THE NATURE OF WORKING-CLASS LITERATURE:
AN ECOFEMINIST CRITIQUE
by
William DeGenaro
Submitted in Partial Fulfillment ofthe Requirements
for the Degree of
Master ofArts
in the
English
Program
YOUNGSTOWN STATE UNIVERSITY
June, 1998
The Nature of Working-Class Literature:
An Ecofeminist Critique
William DeGenaro
I hereby release this thesis to the public. I understand this thesis will be housed at the
Circulation Desk of the University library and will be available for public access. I also
authorize the University or other individuals to make copies of this thesis as needed for
scholarly research.
Signature:
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iii
ABSTRACT
In recent years, literary scholars have begun to distrust, challenge, and expand the
canon, which formerly limited students ofliterature to the study ofdead, white, upper 
class male writers. In addition to contemporary writers, women writers and writers of
color, the academy has begun to study writers who come from and/or represent the causes
ofthe working-class. This sub-genre has served a tranformative, political function, and
scholars, aided by the writings ofMarx, have rightly recognized the class and gender
issues that are often explicit in the texts. Another oppressed "other" is also present in
several important texts of working-class fiction and poetry: the environment. Much
working-class literature captures the abuse ofthe Earth, alongside the abuses ofworkers
and ofwomen, and scholars ofworking-class studies have yet to explore this literary
territory. In this thesis, I propose an ecofeminist way ofreading working-class literature
that recognizes this additional "other." An ecofeminist reading seeks to avoid setting up a
hierarchy ofoppressions. As ecofeminist critic Patrick Murphy has noted, ecofeminism
places multiple abuses in the global context ofthe relationships human beings have with
the natural world. So I examine the ways nature is both oppressed and empowered in
working-class literature; how the authors portray the ecology alongside issues ofclass and
gender; and to the unique, sometimes contradictory ways nature is aligned with the
feminine.
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I. ECOFEMINISM AND THE ACADEMY
Above all, ecofeminism is a theoretical framework that calls for action, for the
transformation ofour world into something better. A brief review ofthe recent scholarly
work in ecofeminism illustrates some ofthe ties an ecofeminist framework holds with the
field ofEnglish. Ecofeminism asserts that what English scholars do in the classroom and
in the pages ofliterary journals should not exist apart from what English scholars do on
the weekends and in the voting booth. While many social justice movements such as the
struggle for women's rights have had a giant impact on English studies, the environmental
movement historically has not. Ecofeminism, therefore, seeks to add environmental
concerns to issues ofrace, gender, and class, issues about which English scholars already
are concerned. An ecofeminist viewpoint will pay particular attention to the ways
literature and culture connect the feminine with the natural, taking interest in how both
women and the Earth are oppressed by a patriarchal society -- and fight back against that
oppression.
In a recent article in College Composition and Communication, Donald
McAndrew explains some ofthe ways ecofeminism is tied to the field ofEnglish studies.
In "Ecofeminism and the Teaching ofLiteracy," McAndrew argues that both literacy
instruction and ecofeminism attempt to integrate multiple views, critique society, and
reconstruct harmony among opposites. Action in the classroom, particularly when it
involves teaching the ills ofexploiting women and nature, can be a model for action
outside the classroom, he writes. McAndrew explicates six ofecofeminism's central
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claims and relates each to the teaching ofEnglish. The first claim is that exploitation is
caused by patriarchal dominance. Thinking hierarchically sets up a system in which one
thing is superior and another is inferior. So society views man as superior to woman, the
mind as superior to the body, and so on. Similarly, in English studies the dominant
paradigm has lead to both canon formation and the lecture, which respectively sets up a
certain body ofliterature and the teacher as being superior to non-canonical literature and
students, which, in tum, are the inferiors.
McAndrew's second claim ofecofeminism is that women and nature are connected
by objectification. Patriarchal society sees the inferior other (women, nature) as separate
from the superior, autonomous, masculine self. Likewise, many literary critics have
asserted that there exists one, objective reading ofa text, and that its meaning is absolute.
There has luckily been a move toward both reader-response and socially-aware criticisms.
The third claim is that science and technology have been used as tools for dominance. The
world ofscience has rejected emotion in favor ofempiricism, and the arts and humanities,
including English, have tried to imitate the supposed objectivity ofscience. Recent years,
however, have seen a move toward context-based, qualitative studies ofliteracy.
The fourth claim ofecofeminism that McAndrew describes involves the move to
restore the feminine. Ecofeminists have long argued that the feminine side ofall
individuals must be accepted and affirmed in all facets ofsociety. All members ofthe
society ought to look holistically at themselves, in the same way that the field ofEnglish
ought to encourage holistic approaches to language and literature. The fifth claim is that
the spiritual dimension oflife should be explored. Society tends to value the material over
3
the other-worldly, just as literature scholars too-often forget to stress the healing potential
ofliterature. Finally, McAndrew explains that patriarchal institutions and philosophies
should be challenged. In English studies, as in all levels ofthe culture, we should strive
toward political activism. Patrick Murphy also sees the English classroom as a center for
ecofeminist action, action which begins by teachers adopting a "trickster midwife
pedagogy" (139). Such a pedagogy would necessarily resist the banking notion, in which
data is deposited in students' minds to be withdrawn at a later date. Instead, teachers
ought to incorporate storytelling (like tricksters) and foster the birth offemale selves (like
midwives). Thus an "ecofeminist enclave" or "base camp" will be created in English
classes.
Many ofthe facets ofecofeminism in the classroom that McAndrew explains
involve a move to resist claims ofacademic autonomy and egoism. He calls for "research
that is motivated by love and not by control; that listens to nature or to writers as ifin
conversation" (378-9). Ecofeminism, according to McAndrew, should move beyond
being a mere chore and become a means to making our classrooms spiritual centers.
Murphy, one ofthe leading ecofeminist literary critics, feels the 1990's is the prime time
for that transformation. In his article "Ground, Pivot, Motion: Ecofeminist Theory,
Dialogics, and Literary Practice," Murphy calls on ecofeminists to "alter...irrevocably" the
field ofEnglish in this decade (146).
The key to ecofeminist literary criticism involves the adoption ofBakhtinian
dialogics, writes Murphy. Dialogics stresses the importance, the moral power, ofstarting
dialogue with texts and with others. Such a system, according to Murphy, inevitably
"telescopes out from the aesthetic text to larger questions ofcultural community and
political power under patriarchy" (147). That which we dialogue with, especially nature,
should be examined as an autonomous being, not something that exists merely for us.
Therefore, ecofeminist literature, in Murphy's conception, should allow nature to speak.
He uses the example ofnative American dance, in which dancers allow themselves to
become things in nature. Dancers allow animals, for example, to speak through them.
Writers with an ecofeminist orientation will allow nature to speak through their writing.
This is in sharp to contrast to the traditional pastoral paradigm, which portrays things-in 
nature through the eyes ofthe (usually male) poet. Murphy asserts that pastorals don't
even portray a real encounter with nature; rather, pastoral poets merely idealize nature
according to their cultural biases.
Murphy exults writers as diverse as Willa Cather and Margaret Atwood, whose
protagonists are so aligned with nature that they grow toward self-realization and an
awareness oftheir own oppressions through the insights they gain in the natural world.
These women writers and others have a knack for portraying both utopias and dystopias
that grow out ofthe concerns ofenvironmentalism. Yet, Murphy is careful to stress that
ecofeminist readings are not limited to a specific body ofwriters who portray nature in a
certain way. Rather, as ecofeminists, we should "use ecofeminism as a ground for
critiquing all ofthe literature one reads" (154).
Critic Josephine Donovan, in her article "Ecofeminist Literary Criticism: Reading
the Orange," conceives ofecofeminism as critiquing the entire "ontology" ofdomination
that sets up a dominator and a dominated (161). Texts, according to Donovan, are
4
5
subjects that live and breath and exist as "thou" (162). "[Ecofeminism] liberate[s] the
'thing,' the literal, the natural the absent referent - which is conceived as a presence, a
thou" (163). She feels the critic should avoid colonizing the text and looking on a
reading with absolutist and essentialist notions. The ecofeminist critic will construct
meaning collaboratively with the text, according to Donovan. Like Murphy, she supports
allowing nature to speak and points out several writers who have done just that.
Dorothy Wordsworth, whose work has recently been uncovered, attempts to leave
nature alone and show it with a refreshing sense ofrealism. According to Donovan, this
hearkens back to Virginia Woolf's suggestion that writers leave images as they are, and
avoid distortion. As Patrick Murphy has shown, this kind oftechnique makes nature, and
not the writer, the speaker. Donovan also points to Sarah Orne Jewett and Willa Cather,
whose search for "presymbolic language" she admires (169). This is language that isn't
as loaded with human connotation, but rather conveys something pure from an object-in 
nature. These are writers whose texts have been animated, or brought to life, and they
appropriately used narrative as the mode to allow the natural other to tell her story. Like
McAndrew, Donovan feels ecofeminism is a spirituality that can transform readers and
prompt action: "The literal, constructed as a spiritual presence, will motivate people to
treat the natural world...[as] a reality" (176).
Patrick Murphy expands on much ofhis and Donovan's theory in his 1995 book,
Literature, Nature, Other: Ecofeminist Critigues. He particularly expands on his theory
that Bakhtinian dialogics can allow for the uniting ofmultiple concerns: "A triad of
(re)perceptions has appeared, which, ifintegrated, can lead toward an affirmative praxis:
6
the Bakhtinian dialogical method, ecology, and feminism" (3). Murphy argues that
feminism and environmentalism have been separated far too long, as have the concepts
oftheory and practice. Ecofeminism as a theoretical framework necessarily leads to
action. The dialogic method necessarily leads to active contact -- dialogue -- between
groups and concepts that suffer due to artificial separation. Murphy, for example,
bemoans the tension between Marxists and feminists who argue over whether issues of
class or gender should receive more attention. "Philosophical linearity" has kept the two
groups oftheorists apart, Murphy writes, "and the struggle to end both patriarchy and
capitalism needs to be placed in an even larger context: the relationship ofhumanity with
nature" (7).
The dualistic separations have kept nature writing marginalized, writes Murphy.
Even The Norton Book ofNature Writing primarily consists ofwhite, male authors.
Nature writing that tends toward passive observation, the work ofThoreau and more
recently Annie Dillard for example, gets the most exposure, Murphy argues. Thoreau and
Dillard see nature as separate from themselves; nature, in fact, is a means ofescape from
the human world in those authors' works. A more feminist model ofnature writing
would involve resisting conceptions ofnature as a primal wilderness. Murphy also
suggests that feminist nature writing would not find God through nature, but rather as
part ofnature. He praises Donna Haraway and Susan Griffin, who are able to make a
direct connection between nature, the self, and the divine. Murphy recommends
Haraway's Simians. Cyborgs. and Women: The Reinvention ofNature and Gretel Erlich's
The Solace ofOpen Spaces as titles that offer a metacritical interrogation ofthe traditional
7
methods ofexploring the natural. He also praises Gloria Anzaldua's Borderlands, which
refuses to separate the borders ofnatural territory from cultural borders.
Despite the powerful work ofsome ofthese postmodern writers, says Murphy, the
Norton collection will basically define the canon since anthologies are most commonly
taught. Murphy argues that the most heinous exclusion is Native-American writers,
particularly Native-American women. "[T]he survivors ofcontact can teach our students,
as well as us, about right ways to live in relation to the land and right ways to live with
one another" (131). Native-American women posses a different view ofnature informed
by things like the way they value the spirit, the Matrilineal manner in which they trace
descent, and the attempted genocide they've suffered. They offer a genuine critique ofthe
ways humans have treated the natural world, and they allow the elements ofnature to
communicate directly.
Literature, Nature, Other also challenges the traditional way women and nature
have been connected in literature, that is, through "Gaia," the Earth-Mother. The
connection in and ofitselfis positive, but Gaia represents stereotypical sex-typing of
Earth as a woman, Murphy says. The term carries, as Murphy puts it, "Greek patriarchal
baggage" (59). Inthe ancient Greek myth, Gaia was dominated by her sonlhusband
Uranos, the Father-Heaven. Such a connection is also anthropomorphic since it renders
Earth in human terms like 'mother' and 'woman.'
Gretchen Legler echoes many ofMurphy's concerns. In her succinct "Ecofeminist
Literary Criticism," Legler defines ecofeminism as a hybrid criticism that mixes
environmental and gender concerns for a very specific reason. She asserts that the
abuse ofthe land continues because Earth has historically been conceived ofas feminine.
Like Murphy, she calls for nature to be empowered in literature, and suggests that nature
authors both allow nature to speak and blur the concepts ofphysical and psychological
landscapes. She also calls for a new eroticism in literature, an eroticism in which the sex
act is viewed as a conversation with the land.
Two authors, Robert Sessions, and Dorceta Taylor, begin to bring a class 
consciousness to ecofeminism by means of an economic critique ofsociety. In
"Ecofeminism and Work," Sessions argues that both newspaper headlines and
conventional wisdom would lead society to collectively believe it must choose between
either saving jobs or saving the environment:
From within this system we tend to think ofeconomic values such as cost
and benefits, profits and efficiency, instead ofenvironmental values such
as biodiversity, ecosystemic health, homoeostasis or the inherent worth
ofnatural beings (176).
America, Sessions points out, will always choose jobs over the environment. Yet this is
a false dichotomy that is, in fact, quite dangerous. To illustrate his thesis, Sessions uses
the example offarms. As Marx said they would, farms have become industrialized, a
part ofbig business. This has resulted in a push toward efficiency and maximum profit.
According to Sessions, farmers have been thus put under pressure to use as much land as
possible and practice chemical farming. This has resulted in erosion and polluted water,
respectively. So in the long run, argues Sessions, farms are less profitable. An
ecofeminist understands this bigger picture, and puts forth the further argument that since
8
women and children are harmed disproportionately by pollution, the environment is
explicitly a feminist issue.
Sessions' farm example also illustrates the ways work in a capitalist society has
become what Sessions calls "dysfunctional." The push to utilize more land has squeezed
much ofthe rural population into the cities, as there is less living space in the country. In
addition to leading to overcrowding and an urban job shortage, this makes farming lonely
work. Farmers, usually men, are often alone, which breaks down a healthy familial
situation and fulfills Marx's prediction ofalienated labor. Again, this is explicitly a
feminist issue.
Sessions argues that farming isn't the only industry in which dysfunctional work
harms families. He writes that capitalism in general takes away leisure time and
dichotomizes work and play. Capitalism pushes for a longer work day to increase
productivity; leisure time is viewed as a break from the hectic work life. Sessions argues
that an ecofeminist utopia would consist ofa shorter work day, cutting down on industry
damaging the Earth and long work days damaging relationships. Such a utopia would
begin to lead to class and gender equality, and a healthier Earth, according to Sessions:
This goal has been central to a wide variety ofproposals to alter modern
work; what ecofeminism has to offer our thinking about right livelihood
(Buddhism) or unalienated labor (Marx) or new work (Bergmann) is the
link between women and nature plus a strong emphasis on caring
relationships in context (186).
Sessions concludes that ifhis ecofeminist utopia was a reality, less "insecurity" about jobs
9
10
would begin to eradicate the need to feel superior that leads to the false dichotomies
against which ecofeminism rages.
Dorceta Taylor, in "Women ofeolor, Environmental Justice, and Ecofeminism,"
adds the factor ofrace to Sessions' important discussion ofclass. She points out that
environmentalism has traditionally excluded women ofcolor, which is somewhat ironic
since damage to the Earth is often most heinous in minority neighborhoods. Taylor
praises the Environmental Justice movement, the latest stage ofdevelopment of
environmentalism, for incorporating a push for justice in terms ofthe Earth as well as race
and class and gender. Taylor criticizes the field ofecofeminism for not doing as well as
the Environmental Justice movement in "captur[ing the] complexity" ofthe concerns of
women ofcolor (63). The Justice movement, writes Taylor, revealed through tireless
research that pollution hits minority neighborhoods disproportionately, and effects the
health ofwomen and children disproportionately. The movement "broke new ground
when they began arguing that the capitalist exploitation ofresources was connected to the
degradation ofnature and women" (58).
So ecofeminism serves as a call to action to recognize that the abuse ofnature is
tied to abuses ofrace, class, and gender in very complex ways. The philosophy of
ecofeminism recognizes these multiple abuses in a non-hierarchical manner, and suggests
we live our lives in a way that reduces these abuses. This challenge is difficult for those
living in our Western society, since we are ingrained with tendencies to dichotomize man
and woman, mind and body, culture and nature, human and non-human, work and play.
As ecofeminists, we need to scrutinize these assumptions ofseparation and begin to
harmonize the two sides ofthe dichotomies.
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II. TOWARD A DEFINITION OF WORKING-CLASS LITERATURE:
BEYOND THE 30s
Let us make a somewhat radical shift away from environmental criticism and talk
about working-class studies. Such a discussion will inevitably lead us backwards,
specifically to the 1930s. However, before going back that far, let us examine the years
following the second World War. The Cold War years, with anti-Communist sentiment
running rampant, saw little study ofthe bodies ofliterature often called "proletarian," or
"working-class." Avowed writers ofthe proletarian like Mike Gold rarely ended up in a
Norton or Heath anthology. Canonical writers like John Steinbeck and John Dos Passos
maintained a high status, but their real-life, radical affiliations were often ignored as
subjects ofsignificant inquiry, and the social commentary oftheir writing was
characterized as left-leaning, but not blatantly Communist. Critics wrote during the post 
war years about the literary radicalism ofthe Great Depression era, but were careful not to
appear too enthusiastic. After the 1974 publication ofTillie Olsen's unfinished novel
Yonnondio: From the Thirties, however, working-class literature as a sub-genre began to
gain momentum.
One ofthe immediate concerns becomes defining this radical sub-genre. Working 
class literature can be defined as the pulp fiction consumed by the working-class, or the
"art as propaganda" produced by members ofthe Communist and Socialist parties and/or
the actual working-class, or as any writing portraying issues relevant to the working-class,
or some combination ofthose three. Another problematic concern is one oftime frames.
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Should critics limit themselves to studying the written works ofwriters ofthe 1930s, the
so-called "Red Decade" ofthe Great Depression? This, after all, was the era during which
most ofthe major working-class writers were working and writing.
Consider another approach. Is John Grisham's The Rainmaker a working-class
novel? Grisham, an attorney and wealthy novelist and screen writer, is clearly not a
member ofthe proletarian. The Rainmaker came out in 1995, sixty years after the
proletarian novel was at its climax. These pieces ofevidence seem to indicate that The
Rainmaker is not a working-class novel. On the other hand, the book is a contemporary
best-seller, enjoying a huge readership that cuts across class boundaries. Auto workers in
Detroit, steel workers in Pittsburgh, and cannery workers in Anchorage are much more
apt to read Grisham than, say, Tillie Olsen.
Furthermore, the novel's plot has numerous working-class themes. The young
lawyer Rudy Baylor, fresh out oflaw school, comes from humble Southern roots and
works his way through school as a waiter. His first case involves an insurance dispute
between a poor Memphis family and an evil corporation. The David and Goliath plot
(itself a narrative feature common to working-class literature) allows Baylor to bankrupt
the insurance company. Disillusioned, Baylor's first case is his last case; he swears he'll
never again practice law (not unlike the protagonist in Grisham's The Firm). Baylor is a
classic proletarian hero. He defeats the capitalists and valiantly refuses any ofthe spoils.
A sub-plot surrounds Baylor's romantic interest, a woman whose alienated, blue-collar
husband beats her.
I bring up this example partly to illustrate how complicated it is to develop a strict
14
definition ofworking-class literature. Grisham deals with some complex class and gender
issues. Characters in The Rainmaker move between classes in interesting ways; those of
lower classes break into the middle-class and the rich suffer socio-economic downfalls.
Readers get a glimpse ofthe complicated ways corporations prey on poor neighborhoods;
the evil insurance company sells bad policies door-to-door, and ignores all claims in hopes
their "ignorant" customers will give up. Rudy Baylor's character elicits an emotive
response; we want him to triumph over the insurance company. Readers ofThe
Rainmaker witness domestic violence every bit as graphic and sobering as readers of
Yonnondio. Grisham, like Olsen, even connects domestic violence with the deadening
monotony ofcertain types ofwork. I would conclude that desite Grisham's own status,
his novel is definitely working-class.
Notice that in making the case that Grisham's book is working-class, I used as the
standard Tillie Olsen. This hints at the importance ofthe 1930s novel in any definition of
working-class literature. I would argue that in setting up parameters for what is working 
class literature, we ought not limit ourselves to novels ofthe Great Depression. However,
working-class literature really did see its peak during the 1930s. So working-class
literature certainly includes at its core the literature ofthe "Red Decade" (Agnes
Smedley's Daughter ofEarth, Tillie Olsen's Yonnondio to name just a few). However, it
also includes the work that clearly influenced this era (Life in the Iron Mills by Rebecca
Harding Davis) as well as later work influenced by the proletarian era or writing that
echoes its themes (The Rainmaker, probably neither political nor realistic, could possibly
be included in this list if only for establishing empathy; as could the work ofcontemporary
15
poet Jim Daniels, who I will deal with later). In my conception, working-class literature
doesn't have to be written by members ofthe working-class, or even necessarily
consumed'by the working-class. These parameters would exclude far too many pieces of
politically-charged literature. However, working-class literature must be political and
genuinely portray issues ofrelevance to the class struggle. This genuine portrayal may
take the form ofa realistic novel about workers, or a poem that exaggerates a set of
working conditions or home life conditions. The point is, the representation ofworking 
class issues must be sympathetic.
Having laid down a working (pardon the pun) definition ofworking-class
literature, let us examine some ofthe working-class literary criticism the academy has
produced. Barbara Foley's Radical Representations seems like a logical starting point.
Foley also wrestles with the question ofdefining working-class literature, and writes that
the body ofwriting can be written either by, for, or about the working-class. However,
working-class literature, according to Foley, must advance class consciousness and be
politically leftist. She limits her discussion to 1930s proletarian fiction, and describes the
leftist literary movement as reactionary. The academy ofthe time possessed an "apolitical
aesthetic" and resisted the inclusion oftoo many ideas and ideals in literature (3). Rather,
mainstream academia subscribed to the Jamesian notion of"show, don't tell," which meant
fiction should be opaque, never didactic.
Some leftist novels, writes Foley, were initially well-received, but mainstream
critics began to bash them for moralizing, for doing too much telling rather than showing.
Since leftists were using their art as a class weapon, critics berated them for subordinating
16
the quality oftheir work to their political ideology. Yet this was the nature ofpolitical
novels, they were out to make a point and to advance their agenda. Further, argues Foley,
their political nature did not, in and ofitself, lessen the quality ofthe fiction. The legacy
ofMcCarthyism and the Cold War, according to Foley, has left the academy with an
unfairly sour view ofproletarian fiction. Many 1930s radical novels not only provide
windows into the leftist culture ofthe time, they are also good books.
Another reason why proletarian fiction is often underrated is that critics agree that
modernism represents the highest level ofwriting ofthe time. Critics say that modernist
writing was highly experimental while working-class literature stuck to realism, which
placed a limitation on its achievement. Foley, however, counters with the argument that
while writers like Dreiser and Cather did stick to realism, John Dos Passos was highly
experimental, and was definitely a modernist. In fact, the editorial boards ofleftist
publications like New Masses and Partisan Review encouraged experimentation, writes
Foley. Michael Gold praised Joyce's Ulysses for using its experimental, convoluted style
to represent the destruction ofcapitalism. The radical literature scene surpassed
mainstream modernism in establishing an international literary movement. Agnes
Smedley, John Steinbeck, and others were translated into Russian and enjoyed a modest
success overseas. The leftist journal International Literature allowed the United States
and Soviet Union to mutually influence one another's literary movements.
There existed at times a contentious relationships between Marxist critics and
Marxist creative writers. The critics -- including Philip Rahv, Joshua Kunitz, and Isidor
Schneider -- were by and large a homogenous group ofeducated, Jewish, male New
17
Yorkers. The novelists, however, included miners, drillers, steel workers, and
homemakers, from all over. As early as 1926, New Masses had issued a call to members
ofthe proletarian to record their experiences. Richard Wright, Jack Conroy, and Smedley
answered this call and began to document often semi-biographical/semi-autobiographical
lives in the form offiction. In these early days ofthe movement, the value ofworking 
class literature was determined primarily on authorship. The more proletarian the author,
the better the story, writes Foley:
The class was extended to considerations ofliterary style, and in assigning
value to texts by authors with limited literary education, the leftists can be
seen as making a statement against elitism (91).
In the 1930s, the movement began to also accept texts by middle-class authors with left 
leaning politics. Although leftist critics praised, for example, Jack London for reaching a
wide, working-class readership, authorship was a greater factor than audience in
evaluating the value ofa given text.
Most ofthese novels, even those well-received by critics and the general press,
only sold a few thousand copies, causing bourgeois critics to claim that real working-class
literature is comprised ofonly pulp romances and westerns. However, writes Foley, sales
figures are misleading since many working-class readers couldn't afford hard-cover
novels. Foley writes, "Empirical findings regarding the size and composition ofactual
audiences functioned as a spur for heightened activity" (109). Many people used libraries
and passed around a single copy ofa novel. Popular proletarian novels would be passed
around at work -- as well as at the new worker's theaters and traveling collectives which
18
were springing up.
So leftist critics were evaluating texts primarily based on the perspective ofthe
author. It was essential to have a revolutionary goal, to be "red," but the mainstream
academy began to criticize the worker's movement for ignoring aesthetic value. This
caused proletarian literary critics to shy away from this mindset in favor ofsubject matter
as the primary criteria ofevaluation. Mainly, they questioned the accuracy and detail of
workplace settings described in worker novels. Unfortunately, leftist novels grew
somewhat formulaic, at times being reduced to cliches like radical, unrealistic conversions.
"Stock characters, formulaic plots, and a programmatic optimism" sometimes reduced the
quality ofthe work, writes Foley (129).
The establishment by the mid-1930s was still charging leftists with producing
propaganda masquerading as art. Marxists countered by saying that all writing is basically
propaganda, but were forced to shift toward including politics as subtext, that is, making
the political message less explicit. Marxist critics, writes Foley, began to call for straight
numes1S:
The strongly antididactic aesthetic theory espoused by the 1930s Marxists
gave a contradictory message to proletarian writers: their texts were to be
used as weapons in the class struggle but should not too closely resemble
weapons (159).
Still, writers remained committed to the class struggle.
One downside to the movement's vigilance toward issues ofclass was that
women's issues were not deemed as being as important. Women, according to Foley,
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were often charged with supporting their hard-working husbands, and raising class 
conscious children:
Sex roles in the conventional nuclear family furnished a ground on which
to base working-class political activism, rather than a target for political
critique (219).
Foley alludes here to the potential for novels to critique not only the socio-economic
conditions, but women's places within those socio-economic realities. Still, in the pages
ofleftist journals, one could find sexist cartoons and non-fiction pieces that considered
"worker" to be synonymous with "male." Agnes Smedley received critical acclaim for the
most part, but she was also accused ofwriting too much like a woman. Despite the
sexism, women were heavily involved in every aspect ofthe movement, from organizing
strikes to producing some ofthe best proletarian fiction. Party theorists, writes Foley,
began to critique sexism as an integral part ofcapitalism and all its evils. Female writers
like Tillie Olsen beautifully "link[ed] women's liberation with class emancipation" (235).
Child rearing was portrayed as an oppressive form oflabor, domestic violence an element
and/or result ofworker alienation. Thanks to women writers ofthe time, public and
private realms began to merge into one, writes Foley, resulting in a "collective dimension"
oflife that seems very appropriate to the movement's goals.
Foley also describes how the novel, long associated with bourgeois individualism,
as a form had to struggle to convey working-class collectivism. Writers searched for
techniques that would contest middle-class values, figuring that radical politics called for a
radical form. Settling on realism, proletarian writers took chances by avoiding easy
20
resolution and sappy romance and any hint ofsolitary drive. Although, according to
Foley, Althusser and Barthes criticized realism for being egotistical, subjective, and even
authoritarian, many continue to recognize that proletarian writers represented their radical
politics with a fresh, radical form. Foley goes on to describe several ofthose radical
forms.
The first is fictional autobiography and a prime example is Daughter ofEarth by
Agnes Smedley. This form typically portrays a narrator who is educated and in tum seeks
to educate the reader about class warfare. Fictional autobiographies like Smedley's are
laden with testimony that is meant to prompt action. Marie Rogers in Daughter ofEarth
becomes a spokesperson through both her voice and her actions. Presumably, what
happens to the narrator is generalizable to a wide audience, that is, many can identify with
the struggles described therein.
The next form that Foley describes is the proletarian bildungsroman, in which the
protagonist starts out naive, but goes through a test and comes out strong. This form can
be called bourgeoisie because the protagonist is often a solitary hero, but in working-class
examples, the lesson learned is a political one, which prompts a conversion. Examples
include William Cunningham's The Green Com Rebellion and Myra Page's Daughter of
the Hills. More common still is the proletarian social novel, which portrays a collective of
protagonists, which usually belong to a partisan organization like a union. Among the
many proletarian social novels are William Attaway's Blood on the Forge and Jack
Conroy's A World to Win. Finally, Foley describes the collective novel, which goes one
step further. In this form, a group acts as a single entity with a single consciousness.
21
Often the group either suffers together, or is converted to the left together, or both.
Examples include Josephine Johnson's Jordanstown and William Rollins' The Shadow
Before.
Walter Rideout's The Radical Novel in the US: 1900-1954 also seeks to
categorize proletarian fiction. In the nineteenth century, he writes, the workplace
conditions during the Industrial Revolution led to pieces like Rebecca Harding Davis' Life
in the Iron Mills and other representations oflife at work. When the writings ofMarx
gained an international readership, the agenda ofmuch writing about work took on a new
dimension. In 1887, Edward and Eleanor Marx Auerling, after touring America, issued a
call for an "Uncle Tom's Cabin ofcapitalism" (Rideout 10). Rideout writes about the two
waves ofproletarian fiction in the twentieth century in which writers "express through the
literary form ofthe novel a predominantly Marxist point ofview toward society" (3). The
first wave occurred shortly after the tum ofthe century, and consisted primarily of
investigative muckraking. Upton Sinclair's The Jungle used not only realism, but material
gained by going undercover into meatpacking houses in Chicago.
Socialism and communism were gaining momentum and spawning a cultural
movement. Publications like The Comrade sprang up and began to include fiction that
would clearly be considered proletarian in terms ofpolitics, authorship, and subject matter.
These first-wave forms included sermons, epistolary novels, and utopias, all ofwhich
utilized harsh realism. These pieces offiction had revolutionary goals and their dialogue
served as a mouthpiece for radical thought, Rideout asserts. Again, the vast majority of
these first-wave authors had working-class roots. Upton Sinclair was raised in Baltimore
22
by working-class parents who were displaced by the ante-bellum economy ofthe deep
south. Sinclair witnessed his father drink himself to death. Sinclair underwent an early
conversion to socialism and returned to the conversion theme in The Jungle. His novel,
writes Rideout, helped push through legislation that led to the Pure Food and Drug Act of
1906.
Similarly, Jack London was heavily influenced by The Communist Manifesto and
wrote, according to Rideout, nineteen hours a day. He was clearly on a mission.
London's The Iron Heel, a strike novel, serves as an illustration ofhis revolutionary
fervor. Though most ofhis work was commercially successful, The Iron Heel was viewed
as too violent by many members ofthe movement, which "reflects the faith ofthe Party's
moderate majority in a peaceful tninsformation ofsociety" (Rideout 53). Toward the end
ofthe first wave, some authors began to veer away from realism. George Allen England's
1915 novel The Air Trust portrayed a monopolizing billionaire deciding he would control
the air.
The Roaring Twenties, ofcourse, saw an economic boom and little working-class
fiction was subsequently produced, writes Rideout. This was the end ofthe first wave.
Some notable exceptions include Dorothy Day, famous as the leader ofthe Catholic
Worker's Movement. Day, a Chicago socialist, worked for publications like The Call and
The Masses. Day's The Eleventh Virgin portrays a semi-autobiographical protagonist
who familiarizes herself with several leftist groups but never actually joins one; in the end,
she decides to settle down with a husband and abandon her radical ways. The novel
serves as an example ofhow the decade was less radical. Upton Sinclair continued to
23
produce proletarian fiction (Boston, 100%) during the 1920s, as did Max Eastman
(Venture).
The Great Depression, writes Rideout, ushered in the second wave ofproletarian
fiction in the United States:
[I]n October, 1929, when the prestige ofthe American businessman began
dropping as decisively, ifnot so suddenly, as the quoted price ofstock in
American Telephone and Telegraph. Then, almost by displacement, the
prestige ofthe Left at last began to rise once more (135).
Rideout stresses that as the depression was beginning here in America, the Soviet
economy was booming. Marxism seemed to be an explanation as well as a goal for many
and the 1930s quickly became the so-called Red Decade. The class struggle became an
instant source ofconflict for would-be writers, and many joined the movement.
Publications with socialist ideals became poputar as did works like Smedley's Daughter of
Earth and Michael Gold's Jews Without Money, both among the finest proletarian novels.
Like the first wave, the 1930s literary movement relied heavily on realism. According to
Rideout, stories ofeducation and the linking ofpublic and personal revolutions (for
example, works that rejected sexual repression and traditional sexual mores) also thrived.
Rideout writes that critics often had a negative response to second-wave
proletarian fiction, claiming the movement's writers were "artists in uniform" (165). The
phrase carries the double meaning ofproducing cookie-cutter, formulaic books, and
subjugating aesthetic quality to political agenda. For all the similarities between the two
waves Rideout describes, second-wave proletarian writers tended to be more radical than
24
their first-wave counterparts. Second-wave writers, according to Rideout, saw the class
struggle as more ofa war, and at times felt violent overthrow was justified. Second-wave
proletarian novels consisted ofstrike novels like Sherwood Anderson's Beyond Desire,
conversion novels like Jack Conroy's The Disinherited, 'bottom dog' novels (about those
low on the socio-economic ladder) like the appropriately-named Bottom Dogs by Edward
Dahlberg, and novels portraying the decay ofthe middle class like James Farrell's Studs
Lonigan trilogy. The name ofDahlberg's novel doubtless served as the inspiration for
Bottom Dog Press, a contemporary working-class press in Ohio.
In the late 1930s, according to Rideout, Spain came into international focus, and
many leftists turned their attention from abolishing capitalism to simply abolishing fascism.
Though many literary figures empathized and at times were even involved with the
struggle in Spain, few used the struggle as subject matter. Rideout also writes about how
the Cold War "Red scare" forced proletarian writers ofthe later part ofthe century like
Chester Himes to be less explicit. He uses the example ofNorman Mailer's The Naked
and the Dead, which serves as a post-war critique on capitalism that deliberately avoids an
in-your-face, didactic approach.
Alan Wald updates the work ofRideout and Foley in his essay "The 1930s Left in
U.S. Literature Reconsidered." Wald sees the proletarian movement as having relevance
in the 1990s, since "the democratizing social and cultural movements ofour own day are
very much indebted" to the 1930s left (15). The mission ofmuch scholarship ofthe 1990s
has been about raising new questions and new types ofquestions, as well as developing
new frameworks. Wald asserts that such an environment provides the perfect opportunity
25
to revisit an era considered radical. Today we are learning about culture(s) by means of
various types oftexts, including but going beyond academic texts.
So in revisiting the radical culture ofthe 1930s, writes Wald, we can look at more
than just the "kinds oftexts traditionally seen as the site[s] ofliterary value or as the kind
usually generating radical and resistant cultural practice" (18). An example would be the
detective novels ofChester Himes. We are also avoiding binaries in the 1990s, Wald
writes, providing the opportunity to look beyond the 1930s splits between realism and
modernism, and communist and non-communist. Wald stresses that the 1990s is an ideal
time to revisit the radical decade since today we're seeing, for example, backlashes against
feminism and multiculturalism, a movement against political correctness, and the
persistence ofhomophobia.
26
III. INTERSECTIONS OF ECOFEMINISM AND WORKING-CLASS STUDIES
In the most general terms, ecofeminism is a theory and working-class literature is a
body ofcreative writing. It is important to stress that these are general terms. There is, of
course ecofeminist literature. Likewise, critics could very well approach a given piece of
writing (again, John Grisham's The Rainmaker comes to mind) from a working-class
studies perspective. Still, ecofeminism is primarily a theoretical framework, not unlike
Marxist criticism or feminist criticism, that provides a method by which readers and critics
approach a text. Specifically, ecofeminism calls for the audience ofa text to identify
elements ofnature as autonomous characters, and investigate how those ecological
elements interact with humans. Working-class literature, on the other hand, is primarily a
body ofwriting, a way to group together and categorize the large amount ofliterature that
societies have produced.
Having spent a great deal ofenergy defining the subfields ofecofeminism and
working-class literature, and outlining some ofthe major pieces ofsecondary criticism, I
would like to briefly sketch the locations ofintersection between the two subjects. There
exist a great many similarities between the two, some ofwhich are implicit just in reading
the preceding literature reviews. However, I would like to make those connections
explicit in order to justify why I feel ecofeminism is an appropriate theory by which to read
working-class literature. Such a theoretical reading, I feel, reveals a deeper social message
in a great deal ofthe writing ofthe working-class. Further, study ofthe two fields in
conjunction has the potential to increase the relevance ofEnglish studies. Let's examine
27
the similarities
(1.) Real-World Praxis
First ofall, both ecofeminism and working-class studies foster a move beyond the
classroom and into the real world. Ecofeminism not only provides a way to read a text, it
also provides a way to be inspired by a text. Readers can potentially walk away from a
piece ofwriting, looked at from an ecofeminist viewpoint, ready to change their worlds.
Ecofeminism is simultaneously a theory, a spirituality, and a way oflife. In studying
ecofeminism, the opportunities for instructors to make material relevant are endless.
Lessons about everything from recycling to political action can be extracted from texts.
Political activism and community service can be combined with literary study, perhaps in
the context ofan interdisciplinary course. Students can gain greater critical literacy, long
a goal ofmany in English studies. Further, they could walk away from an English class
more prepared to actively participate in a democracy.
Similarly, working-class studies lends itselfto real-world action. In reading
working-class literature, students have the opportunity to connect subject matter with
their own lives. They can examine their own classes, the work history oftheir families,
and how society as they've experienced it has exhibited class bias and discrimination. Like
with ecofeminism, courses can combine literary study with a critical examination of
society, and perhaps even political activity. Labor studies and working-class studies seems
to thrive in geographical areas with blue-collar roots because ofthe ability to connect
material with students' lives. A working-class literature course can potentially produce
28
students that have a deeper understanding ofhow class affects so many different layers of
society. More importantly, students can walk away from a class ready to actively
participate in how society continuously assigns class roles.
(2.) Resistance ofhierarchies
Ecofeminism centers around more than just ecology, comprising an inclusive belief
in putting an end to abuse. As writers like Patrick Murphy have shown, ecofeminism does
not seek to privilege any issue. Class is given the same amount ofweight as gender and
race and the human/non-human dualism. In short, all issues are looked upon as equal and,
in fact, as contributing to one another. Class and race, for example, are so intertwined
that they ought not be examined without one another. Ecofeminism seeks to avoid putting
these multiple facets ofthe culture into a hierarchy. Ecofeminists have observed the
damage that such a hierarchy can create, and want to avoid squabbling among like 
thinking individuals who can grow more powerful ifunited.
Just as one might assume that ecofeminists are only concerned with nature and
gender, one might similarly think that scholars ofworking-class studies are only interested
in class -- or a least that they privilege class over other concerns. Yet this is not the case.
Working-class literature provides a window not only into blue-collar life, but also how
class effects gender and race. It is no coincidence that The Feminist Press has become a
major outlet for working-class titles by Jo Sinclair, Agnes Smedley, and Rebecca Harding
Davis. Tillie Olsen is perhaps better known as a feminist writer than as a working-class
writer. Similarly, working-class novels by African-American writers like Chester Himes,
29
Ralph Ellison, and Alice Walker -- to name only a few -- have brilliantly captured race in
the twentieth century. As a field, working-class studies recognizes that class can not be
examined in a vacuum.
(3.) The Canon's Continuous Revision
Both ecofeminism and working-class studies as subfields continuously seek to
challenge the canon ofliterature, notorious for its exclusion of(as I noted in my abstract)
any writer not dead, white, male, and upper-class. The notion that the canon, what is
studied in college literature classes and included in academic literature anthologies, was a
fixed entity once permeated English studies. Now, many in academia recognize the canon
first ofall as being fallible and imperfect and biased, and second ofall as being a work-in 
progress that ought to be interrogated and revised. In short, the canon is always under
construction. Ecofeminism and working-class studies have contributed extensively to
canon construction.
Ecofeminists have fought for recognition ofnature writing that considers Earth a
speaking subject, that resists traditional pastoral modes. They have championed Native 
American and Chicano/Chicana writers. They have fostered interest in postmodem
science fiction that has challenged barriers between human and non-human, as well as
natural and synthetic. These are all areas ofliterature whose presence in the canon is
dubious at best. Yet ecofeminists have fought as hard in the canon wars as they have in
the wars ofthe ecological movement.
In the same vein, working-class literature has exposed more writers that were
30
long-ignored in the page ofacademic journals and anthologies and literature course
reading lists. Working-class studies has advanced the notion that proletarian writing in the
1930s represents some ofthe highest literary achievement ofthe first half ofthe twentieth
century. Writers in the two recent volumes ofpoetry about work from the University of
Illinois Press have expanded the subject matter for "good" poetry, attempted to rescue
poetry in the 1990s from obscurity, and at times even modified the very definition of
contemporary poetry. Students in a working-class literature course are likely to encounter
writers they've never read before.
(4.) Cultural Studies Approach
Finally, it should be noted, both ecofeminism and the study ofworking-class
literature lend themselves to a cultural studies approach. Again, we observe the two fields
challenging traditional practices ofEnglish studies. As Anthony Easthope shows,
traditional literary studies merely looked at a text and attempted to evaluate its aesthetic
quality. Easthope asserts that literary studies was "developed during the 1930s as a means
to deflect the contemporary challenge ofMarxism" (7). This model had critics examining
pieces ofwriting as sole objects. Recently, literary studies has given way to cultural
studies, which examines texts as artifacts ofa larger culture. Instead oflooking at a
culture to tell us more about a text, cultural critics look at texts to tell them more about a
culture. Easthope writes: "One way to understand the paradigm shift away from literary
study might be to view it as just a return ofthe repressed, accompanied by a radical
politics and concern with...oppressions" (7).
31
Both ecofeminism and working-class studies are by their very nature political, thus
inviting a cultural studies approach. More at their core, they also have the potential to
teach us about our culture, as well as past cultures and foreign cultures. Ecofeminist
writing can teach us about the ecological movement and about the ways various societies
have treated their natural worlds. Native-American poetry, for example, often considered
ecofeminist, teaches society about Native-American rituals, religion, and relationship with
nature. Working-class literature, likewise, can teach us about the Red Decade, and the
leftist culture the decade spawned. Going farther back, The Jungle can be studied in
conjunction with tum-of-the-century legislature involving the workplace. Contemporary
working-class poetry can be used along with other media to learn about our attitudes
toward work in the 1990s.
I have argued that both ofthese important, political subfields ofEnglish invite real 
world action, resist hierarchies ofoppression, continuously revise the canon, and lend
themselves to a cultural studies approach. Hopefully, these four intersections illuminate
the reasons why working-class literature ought to be combined with ecofeminism. After
all, isn't the transformation ofEnglish studies into something more relevant, something
more inclusive, and something that can be used to learn about cultures a worthy goal?
The following chapter will tackle this question ofrelevance, and discuss the work ofa
contemporary poet who I feel is, above all, relevant: working-class poet Jim Daniels.
32
IV. JIM DANIELS IN AN AGE OF PROSE
Let us look at an example of a writer ofworking-class literature and examine his
relevance. Working-class poet Jim Daniels writes in an accessible idiom about familiar
issues ofblue-collar work and blue-collar family life. As such, his poetry maintains
relevance outside the academy where poets tend to remain sheltered. Widely published
and with an exciting, immediately-recognizable style, Daniels has proven himself during
the last fifteen years to be a viable force in American poetry who will likely enter into the
canon ofAmerican literature. A closer look at his work and career reveals Daniels as an
ideal case study for poet and critic Dana Gioia's marketing plan for contemporary poetry.
Gioia describes the ways poetry has lost relevance in contemporary American culture.
Proactive and utilitarian, he also lays out steps that poets can take to better market
themselves and their writing. In many ways, Jim Daniels resists the kind ofirrelevance
against which Gioia rages. Daniels also embodies many ofGioia's marketing suggestions.
In his critical essay "Can Poetry Matter?," Dana Gioia points out that poetry is
"the specialized occupation ofa relatively small and isolated group. Little ofthe frenetic
activity it generates ever reaches outside that closed group" (1). The closed group that
Gioia describes exists almost exclusively in English departments ofcolleges and
universities. He bemoans the fact that the audience for poetry consists mainly ofother
poets. This trend in poetry's audience signifies that poetry has lost a great deal ofits
cultural significance. In short, poetry doesn't matter as much as it should and to as many
people as it should. For example, Gioia writes, general interest periodicals never review
33
collections ofpoetry.
In order to matter, poems must appeal to something in the society:
Without a broader role in the culture, however, talented poets lack
the confidence to create public speech. Occasionally, a writer links
up rewardingly to a social or political movement (Gioia 11).
Gioia wishes that more poets played roles in facets ofsociety other than university English
departments. He reasons that they would write less poetry about merely their feelings and
their lives as poets and teachers. Instead, such poets might write verse that resonates with
people who don't do the same as thing as them. Poems would thus go beyond the
subculture and reach a wider audience. To accomplish this, according to Gioia, poets
should read the work ofothers at readings, juxtapose the performance ofpoetry with
other art forms, write more critical prose, anthologize only verse they really like, teach
students to perform poetry instead ofjust analyzing it, and use the medium ofradio.
Another ofGioia's essays, "Business and Poetry," questions why poetry tends to
avoid the "public institutions that dominate American life [and] the situations that
increasingly typify it" (114). He writes that work is generally seen from the position ofan
outsider, not an insider. Despite the numerous examples ofmajor poets who had careers
in business, like Wallace Stevens and T.S. Eliot, few have chosen to write about the office,
even though the workplace is a subject that could potentially resonate with readers.
"Most American poetry has little in common with the world outside ofliterature," Gioia
writes (127). Gioia feels that, as such, poets pass up prime opportunities to make
important cultural statements. Thus society has a stereotyped but partially-accurate image
34
ofthe poet as bohemian and/or academic, someone who can't or won't hold a regular job.
Jim Daniels, meanwhile, has held several jobs, jobs which he transforms into the
subject matter ofhis poetry. He addresses relevant topics that have meaning for a
working-class audience. Gioia asserts that poets ought to involve themselves in social or
political movements; Daniels does just that. His agenda revolves around demystifying
blue-collar life. In his autobiographical essay "Troubleshooting: Poetry, the Factory, and
the University," Daniels describes growing up in Detroit and its working-class suburbs,
where no one in his family or neighborhood ever talked about working in automotive
factories. He wants to bring the issues that arise from a monotonous life on the assembly
line out into the open. In graduate school, Daniels writes, "the people I knew the best and
cared about the most were not showing up in what I was reading" (90). This comment
reflects Gioia's assertion that poetry has lost relevance for most people. Daniels decided
to write poetry that would be relevant.
One could argue that Daniels writes about factory life as an outsider, or even a
colonizer, and that he writes for a traditional, academic audience. After all, he presently
teaches English at Carnegie Mellon University and publishes his poems in literary journals
and university presses. However, Daniels grew up an insider, and worked his way through
college at Ford Motor Company's Sterling Axle Plant. In IfBusiness and Poetry," Gioia
dreams ofbusiness people writing poems from the inside ofthe workplace. That is exactly
what Daniels did. In "Troubleshooting: Poetry, the Factory, and the University," he
describes jotting down images and the beginnings ofpoems while standing on the
assembly line at the plant. It would be difficult to prove that Daniels appeals to a radically
35
different audience, but in his autobiographical essay, he describes his father selling copies
ofhis first book at the factory's Christmas open house. So at least to an extent, Daniels
has reached a wider population.
Jim Daniels brings a fresh aesthetic to his career as a poet. He obtained the
credentials to get a tenure-track position right out ofhis master's program thanks to his
hard-working background:
Many ofthe other graduate students were not sending their work out.
There's a literary and artistic tradition ofnot appearing to pursue
success too aggressively. It's considered crass. In my family, it's
considered laziness. The work ethic my father instilled in me drove
me ("Troubleshooting" 92).
From a young age, Daniels wrestled with the staleness and irrelevance ofpoetry that Gioia
criticizes. Daniels did a great deal ofwriting, but resisted calling it poetry since the poetry
he had read "didn't make any connections to my life" (88). Eventually, he realized poems
could potentially deliver him from the drudgery ofthe factory. In college, he decided his
writing could give voice to the issues ofthe working-class that usually remained silent.
He also saw as his mission to clear up some ofthe misconceptions the academy had ofthe
working-class.
Finally he wanted to challenge the notion ofwhat belonged in a poem. He wanted
poems to do more, to possess what Dana Gioia calls "cultural significance." Poems had
too much civility and were too genteel. He wanted to portray honesty. In
"Troubleshooting," he remembers Robert Bly visiting Alma College, where he got his
36
bachelor's. Several Alma professors showed Bly his poetry and Bly critiqued Daniels
harshly for not developing enough metaphors and deep images. Interestingly, Bly is a poet
on whom Gioia's ax falls particularly hard. Daniels saw the Bly school ofthought to be
irrelevant to his cultural goals:
The whole idea ofdeep images seemed absurd to me in the context of
the hectic, grueling factory. That kind ofcontemplation seemed like
an incredible luxury (Troubleshooting 90).
Instead of deep imagery, which Daniels associated with leisure time, something the
characters in his poems had very little of, Daniels turned to realism and stark, blunt, easily 
understood language. So Daniels not only uses accessible language for the sake ofclarity,
he also uses language that more deeply signifies the characters he creates.
One ofGioia's suggestions for the success ofcontemporary poetry is that poets
mix their written words with other art forms. Daniels does this in several interesting ways.
On his collection titled Punching Out, the cover portrays one ofthe panels of"Detroit
Industry," a series oftwenty-seven frescos by Diego Rivera. "Detroit Industry" covers
several walls in the entrance atrium ofthe Detroit Institute ofArts and was commissioned
by the Ford family, who wanted Rivera to capture the automotive industry in a positive
manner. So the piece ofart is an immediate, familiar marker for those from the Detroit
area. Rivera painted scenes ofworkers on the assembly lines, scenes which capture the
hard work in a noble but critical manner. The faces ofthe workers in the paintings convey
dignity and a solid work ethic, but also exhaustion and at times disfigurement. In the
many faces in the frescos, Rivera even hid several Soviets, suggesting a not-so-subtle
37
socialist critique ofthe industry. In many ways, Daniels offers a similar critique and his
poems show automotive workers in the same way; his characters are dignified but also
pained.
The five sections ofPunching Out begin with other sorts ofoddly-artistic
renderings. For example, the title page ofthe first section, "Basic Training," shows safety
warning sings from the factory. They carry slogans like IlYOUR safety is OUR business"
and IlDaydreams Can Cause NIGHTMARES," slogans that are ironic and poetic in their
own ways (11). The third section ofPunching Out begins with a newspaper clipping that
reports an incident in which two auto workers beat an Asian man to death at a nightclub
because they Ilblamed him for the industry's joblessness" (47). The book takes on an
almost pastiche quality, and almost a multi-media format, combining Daniels' poetry with
images from Rivera's frescos and the various representations used on section title pages.
As Gioia predicted, such a juxtaposition keeps the work exciting.
Gioia also stresses the importance ofperformance in reclaiming poetry as a vibrant
art. Daniels' words appear like they're meant to be performed, not merely read, and
certainly not merely analyzed. Consider as an example his poem "Signing" from Punching
Out. IlSigning" consists ofeighteen common messages that assembly line workers
communicate to one another by means ofgesture since the noise level there is so loud.
The poem lists each message followed by instructions on how to sign the message. The
gestures are realistic as well as humorous, and are obviously meant to be gestured. The
poem is quite literally physical, and Daniels both reads and gestures the poem at readings.
The punch line comes in the poem's final line: Ilfuck you: you know that one" (56). On
38
one level, the poem provides a humorous glimpse into the automotive factory. On another
level, Daniels includes communications that suggest the hierarchy ofpositions on the line,
a common theme in his work. For example, the sign for "foreman coming" is to "tighten a
tie," which suggests the difference in position between line worker and foreman (56). This
poem also illustrates how Daniels constantly pushes the proverbial envelope on what
constitutes proper subject matter for poetry. Resisting the gentility ofbourgeois poetry,
he doesn't shy away from including the phrase "fuck you." Dana Gioia wrote that poems
should be speak to something relevant in the culture. Not only is "Signing" relevant, it's
something real. On hearing or reading "Signing," one has no doubt these gestures are
taken right offthe line and into a poem. Again, the subject matter resonates for many
readers.
"Short-order Cook," from Daniels' first book PlaceslEveryone, provides a similar
illustration. This poem, which narrates a heroic short-order cook filling a particularly
large take-out order, is also clearly meant to be performed. The poem drips frantic energy
and immediately puts the reader, or listener, in the diner where the poem takes place.
Even reading a few lines ofthe poem to oneself, it is easy to become breathless:
It is the crucial point --
they are ready for the cheese:
my fingers shake as I tear offslices
toss them on the burgers/fries done/dump/
refill buckets/burgers ready/flip into buns/
beat that melting cheese/wrap burgers in plastic/
39
into paper bags/fries done/dump/fill thirty bags/
bring them to the counter/wipe sweat on sleeve (61, slashes in original).
The energy level of"Short-order Cook" is as high as the energy level ofthe cook
described therein. One wonders whether to pause or speed along when encountering
Daniels'slashes. The tendency appears to be to speed through them. Daniels ingeniously
uses both the language and punctuation marks to suggest the pace ofhis character. Like
"Signing," the poem is full of gestures, ofhumorous small-scale actions that beg to be
mimed. Again, the reader encounters unusual subject matter -- but subject matter that
likely resonates for many readers, especially many readers outside ofthe academy.
Mainly, these two poems show how crucial performance is to the poetry ofJim Daniels.
The primary way in which Jim Daniels illustrates the concepts ofDana Gioia is
through the language ofhis poetry. As in "Signing" and "Short-order Cook," the language
remains fresh and surprising, thanks to the honesty, which is captured in a down-to-earth
idiom, an idiom that consists ofa lack ofluxury. As Daniels explained in
"Troubleshooting," his poems and his characters can't afford deep images and metaphors
(though they do occasionally splurge). Rather, he presents honest images and honest
narrations ofworking-class life in and around Detroit. Gioia never explicitly called for
simple language, but Daniels uses just that to give his work the broad kind ofcultural
significance for which Gioia issued a call. While "Business and Poetry" said that
relevance might come from executives, in Daniels the relevance comes instead from
factory workers and other working-class heros.
Consider "Where I'm At: Factory Education," from Punching Out (15). Daniels
40
provides a tight, concise narration ofa young employee's inundation to factory life. The
poem is in free verse, but flows very musically; its words jive conversationally. Three
distinct voices appear in the poem: that ofthe narrator Digger, the foreman Santino, and
an Mrican-American co-worker named Spooner. On the surface, Digger gives a vivid
description of where he is, that is, at the factory learning the job. However, a closer look
reveals a deeper significance in the poem's title. The three voices in the poem suggest the
importance ofplace, ofposition in the factory's hierarchy. The foreman's words, short
and instructive ("After the machine cuts the tubes / hang them on these hooks"), are very
different than Spooner's, which are confrontational and enhanced by rich dialect (what's
the big hurry, boy?").
The story narrated in the poem also concerns itself with place. Digger is not
merely educated by Santino on how to work on the assembly line. He also learns the
tricks ofthe trade from Spooner. His factory education is all about learning his place,
where he's at. Spooner and his other co-workers teach him that he doesn't have to sweat
and work as hard as management want him to work. Rather, they teach him about the
resistance ofthe factory workers. They teach him to slack, to ignore Santino, to refuse to
do any job that's not explicitly his own. In fact, Spooner and the others make his place as
a line worker very clear to Digger:
Later, Spooner grabs me by the neck
pushes my head against the machine.
Old Green shouts into my face:
You ain't supposed to go get Santino,
41
he's got to find you, dig? (15, italics in original)
Everyone in the factory has got a clearly-defined role and the role ofthe worker is to resist
management. Daniels ironically portrays Santino in a t-shirt that reads "Your Safety is
Our Business," but as Digger learns, his safety depends on him resisting Santino and the
rest ofmanagement. Ifhe doesn't do as Spooner and Old Green wish, he will again be
physically assaulted by them. His safety depends on staying in his proper place in the
factory's hierarchy. The notion ofplace within a social hierarchy is echoed in the title of
Daniels' first book, Places/Everyone.
A poem like "Where I'm At: Factory Education" provides more than just a vivid
description ofthe factory line. One could imagine Robert Bly, ifhe were writing about the
automotive industry, composing a rich, lengthy description ofan axle housing. Bly would
concern himself with vivid imagery that suggests a complex metaphor. Jim Daniels, in
contrast, takes advantage ofthis poem to raise issues ofresistance in the workplace, to
provide insights into the hierarchy ofpositions there, to empathize with a young man just
starting out on the line, and to narrate a compelling story. Those things ring true with
Gioia's notion ofcultural relevance. Members ofthe culture, even those not ofthe
working-class, can identify with hierarchy in the workplace. Members ofthe culture are
also, quite simply, interested in good stories.
Numerous other examples exist in the body ofJim Daniels' work. Consider
"Graffiti," also from Punching Out (22). "Graffiti" provides a litany ofphrases written on
the wall at a factory, so again Daniels pushes the limit ofwhat is poetry. This poem is also
something that is literally real in the culture. "Graffiti" certainly invites performance more
42
than analysis. As in his other work, the racism and sexism and homophobia ofhis
characters comes through loud and clear. He doesn't resort to moralizing, rather the short
lines ofgraffiti signify these issues: "Klan country...war on fags" (22). The obscenities in
"Graffiti" illustrate Daniels' desire to resist the annoying gentility ofmuch poetry. The last
two lines, however, seem to do more: "Be artistic / Fuck you" (22). Daniels appears in
this odd couplet to be speaking about the fact that he's defying poetic stereotypes,
stereotypes which dictate he be artistic. His subsequent answer almost didn't have to be
stated. Daniels doesn't concern himself so much with being artistic; rather, he desires to
present something real.
Another very real, very culturally-significant, facet ofwork is being out-of-work.
Digger, the recurring narrator in much ofDaniels' work, is laid offin "Costs" (Punching
Out 51). Daniels' narrator takes advantage ofhis time offofwork to spend time with his
dog. On the surface, "Costs" is a man's-best-friend piece: "My dog jangles / as he trots
around the comer / and the music ofhis chain hits / a warm spot" (51). Many layers,
however, exist in this short poem. One ofthe issues raised is how little time the narrator
normally has. Again, here is Jim Daniels providing a story ofsomething readers can
identify with, a lack ofleisure time. On an even deeper level, Daniels provides a
description ofthe manner in which the dog agrees to be chained, "to wait patiently / while
I hook and unhook it" (51). Juxtaposed with the subtle jabs at life on the line that exist in
"Costs," Daniels seems to suggest that in many ways, the automotive industry has Digger
on a chain, that the Big Three have him trained to accept his chain like a dog.
In "Costs," the narrator also regrets buying the friendship ofhis dog by buying
43
food. This sentiment is juxtaposed with a description ofthe narrator's dependence on the
culture: "How many cars America buys / determines whether I work / or not, whether I
have money / or not" (51). The narrator here becomes not only a figurative dog to the
industry, but also a dog to the American people. He compares himself to a dog that
depends on a master to buy it food. He similarly depends on society to buy the cars he
makes, which buys him food and other necessities. "Costs" comes full circle and returns to
Digger's love for his dog. He looks "for more ways to save" while he's out ofwork, but
won't give up his dog (51). Digger knows he needs to cut costs, but won't give up his
dog. It's just too important to him. This sentiment appears to directly address, to
challenge, the auto companies, where costs are such a pervasive concern. Some things are
more important than costs, this poem suggests.
In "May's Poem," from Places/Everyone, Daniels leaves the familiar arena ofthe
auto factory and enters into the arena ofa restaurant (62). Not surprisingly, he is
interested in the employees, not the customers. In "May's Poem," Daniels' protagonist
works the grill and has no hope for tomorrow: "grease sticks to my skin / a slimy reminder
/ ofwhat my future holds" (62). The narrator dreams ofbecoming a writer and during a
break, while getting high, shares his dreams with the cook, May, who tries to reassure
him. More than anything, he says, he wants to write a beautiful poem. In reality, he wants
beauty in his life. Poetry and life are equated in "May's Poem." The narrator's writing
reflects his pessimistic life. Daniels, knowing that the common expectation for poetry is
beauty, again toys with poetry's proper subject matter. He blurs the line between reality
and poetry, a blurring that would please Dana Gioia.
44
Daniels continues to toy with exactly what the definition ofa poem is when his
narrator in "May's Poem" decides to make May into a poem. The blurring ofreality and
poetry becomes even thicker: "I tum and grab her I and hug her to me I pick her up I and
twirl her in circles" (62). The two dance and revel until the poem's speaker has made May
a poem. Yet reality won't let the fantasy continue. Work has left the pair sweaty, May is
too heavy to keep twirling, and the manager makes the pair go back to work. A touch of
beauty enters their lives, their poetry, but their class position doesn't allow that beauty to
continue indefinitely. So this provides another piece ofDaniels' manifesto on poetry; he
seems to say here that he'll allow a touch ofbeauty to enter into his work, but he won't
allow it to totally take over.
Significant is the blurring ofwork, life, and art that goes on in "May's Poem." In
"Informed and Empowered Poetry: New Understanding Through Working-Class Literary
Theory," Paulette Zubel argues that a working-class poetics will provide a representation
ofthe integration ofwork, life, and art. Appropriately, Daniels' work captures both work
and life, blurred into aesthetic expression. Zubel also maintains that working-class poetry
must have as its political agenda convincing readers to value working-class experience.
"[L]iterature," Zubel writes, "empowered by working-class experience, becomes an agent
for change" (102). Jim Daniels has the potential to change a lot ofthings. His poetry
could change attitudes toward the working-class. Perhaps more importantly, he could
potentially change art, so that more opportunities to represent working-class experience
would come about.
Dana Gioia would like to see writers like Daniels change poetry. Like many critics
45
ofcontemporary American poetry, he is somewhat pessimistic about the directions poetry
has recently taken. Gioia worries about poetry that can't attract an audience outside ofa
university subculture, that can't contain social relevance. Daniels, though an academic,
resists getting caught up in the university subculture. His subject matter is life in and out
ofthe automotive factories ofhis native Detroit. This refreshing, original setting helps his
work stay fresh and surprising. He constantly toys with following a more stereotyped
paradigm, such as in "Factory Love" where the narrator professes a romantic, erotic love
for his machine (Places/Everyone 75). "Factory Love" almost becomes a sentimental love
poem; then comes the punch line: the object ofthe narrator's desire is the machine on the
assembly line.
Vernon Shetley, in his book After The Death OfPoetry, agrees with Gioia that
poetry has lost a great deal ofits cultural impact. Shetley explicitly argues for a clever,
intellectual poetry that will reclaim a significant audience for poetry. He desires verse in
the tradition ofEliot, and supports "making poetry more difficult rather than less" (3).
The difficult, elite idiom that Shetley supports stands in sharp contrast to the poetry ofJim
Daniels. Shetley rightly has as his goal increasing the viability ofcontemporary poetry, yet
the course he proposes verges on snobbery. He has little desire to attract a mass audience
to the joys ofpoetry; rather he wants to regain "thinking people" and a "community of
intellectuals" who have become devotees ofcritical theory (28).
Shetley's plan stands out as being undemocratic and, worse yet, ineffective. He
claims to desire a significant audience for poetry, yet limits the membership ofsuch an
audience. Radically widening poetry's appeal, which seems to be the underlying goal of
46
the poetry ofJim Daniels, will ultimately rescue poetry. Shetley sees no problem with
allowing poetry to remain a niche interest at colleges and universities; his plan involves
making that niche bigger. Dana Gioia on the other hand recognizes that such inbreeding
will continue to weaken contemporary poetry. Poetry that captures something to which a
wide audience can relate seems a noble goal. "[T]he customary line between poetry and
the working life is breaking down," Coles and Oresick write in the introduction to For A
Living: The Poetry ofWork (xv). The two make an obvious but overlooked point about
how pervasive work is in the lives ofall Americans. Ifpoetry, by Jim Daniels and others,
continues to represent something so essential to the culture, it can truly become a driving
social force. Dana Gioia will no doubt be pleased.
47
V. WHAT IS ABSENT IN WORKING-CLASS POETRY?:
NATURE, LOVE, & ECOFEMINISM IN THE POEMS OF llM DANIELS
In the previous chapter, I looked at how Jim Daniels makes poetry more relevant
by addressing working-class themes. I would now like to return to the issue ofhow
working-class studies and ecofeminism intersect. Specifically, I will demonstrate in this
chapter how Daniels, as a representative ofcontemporary working-class poets, also invites
an ecofeminist reading. The verse that comprises Working Classics: Poems on Industrial
Life, and For A Living: The Poetry ofWork, anthologies which feature Daniels, differs
radically in subject matter from high-brow, bourgeois poetry. Many ofthe cliches of
'traditional' poetry center around images ofnature and professions oflove for women.
Instead ofgreen fields, working-class poetry takes place in grey factories. Instead of
idealized females, poets romance their machines. The poets who give voice to the worker
shatter the "roses are red" and "how do I love thee?" stereotypes ofpoetry. In my paper, I
would like to explore the question: What is absent in working-class poetry? The answer,
at first glance, might seem to be the voices ofwomen and nature. Though they give a
voice to the blue-collar worker, those who write working-class poetry, mostly men,
appear to be denying the voices ofwomen and nature, inviting an ecofeminist critique.
However, I would like to propose a different way to read images of 'woman' and
'nature' in working-class poetry. It is true that the voices ofwomen and Earth are
frequently missing from working-class poems. By their conspicuous absence from poems
about labor, however, the reader is reminded ofhow women and nature are frequently
48
silenced by labor. That which is absent from the poetry becomes something that is present
in the poetry. The absence ofwomen and nature is, in and ofitself, subject matter. These
poets aren't taking away their voices, they are creating an arena in which readers are
reminded how, in real life, the two often have no voice.
Oftentimes, men are the obvious victims in this body ofpoetry. But in addition to
the men, there are others injured: women and nature. The male worker is injured by hard
labor in working-class poetry, but he frequently injures women as a result. Further, the
industries he works for frequently injure the Earth. As human life is damaged, so is
nature. Since women are often excluded from the work depicted in this poetry, and nature
is damaged by the work, the poetry does indeed invite an ecofeminist reading. But not a
reading that damns the poetry for exclusion and suggests the literature's complacency in
misogyny and pollution. Rather, working-class poetry invites an ecofeminist reading that
both acknowledges the abuse done to the ecosystem and women, and empowers them
both, making them "speaking subjects" (Murphy 12).
According to Patrick Murphy's conception ofecofeminist empowerment, women
and nature become speaking subjects because both are defined as independent beings,
entities that do not merely exist in relation to men. Inthe literature, nature and women are
not subjugated to their relation to men; rather, they are autonomous. This is precisely
what goes on in working-class poetry. To illustrate this proposed way to read working-
,
class poetry, I examine the three full-length poetry collections ofJim Daniels, one ofthe
foremost working-class poets, as well as other selected pieces from Working Classics:
Poems on Industrial Life and For A Living: The Poetry ofWork, two anthologies of
49
working-class poetry.
Coles and Oresick, in their introduction to Working Classics, write, perhaps
erroneously, that working-class poetry strays from the familiar poetic territory of"love,
death, and nature" (xxi). Their point is that work is not a typical subject for poems. Their
stated goal, to make work an important topic in the canon ofAmerican Literature, is a
valid one. Coles and Oresick place working-class poets in succession ofWalt Whitman,
who "set out to democratize poetry" a century before (xxvi). They also allude to the
industrial unemployment and underemployment that has resulted from both new
technologies and a shift toward the service sector, which suggests that poems in an
industrial setting will likely concern themselves with resistance. Coles and Oresick edited
a second collection ofworking-class poetry in 1995: For A Living. That anthology further
democratized poetry by defining work more broadly. The second collection includes
poems about domestic work, childcare issues, commuting, and even entertaining.
A framework for reading working-class poetry has already been outlined by
Paulette Zubel, who calls her method the "Womancentric Working Class Literary Critical
Theory" (96). Zubel rightly acknowledges that this body ofliterature can empower
working-class experience and serve as an impetus for transformation and political action:
Empowerment allows oppressed persons to become their own agents
for change. In the same way, literature, empowered by working-class
experience, becomes an agent for change, transforming that experience
into important subject matter for aesthetic expression (102).
Zubel writes that reading poetry in light ofher theory involves the recognition ofcontent
50
that suggests class division. Part ofthe transformative politics ofclass-conscious poetry is
the acknowledgment ofthe value and relevance ofworking-class life. In short, working 
class experience deserves to be turned into art.
Zubel's theory is "Womancentric" because ofthe importance ofeveryday life,
work, and art coming together. According to Zubel, working-class women have
historically understood that these three elements oflife do not exist as separate entities. A
working-class woman, writes Zubel, weaves leisure time and artistic expression into time
allotted for work, unlike even a working-class man, whose time is typically segmented
between the three pursuits. Working-class poetry, similarly, weaves those worlds
together, writes Zubel:
Recognition of...this integration oflife, work, and art, constitutes
the function ofWorking Class Theory. Analysis ofliterature from
a working class perspective allows the critical reader to share this
vision, to penetrate new layers ofunderstanding, and to experience
work transformed into art (l05).
I would add another element to Zubel's list ofexperiences that working-class poetry
weaves together: the ecosystem.
Zubel has demonstrated how working-class poetry strings together multiple
elements that co-exist. Ecofeminism is a useful framework for sifting through these
elements. Working-class poetry exposes the brutality ofdaily life and daily work. The
reader witnesses the multiple layers ofdamage that the capitalist system brings about:
damage to the worker, the Earth, and the family. Instead ofsetting up a hierarchy of
51
consciousness, ecofeminism serves as an 'umbrella theory' that acknowledges all levels of
brutality. Ecofeminist philosopher Carol Bigwood explains the damaging effects ofsetting
up such a hierarchy in her book Earth Muse. She writes that we ought to give equal
weight to all the "consistently viewed inferior sides" (191). Bigwood identifies
"metaphysical dualisms" like culture/nature, human/animal, reason/emotion, mind/body,
self/other, and man/woman. All ofthese oppressive dichotomies support one another and
provide a framework for both sexism and androcentrism. Beliefin these dichotomies, and
beliefthat some ofthese dichotomies are more damaging than others, reinforces
segregation between the sexes and alienation from the Earth. So an ecofeminist reading of
working-class poetry does not claim that issues ofclass are more important than issues of
sex or issues ofecology. All these elements weave themselves together.
Murphy also acknowledges that non-hierarchical aspect ofecofeminism, praising
the theory for putting "the struggles to end both patriarchy and capitalism...in an even
larger context: the relationship ofhumanity with nature" (7). Murphy points out that
recognition ofBakhtinian dialogics allows the examination ofmultiple oppressions,
without imposing bothersome hierarchies (3). In addition to simultaneously raising reader
awareness ofsexism, classism, and the ecosystem, working-class poetry -- and all
literature deconstructed by an ecofeminist reading -- also empowers both women and the
environment. They do not remain victims, but rather fight back brutally.
So, in short, an ecofeminist reading ofworking-class poetry recognizes that
women and nature are both present in the literature, despite their superficial absence. An
ecofeminist reading also recognizes that both women and nature are autonomous, not
52
merely described in relation to men. Finally, an ecofeminist reading points to places in the
text where both women and the ecosystem are victimized and fight back. All ofthese
elements exist in the poetry ofDetroit-native Jim Daniels. Daniels' work is widely
published, and appears in both ofColes' and Oresick's anthologies. Nearly all ofhis
poems concern themselves with the automobile industry in Daniels' hometown. Class
awareness is clearly present in Daniels' three books: Places/Everyone, Punching Out, and
M-80. But his work serves a wider political function when examined from an ecofeminist
standpoint. Daniels illuminates the abuses ofclass, in addition to the abuses ofgender and
ecology.
First ofall, Daniels does not completely ignore bourgeois poetry's traditional
subject matter. Rather, he substitutes new settings and paradigms. Readers ofpoetry
have come to expect poetry's subject matter to be nature and love. Daniels subverts
reader expectation in a very deliberate way. Nature often appears in the form of
landscapes or pastorals, describing the speaker's view oflush, nature scenes. Daniels uses
a new type oflandscape: the city ofDetroit. His pastorals describe polluted streets and
automotive factories. Daniels' concept ofnature isn't relegated to a speaker's perception;
his nature is an autonomous character. In "Factory Jungle," an automotive plant literally
becomes a living, breathing jungle. The chains become vines, the chassis a "mad elephant"
(Places 70).
The reader also witnesses Daniels' new conception ofthe love poem. Instead of
cliche sentiment about the speaker's love for a woman, the speaker expresses love for his
machine. "Factory Love" personifies the machinery in the factory as an object ofsexual
53
desire: "I come to you...in and out, in and out, in and out" (Places 75). Daniels includes
issues ofromantic love like jealousy ("That guy on midnights, / I know he drinks, / and
beats you") and escapism ("Let me carry you off/ into the night on a hi-Io.") in "Factory
Love." We also see the machine personified sexually in "Back to the Basics," a poem that
describes the welding seem in an axle covers as looking "like a great big vagina"
(Punching 34).
So, albeit in a different manner, Daniels' poetry includes elements ofpastorals and
love poems. He doesn't completely throw out the traditional ways nature and women
have been imagined in poetry. His new paradigm for pastorals and love poems suggest an
autonomy, that they have become what Patrick Murphy calls "speaking subjects." But it is
the way Daniels portrays the victimization and revenge ofboth nature and women that
especially invites an ecofeminist critique.
First let's look at the victimization in the poetry. As has been stated, most of
Daniels' poems concern themselves with male workers on the assembly lines in Detroit.
Men are the most explicit victims, victimized by capitalism, by the industry that
dehumanizes them. The fact that women and nature are not as present as men is an act of
resistance on Daniels' part. Their absence creates an arena in which readers are reminded
ofwomen and nature's abuse. The reader asks, for example, Where are the women?, and
is reminded that women frequently are excluded from workplaces. Although it's not
stated as explicitly, women and nature are also victimized. At the risk ofoversimplifying
Daniels' narrative, men are mistreated at work and in turn mistreat women and nature.
That is indeed an oversimplification. Nature, in Daniels' poems, is also mistreated by the
54
automotive industry. Women at the workplace are also mistreated by the industry. Again,
a complicated weaving of brutalities exists. And again, an ecofeminist reading suggests
we avoid placing the various abuses in the context ofa hierarchy.
There are a myriad ofexamples ofthe abuse ofwomen in the poetry ofJim
Daniels. Numerous poems portray female employees on the line who are abused verbally.
One recurring character is Fat Gracie, constantly teased about her weight. Sexual
harassment repeatedly rears its ugly head. So does domestic violence. In "Digger's
Melted Ice," the recurring protagonist Digger drinks incessantly, abuses his wife and
children, and tells his son that being an alcoholic is "part ofmy job" (M-80 52). Nearly all
ofDaniels' poems speak ofworking conditions. The victimization ofwomen, however,
isn't present in every poem. Its presence is there enough, though, to demonstrate how
women are mistreated in the workplace and in the home.
The essence ofecofeminism involves women and nature being aligned. The way
the two are aligned in Daniels' poetry is by his portrayal ofboth women and nature being
simultaneously abused. For every instance ofa woman being beaten by her husband or
verbally harassed on the assembly line, there is an example ofnature being abused. "Wild
Country" takes place behind a trucking garage, "in a field ofoil-stained weeds, rusty
parts...broken down trucks in the fenced-in yard" (M-80 3). The poem is explicitly about
a worker taking a break. There is also a subtext, however, that speaks about the
environment being abused. The field is full oflitter and broken glass. Rats and guard
dogs keep the scene from being even remotely idyllic. "High school kids" defile the field
by drinking and doing drugs there.
55
In "The Foreman's Booth," the air becomes heavy, constrictive, and unbreathable
in the closed-in space in the factory, suggesting damage to the air we breathe (Punching
80). The landscape, the city ofDetroit, is constantly described as damaged. Several
poems talk. about arson, several about the infamous Detroit riots ofthe late 1960's. "Still
Lives: Benitau Street" describes litter in Detroit: "rubble sits piled like a funeral pyre" (M-
8080).
Another common theme ofDaniels' is vacationing. Explicitly, Daniels' vacation
poems are about how the workers need so desperately to get away from their jobs. The
subtext, however, ofan ecofeminist reading, suggests that the workers also need to get
away from the pollution ofDetroit. In "Soo Locks," Daniels' speaker contemplates about
how the water around Sault Ste. Marie, in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, goes up and down
in a way more beautiful than how the factory press goes up and down (Punching 77).
Somehow the monotony ofthe water takes on a more positive connotation than the
monotony ofthe job. In "Digger's Trip," the speaker sits on an idyllic beach, but his
"Sterling Plant, Home ofthe Axle" T-shirt serves as a constant reminder ofa less 
attractive landscape. (M-80 54). In 111977," the speaker remembers a trip to the
mountains, IIwhere we stopped to breathe" (M-80 76).
Not only does Daniels connect women and nature by virtue oftheir victimization,
he also connects the two by their empowerment and revenge. Indeed, in the text ofhis
poetry, both women and the ecosystem reciprocate the violence and the brutality that has
been dealt to them. First of all, the women in the workplace are among the strongest of
Daniels' characters. Though they are picked on by their male co-workers, the female
56
workers on the line remain strong and often resistant to their abuse. In "Heaven Enough,"
Nita is unfazed by the hard work in the automotive plant, and sings Aretha Franklin songs
(Punching 37). Fat Gracie, in "Fun on the Line," ignores the lewd comments her male co 
workers make, and "never gets behind" (Punching 41). Gracie also appears in 'IDishing it
Out," a poem in which she refuses to allow the plant security guard to inspect her lunch
box (Punching 70). When the security guard grabs her arm, she "belts him with the pail,
catches his nose with a sharp edge." In Daniels' poetry, the security guards often search
the assembly line workers for drugs and alcohol. Gracie's act is one ofresistance, and she
becomes the hero ofthe plant:
Later, men will ask her questions
and send her home. When she steps out
into the plant now with Jeannie and Nita
we surround her.
She slaps us high fives
and we feel the sting.
Despite the surface appearance that women aren't a crucial part ofthe narrative of
Daniels' work, characters like Gracie and Nita show women as a source ofboth strength,
hard work, and resistance. In short, women in the workplace fight back.
Woman is also empowered in "Digger Has a Dream" (Places 38). Daniels'
protagonist Digger dreams that his car breaks down, in itself a type ofcastration for the
assembly line's macho male, for whom cars mean so much. In the dream, "A woman with
jumper cables I dangling from her steel breasts I clamps your hands I and you jerk to a
57
start." The monstrous woman precedes to drive Digger like he was a car. So, again,
woman becomes a strong aggressor, in this case objectifying man just as he objectifies her
in the workplace.
The ecosystem also becomes an aggressor in the course ofthe poetry ofJim
Daniels. Several ofhis poems portray harsh winter weather. Indeed harsh winters are a
reality in Detroit, but an ecofeminist reading suggests there may be further significance. In
"Snowstorm In Detroit," the same workers whose jobs harm nature are in car accidents
during a snowstorm (Places 25). "After Work" has virtually the same plot line (Punching
90). Similarly, "Digger Waters His Lawn" portrays Daniels' recurring protagonist unsure
ofwhether to water his lawn, knowing that ifhe does he will eventually have to cut it
(Places 40). Digger stands, holding the "limp hose," a symbol ofhis impotence. An
ecofeminist reading suggests that nature is fighting back, enacting its revenge on those
who attempt to destroy the ecosystem. We see in these poems nature become an
autonomous "speaking subject," not merely existing in relation to man.
In "Not Working," nature even taunts man during his weakest moment: when he's
unemployed (Punching 49). In that poem, the lights annoyingly reflect offofa pond while
the speaker contemplates his sad state. Nature also fights back in "Hard Times in the
Motor City" (Places 17). The reader again sees man suffering while out ofwork. Nature
appears to compound the problem when it refuses to bear sustenance: "men on their knees
/.pray over / their rotten tomatoes / their deformed carrots / their ragged, ragged lettuce."
Clearly, looking at Daniels' poetry as a unified narrative, the reader sees woman
and nature connected by virtue oftheir victimization and subsequent empowerment. To
58
take this ecofeminist narrative one step further, we expect to see both the ecosystem and
women, now empowered, exist in a more fully-realized state. Indeed, a poem like
"Midnight Date" shows both nature and woman as a source ofidealized happiness:
Tonight the moon looks full enough
to feed a lot ofhearts. Mine rises
like the bird furthest from this factory.
Tonight let's shed our clothes
and dance in this cool air.
Let's taste the moon's
clean white meat.
Similarly, woman and nature are united in "Anita, a New Hire on the Line" (Places 72). In
this poem, Anita is new and virginal, possessing a free spirit "between her breasts."
Finally, the moon becomes a feminist spirit in "After Work" (Places 77). The speaker
escapes from his dreary world in a milieu ofnature and femininity:
You, moon, I bet you could
:fill my cheeks with wet snow
make me forget I ever touched steel
make me forget even
that you
look like a headlight
moving toward me.
This last element ofDaniels' ecofeminist narrative suggests a somewhat happy ending, or
59
an ending that is at least hopeful.
The ecofeminist narrative present in the poetry ofJim Daniels appears in much of
working-class poetry. Throughout Working Classics and For A Living, a similar narrative
arises. Maggie Anderson's "Gray" describes the immediate environment ofthe closed
steel mills ofWestern Pennsylvania (Working 6). As her title suggests, nature has become
dismal and gray. In Gwen Hauser's "Printing Press No. 17," the speaker turns the tables
on Daniels' "Factory Love" by personifying her machine as a man (Working 97). Women
form a cohesive, resistant workplace bond in poems like Ronald Wallace's "In the Dress
Factory" (Working 224). Domestic work, often overlooked, is empowered in Maggie
Anderson's "Sonnet for her Labor" (Line 9). Many examples exist which show nature and
women abused and empowered in working-class poetry. Jim Daniels' narrative is one
among many.
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VI. MOTHER ANNA, MOTHER EARTH: YONNONDIO & ECOFEMINISM
Finally, we will move into a text written during the Red Decade by one ofthe most
revered working-class writers ofthe century: Tillie Olsen. Much ofDeborah Silverton
Rosenfelt's work on Olsen has involved placing her in the "socialist feminist literary
tradition" (136). In her important essay "From the Thirties: Tillie Olsen and the Radical
Tradition," Rosenfelt praises Olsen for bringing issues of gender and sexuality to the
radical Left, a group whose main agenda involved issues ofclass. Writers like Olsen,
according to Rosenfelt, sought to "unite a class consciousness and a feminist
consciousness in their lives and creative work, who are concerned with the material
circumstances ofpeople's lives, who articulate the experiences and grievances ofwomen
and ofother oppressed groups -- workers, national minorities, the colonized and the
exploited -- and who speak out ofa defining commitment to social change" (136).
Rosenfelt rightly acknowledges that radical Leftist writers hoped their literature
would serve a transformative function, inspiring readers to transform a world suffering the
results ofsexism and classism. I would argue that the transformative political agenda of
Olsen's work takes on a third dimension. In addition to issues ofsex and class, Olsen's
work also calls for the recognition ofa third other: the environment. In her novel
Yonnondio: From the Thirties, Tillie Olsen describes an environment suffering within the
context ofboth capitalism and the patriarchy, an environment that is victimized and
silenced. Further, Olsen aligns nature with the feminine, thus inviting an ecofeminist
critique. Yonnondio: From the Thirties describes the simultaneous abuse ofAnna
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Holbrook and the abuse ofthe environment. Anna's physical and emotional abuse is
explicit in the text; she is beaten and literally raped. Olsen also portrays the rape ofthe
environment, albeit in a less-explicit way.
At the hands ofthe patriarchy, both Anna and the Earth are socialized during the
course ofthe novel into violence and cruelty. Both figures learn how to be vicious and
aggressive. Anna begins to beat her children, and Olsen portrays the Earth as consuming
people like a stomach. The transformative politics in Yonnondio: From the Thirties
includes the call to recognize how the creative power ofboth women and nature is
destroyed. Rosenfelt writes, "The most powerful theme is the tension between human
capacity and creativity -- the drive to know, to assert, to create, which Olsen sees as
innate in human life -- and the social forces and institutions that repress and distort that
capacity" (154). In describing the destruction ofthe human spirit in the novel, Rosenfelt
captures the transformative politics present. However, she leaves out the important
element ofnature.
The drive Rosenfelt speaks ofis not only "innate in human life," the drive to create
is present in all life. To appreciate the potential for a fully-realized, creative existence,
readers ofOlsen can't ignore the non-human other. Ecofeminist philosopher Carol
Bigwood explains the damaging effects ofsuch dualism. "Ecofeminist revisioning of our
human be-ing involves an attempt to give weight to nature and to the consistently viewed
'inferior' sides," Bigwood writes in Earth Muse (191). Bigwood identifies "metaphysical
dualisms" like culture/nature, human/animal, reason/emotion, mind/body, self/other, and
man/woman. All ofthese oppressive dichotomies support one another, and provide a
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framework for both sexism and androcentrism. Beliefin these dichotomies reinforces
segregation between the sexes and alienation from the Earth, according to Bigwood. Both
ofthese themes are present throughout Yonnondio: From the Thirties.
Olsen constructs a living, breathing Earth, giving voice to the struggles ofthe
ecosystem. Patrick Murphy describes this technique:
Numerous authors and artists have attempted to render nature as
a speaking subject, not in the romantic mode ofrendering nature
an object for the self-constitution ofthe poet as speaking subject,
but as a character within texts with its own existence (12).
In short, Murphy praises writers who give nature autonomy, as opposed to subjugating
nature to its relationship to humans. He calls for "the recognition ofthe difference
between things-in-themselves and things-for-us" (4). Thus nature, according to Murphy,
becomes another manifestation ofthe concept ofother:
I think these attempts are most successful when they include human
characters as well, enabling the differential comparison ofself and other.
An ecoferninist dialogics requires this effort to render the other, primarily
constituted by androcentrism as woman and nature (and actually the two
intertwined: nature-as-woman and woman as nature), as speaking subjects
within patriarchy in order to subvert that patriarchy (12-13).
Olsen clearly has political intentions for giving voice to the working class. Her concept of
"silences" appears to be consistent with Murphy's concept of"speaking subjects."
Murphy writes about empowering nature with the gift oflanguage. Olsen, in her essay
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"Silences in Literature," decries the manners that writers are kept quiet, not privileged
with the circumstances that allow them to write. Olsen calls for society to give voice to
these writers. In Yonnondio: From the Thirties, she appears to give voice to another
other: the Earth.
The novel begins with an epigraph by nineteenth-century American poet Walt
Whitman. Whitman's poetry recognized the nature-culture alienation Bigwood describes,
and also made the Earth an autonomous "speaking subject." Whitman's poem
"yonnondio" laments a "race ofthe woods, the landscapes free and the falls" that will
soon disappear. The verse, from Leaves ofGrass, connects the waning ofnature with the
waning ofhumanity. Whitman's song rings out "amid the wilds, the rocks, the storm and
wintry night...[in] a limitless ravine, with plains and mountains," but is silenced. "A
muffled sonorous sound, a wailing word is borne through the air for a moment, Then
blank and gone and still, and utterly lost" (Whitman 385). Tillie Olsen's novel borrows its
name from Whitman's poem, and uses part ofthe verse as an epigraph. In Yonnondio:
From the Thirties, Olsen echoes Whitman's theme ofconnecting humanity with nature.
She seems to take Whitman's theme one step further, though, applying the "ecofeminist
dialogics" of"nature-as-woman and woman-as-nature" (Murphy 13).
During the novel's first section, in the mining community, Olsen establishes the
connection between Earth and mother. The voice ofthe crazed Sheen McEvoy is the first
to verbalize that connection. Referring to the mine, he says, "She only takes men 'cause
she aint got kids. All women want kids" (11). McEvoy attempts to throw young Mazie
Holbrook into the mine, wanting her to return to mother Earth. The text also connects
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Earth with mother in this section when Anna herself voices her enthusiasm for the rebirth
she hopes will accompany the family's move to the country: '''A new life,' Anna said, 'in
the spring'" (26). Olsen significantly allows the novel's mother to speak ofthe impending
shift ofthe family's environment. The mother is somehow aware ofthe nature that will
soon surround the Holbrooks. Old Man Caldwell verbalizes most clearly the connection
between Mother Earth and Mother Anna; on his death bed, he tells Mazie to learn from
Anna and the stars. Here, Olsen situates the mother as a moral center, a source of
education aligned with nature.
The portrayal ofthe environment in Yonnondio: From the Thirties is somewhat
ambiguous. At times, nature is idealized as beautiful and idyllic. These positive images of
nature occur primarily during the middle section ofthe novel, when the family lives on the
farm. The text seems to judge farming less harshly than the other industries Jim becomes
a part of. Jim's labor while at the farm isn't damaging in and ofitself. Rather, the system
oftenant farming brings the oppression. Thus the reader confronts a section ofthe novel
where nature is not oppressed. Consider the Earth imagery Olsen uses during the farm
sequence. On the farm, the "air was pure and soft like a baby's skin...that day there was
laughter" (23). The Holbrooks and the land both come to life:
Land is here. Days falling freely into large rhythms ofweather. Feet
sinking into plowed earth, the plow making a bright furrow. Com
coming swiftly up. Tender green stalks with thin outer shoots, like
grass. Oh Momma come look! Oh Daddy come look! Oh Mazie
come look! Drama ofthings growing (29).
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Briefly, at the farm, the reader, inundated with images ofan idealized Earth, believes that
the Holbrooks might transcend their misery:
The laughter ofthe summer was on the earth. Trees, rich and voluptuous,
flowered by the roadside, brimming fields ofcorn waved in the sun, roses
were in bloom, and the days were bright with the colored balls ofsong,
birds tossed back and forth (31).
Olsen continues to assault the reader's senses with affirmative, happy images ofMother
Earth:
Far east rolled the hills, the near ones flat brown, washed over with delicate
green, the far ones repeating themselves over and over till they faded into
blue hazes and dull mists -- indistinct blurs oflines against the spring
sky (26).
Mazie even goes to the Earth after a beating and the land serves as her refuge:
Bedded in the clover, belly down, feeling the earth push back against her,
feeling the patterns ofclover smell twine into her nostrils till she was
drugged with the scent (32).
Mazie and Old Man Caldwell lie on the grass and look at the stars. Caldwell compares the
stars to flowers: lII'd like to smell the smell that would be comin off'n those flowers" (32).
Such positive images ofnature are nearly confined to the novel's farm sequence.
Elsewhere in the book, the Earth suffers at human hands. During the first section, in the
mining community, Earth is used interchangeably with the mine, lIthat fearsome place
below the ground" (1). Olsen describes lIflowers growing lovely out ofa hideous corpse"
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(2) and the "grimy light" (3) ofthe sun. Unlike at the farm, Mazie remains unable to enjoy
nature:
Mazie lay under the hot Wyoming sun, between the outhouse and the
garbage dump. There was no other place for Mazie to lie, for the one
patch ofgreen in the yard was between these two spots. From the
ground arose a nauseating smell. Food had been rotting in the garbage
piles for years (3).
Later, Will and Mazie compare the sky to a window: "You can't see through it 'cause it's
dirty" (18).
The third section ofthe novel, which takes place in a large city, contains the most
images ofthe abuse ofthe Earth. Olsen describes garbage flowing down the river and
yards where the only flowers are lampposts. Poverty and squalor are at their worst in the
city:
Over the cobbled streets, past the two blocks ofdump and straggling
grass, past the human dumpheap where the nameless Frank Lloyd Wright
ofthe proletariat have wrought their wondrous futuristic structures of
flat battered tin cans, fruit boxes and gunny sacks, cardboard and mother
earth (48).
Olsen vividly describes the pollution in the city as well:
A fog ofstink smothers down over it all-- so solid, so impenetrable,
no other smell, crotch and underarm sweat, the smell ofcooking or
ofburning, all are drowned under, merged into the vast, unmoving
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stench (48).
Pitifully, the children have no where to play except for a trash heap. In the apartment, the
milk sours and the potatoes rot, drawing flies and spreading more unbearable, oppressive
smells:
Inside suffocated her (outside too when there was packing-house stench)
but a need was in her to be out under a boundless sky, in unconfined air,
not between walls, under the roofofa house (93).
The Holbrooks long to be reunited with nature, as they were on the farm:
The stink, the stink. What glares so? The air is feverish: it lies in a
stagnant swill ofheat haze over the river...Giant cracks have opened up
the earth...her garden is dying (129).
Again, Yonnondio: From the Thirties connects nature with mother, indeed with the
feminine: "A regenerative life cycle ofwhich mother and daughter are a part" (Rosenfelt
165). During the myriad sequences ofthe abuse ofthe Earth, the reader also confronts
the abuse ofAnna Holbrook, the mother in the novel. Olsen shows the "distorted shape
motherhood has taken in patriarchal society" (Faulkner 37). Mazie recognizes the
connection between Mother Earth and Mother Anna:
Ugly and ugly the earth. Patches ofsoiled snow oozing away, leaving the
ground like great dirty sores between; scabs ofold leaves that like a bruise
hid the violets underneath. Trees fat with oily buds, and the swollen
breasts ofprairie. Ugly. She turned her eyes to the sky, for oblivion, but
it was bellies, swollen bellies, black and corpse gray, puffing out baggier
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and baggier...blood and pain ofbirth (43).
Olsen makes this connection by showing how life cycles are continuously interrupted.
Mother Earth's life cycle is disturbed by the pollution and decay in the city. Anna's life
cycle is unnaturally interrupted as well. Jim rapes and beats her, and causes her to
miscarry. Anna, like the Earth, is not permitted to carry on as a creator. Olsen highlights
this interruption oflife cycles by the death ofthe baby chicks in the Holbrook oven, as
well as when Mazie, horrified ofAnna's miscarriage, swallows and then vomits up a raw
egg. Olsen is reminding readers ofwomen's creative power and how that power is
stripped away by the patriarchy. Readers empathize with the mother in the novel. Elaine
Orr praises Yonnondio: From the Thirties for providing a feminist view ofmotherhood
that isn't guilty of "distancing ourselves from maternity" (liOn the Side" 209). Orr
describes the novel as an opportunity lito read with the mother, to read on her side."
Reading on the mother's side, we confront images ofwomen with limited creative options.
The only outlet for creativity seems to be bearing children. This view coincides with
Olsen's real-life struggles finding time to write. Likewise, Earth, women's ally,
experiences similar limitations in creative outlet. Earth's creative power seems somehow
limited by human interference.
As Pearlman and Werlock have shown, the novel portrays women confined by
spaces. "Anna and Mazie are trapped, too, by the actual physical spaces that define the
novel," they write (39). Anna lives her life for Jim, "bound in helplessness to the male
providers" (Pearlman 39). The physical places where the Holbrooks exist never provide
adequate shelter for the family. Their environment isn't safe, particularly for the women in
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the novel. Olsen portrays the "enclosed space as victimizer" (Pearlman 43). These spaces
are also ecological spaces, which hann the Earth as well as Anna and Mazie. For
example, the air becomes "sour" in the enclosed space ofthe mine (Yonnondio 5).
Both mothers in Yonnondio: From the Thirties fight back with reciprocated
violence and cruelty. During the first section ofthe book, the Earth is repeatedly
compared to bowels and intestines:
Bowels ofearth. It means the mine. Bowels is the stummy. Earth is a
stummy and mebbe she eats the men that come down. Men and daddy
goin' in like the day, and comin' out black. Earth black, and pop's face
and hands black, and he spits from his mouth black. Night comes and it
is black. Coal is black -- it makes a fire. The sun is makin' a fire on me,
but it is not black. Some color I am not knowen it is (4).
The Earth becomes an aggressor, something for humans to fear. Olsen appears to issue an
indictment on those who destroy nature, those who consume natural resources. She turns
the table with imagery ofEarth consuming humans:
Earth sucks you in to spew out the coal, to make a few fat bellies fatter.
Earth takes your dreams that a few may languidly lie on couches (6).
Earth becomes complicit with capitalism and patriarchy in the destruction oflife. The text
shows nature as a part ofthe destructive cycles that exist. Mother Earth is polluted and
victimized, but she also takes place in victimization.
Like the Earth, so too does Anna become a part ofthe corrupt system. Anna and
Earth are bound together, "interlocking human and natural ecology" (Faulkner 39). As the
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novel progresses, she not only allows Jim to beat the kids, she too begins to physically
abuse them. Like the Earth, she consumes human life: "Anna grew monstrous fat as ifshe
were feeding on them" (40). With such imagery, Olsen continues to subvert the maternal
cycle. But it is a subversion that already exists in real life. "It is the circumstance of
women [to be silenced]," according to Trensky (510). "Silence...gives form and definition
to women's lives" (Trensky 509).
As Anna battles physical illness in the novel's final section, she becomes utterly
unaware ofwhat is happening in the house. The family searches for some sanity and
order. The Holbrooks never reach that state oforder; rather, their world remains quite
insane. However, several glimpses of"revolutionary optimism" exist in the novel, as this
is a requirement ofproletariat fiction (Rosenfelt 156). Those glimpses ofhope seem to
exist in the family's ability to end their alienation from the motherhoods ofboth nature and
Anna. Jim comforts Mazie, saying "I'll make a farm and warm you" (78). One ofthe only
happy times in the city is when Anna and the children go back to nature, to look for
dandelions. Mazie sees a "strange happiness in her mother's body...the mother look was
back on her face" (101-2). According to Elaine Orr:
The pastoral setting is without hint ofcorruption. Rather, a beneficence
is felt in the omnipresence oflatent life that infuses and binds each to each.
The picture ofAnna and Mazie reflects this conjoined presence and
evokes a sense ofspiritual connection. Stroking her daughter's hair,
the mother's fingers are a source ofthe energy singing through all of
nature, suggesting the harmonious giving and receiving characteristic of
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an envisioned world ofpeace and wholeness (Spiritual Vision 64).
Orr stresses the feminist spirituality present in Olsen's work, a "spiritual voice arriving
from mothering realities" (52). The spirituality Orr talks about isn't tied to a certain
denomination. Rather, it is the drive toward a realized existence in a "blossoming world"
(43). The spirituality shows woman and nature communing in harmony, a sort ofan
ecofeminist utopia.
Anna Holbrook and our precious ecosystem share stark similarities in Tillie Olsen's
novel Yonnondio: From the Thirties. Both are abused by the systems ofeconomics and
gender roles, and both fight back viciously, socialized as part ofthose systems. This
comparison adds a new dimension to the transformative agenda ofproletariat fiction.
Olsen issues an attack on those who would abuse our world. The conception ofthe other
becomes broader, as readers are inundated with images ofEarth's destruction. Deborah
Rosenfelt recognizes Olsen's wider agenda as being "humanistic" (165). Rosenfelt writes:
[T]he hope Yonnondio offers more persuasively, through its
characterizations, its images and events, and its present conclusion,
is less a vision ofpolitical and economic revolution than an assertion that
the drive to love and achieve and create will survive somehow in spite of
the social forces arraigned against it, because each new human being is
born with it afresh (156).
Again, I would amend Rosenfelt's argument slightly, to include the entire Earth.
This wide agenda makes Olsen's novel all the more important. Tillie Olsen's novel
is a call to action, clearly. Mara Faulkner, in Protest and Possibility in the Writing ofTillie
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Olsen, has identified the multiple protests ofclass and gender present in her work. Patrick
Murphy, in Literature, Nature, Other, praises ecofeminism for putting "the struggles to
end both patriarchy and capitalism...in an even larger context: the relationship ofhumanity
with nature" (7). Murphy attacks the "philosophical linearity" that has kept feminists and
Marxists fighting over which struggles are most important. The novel in question is a call
to recognize many oppressions: those based on class, gender, as well as our disregard for
nature. As Murphy points out, ecofeminism's recognition ofBakhtinian dialogics allows
the examinations ofmultiple oppressions, without imposing bothersome hierarchies (3).
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VII. CONCLUSION
I could continue to examine individual pieces ofworking-class literature from an
ecofeminist framework. Rebecca Harding Davis' Life in the Iron Mills and Agnes
Smedley's Daughter ofEarth, for example, both portray elements ofnature in ambiguous
ways that recall Earth's role in Yonnondio. Other work poets, the peers ofJim Daniels,
tackle environmental issues, many in ways more explicit than Daniels himself. However, I
think my point has been sufficiently clarified. I hope that in the pages ofthis paper, a
dialogue between two schools ofthought has been started. I would like to see that
dialogue continue in the form ofactivity in and out oftraditional literary environments, in
both the academic world and the real world.
Working-class studies and ecofeminism both share a hope that the field ofEnglish
can be made increasingly relevant. I have spent the last six years being an English major,
and I tend to strive toward relevance as well. Thinking about ways literature matters
beyond the classroom is extremely important. Ifthe critical study ofliterature can lead to
political action and awareness, shouldn't we develop strategies to make that happen. If
fiction and poetry can teach us about who we are, not in an abstract sense but really give
us insight about both our place in the natural world and our place in the world ofwork,
shouldn't we likewise make that happen?
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