documentary archive of African American musical protest rarely gains a hearing. Gellert researcher Bruce Conforth has identified close to half of the work songs, chain gang songs, hollers, and blues in the full collection as "overt songs of protest." This compares with "less than 5 percent," he concludes, in the collections of recognized predecessors and peers in the field of white research on black vernacular music. Along the same line, blues scholars Guido van Rijn and Bruce Bastin have written on the Gellert archive as a valuable "alternative source," as Bastin put it, to the canon housed in the Archive of American Folk-Song at the Library of Congress. Composed of more than two hundred aluminum and acetate sound recordings encompassing more than five hundred song items as well as extensive lyric transcriptions from the field, Lawrence Gellert's collection spanning the 1920s through the 1940s is a valuable store of...
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This essay recontextualizes Dalton Trumbo, HUAC, and the blacklist by analyzing Trumbo's personal archives, his writings in the Hollywood trade press, his work in the Screen Writers' Guild as editor of its official journal, The Screen Writer, and his pivotal role in the anti-HUAC debates before he was imprisoned.
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The "Gibson Affair" marked the height of Cold War paranoia that came to consume the group of black expatriates centered in Paris in the 1950s. In writing of the forgeries and surrounding events that bear his name, Richard Gibson argues that the economy of the scandal was determined as much by the question of political commitment to Algerian independence as it was to the question of affiliations to the United States and its government. The essay combines Gibson's informative memoir with a meditation upon Richard Wright's unpublished roman-a-clef (and only novel set in Paris), Island of Hallucination.
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American Quarterly 57.4 (2005) 1105-1129 Despite historians' best efforts to disassociate the anticommunist purges of the post-World War II era from one individual's extreme behav-ior, the early cold war years continue to be known as the McCarthy era, and Senator Joseph McCarthy remains a symbol—perhaps the paramount symbol—of irrationality and illegitimacy in American politics. His fall from grace in 1954 likewise denotes the return to moral order and political sanity. McCarthy did not introduce the practices and policies of political repression and sexual oppression that constituted the domestic cold war, and many of those practices and policies outlasted him. Nonetheless, he inhabits our memories as their most visceral representation. The man—his name, his face, as much as his behavior—stands for the era. One of the most enduring images of that era is a photograph of McCarthy's aide, Roy Cohn, whispering into the senator's ear. In 1954, the pose was already iconic. It signified McCarthy's untrustworthiness by marking as illicit his relationship with another man—an unsurprising rhetorical device, given the ways that homophobia and anticommunism were intertwined in the domestic politics of the time. As two decades of careful scholarship has revealed, the "red scare" was accompanied by a far-reaching "lavender scare," in which thousands of suspected homosexuals were investigated, interrogated, and dismissed by government officials and private employers. Senator McCarthy himself played a role in popularizing these antihomosexual purges; ironically, he became their victim as well. In this essay, I examine more closely the sexual smearing of Joe McCarthy in order to elaborate the cultural logic and political practices of the era that bears his name. The terms of the sexual attack upon McCarthy responded to his own self-presentation as a Washington outsider, a self-made, autonomous, and aggressive representative of the common man. This gendered persona was destabilized by portrayals of the senator as dependent upon, dominated by, or beholden to men without a legitimate claim to political authority. Explicit statements that McCarthy himself was homosexual rarely made it into the media, but the senator's enemies, both liberal and moderate, were nonetheless able to smear him by framing his relations with his "circle" as suspect. In the heightened anxiety that accompanied the expansion of the national security state, inappropriate private relationships often functioned as signifiers of disloyalty, and insinuations about McCarthy's relations with other men cast suspicion on his fitness as a representative of the public interest. Focusing on McCarthy illustrates how homophobia could be used as a political tool, even against one of the figures most closely associated with the anticommunist and antihomosexual campaigns. More broadly, the smearing of Senator McCarthy reveals much about the sexualization of cold war politics. First, it demonstrates that cold war liberals not only subscribed to the cultural logic of the lavender scare; they employed some of its tactics to pursue their own ends. Other scholars have shown that cold war liberals established their anticommunist credentials by embracing a rhetoric of masculine virility. Here, I emphasize the means by which liberals worked against the excesses of anticommunism by using "gay-baiting to fight against red-baiting," employing some of the same strategies as did the Republican moderates who feared McCarthy's corrosive influence on his own party. Second, examining the uses of sexual gossip against McCarthy deepens our understanding of the connections between the lavender and red scares. Historians who have excavated the antihomosexual campaign have pointed to a number of factors giving rise to the lavender purge. Among these are the unsettling impact of the 1948 publication of Kinsey's Sexual Behavior in the Human Male and the growing visibility of gay communities in the postwar years. Further, many commentators understood communists and homosexuals to possess similar characteristics, including moral corruption, psychological immaturity, and an ability to "pass" undetected among ordinary Americans. More fundamentally, communists and homosexuals were linked through the trope of enslavement: homosexuals were slaves to their passions for other men, communists to their Soviet masters. Members of both groups lacked the masculine autonomy that enabled loyalty to the nation. This logic explains...
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At the conclusion of Torero, a feature-length documentary my father wrote and directed in Mexico during the blacklist, a-matador, Luis Procuna, is triumphantly brought home on the shoulders. of ecstatic fans after a superb faena in the Plaza Mexico. But even as he embraces his wife, his joy is displaced by fear because "I know," his voice informs us, "that next Sunday I face the bulls again." This knell of recognition was certainly not unique to Procuna. For the cost of a ticket, a cigar, and a couple of Coronas quaffed from waxed-paper cups, my father might enjoy two hours' diversion every Sunday at the bullfights, but on Monday, glancing at the Mexico City News, he could hardly avoid the reminder that five hundred miles to the north lived millions of U.S. citizens who wouldn't have thought twice about rounding up his family, his friends, and their families too and jailing every one of them.