REVIEW: Virdi on Draycott, ‘Prostheses in Antiquity’

by H-Net Reviews

Jane Draycott, ed. Prostheses in Antiquity. Abingdon: Routledge, 2018. 214 pp. $140.00 (cloth), ISBN 978-1-4724-8809-1.

Reviewed by Jaipreet Virdi (University of Delaware) Published on H-Disability (November, 2019) Commissioned by Iain C. Hutchison (University of Glasgow)

Printable Version: http://www.h-net.org/reviews/showpdf.php?id=53417

A photograph of an Egyptian toe frequently circulates on social media and various online periodicals. It is not your usual toe. This one is made of wood, intricately engraved to include a toenail; is affixed to leather binding and dates from 1069 to 664 BCE; and is currently housed in the Cairo Museum. Found attached to a woman buried in a tomb near the ancient city of Thebes, archaeologists speculate that this toe is likely the oldest prosthesis ever found. The Cairo Toe reframes our conception of the history of prostheses, extending the time line of the invention of invention further back in antiquity, where stories of gods and gladiators were woven together with artisanal creations for everyday life.

In recent years, there has been an expansion of historical scholarship on disability in the ancient world.[1] These works have unraveled how ingrained disability was in ancient societies—there was no word or category for “disability” because kings, tradesmen, and gods alike all encountered disability and deformity. As Annie Sharples puts it, the ancients perceived disability not as an opposition to normality, but as a “part and parcel of human existence.”[2] Such perceptions of disability, deformity, and impairment are also covered, for instance, in the essays in Christian Laes’s edited volume, Disability in Antiquity (2016)as well as Laes’s cultural survey, Disabilities and the Disabled in the Roman World (2018). Surveys on the history of surgery, amputation, war injuries, and medical care in antiquity have also presented broader perspectives on social and cultural perceptions of disability. Similarly, scholarship on the history of prosthetics has expanded since Katherine Ott, David Serlin, and Stephen Mihm’s 2002 edited collection, Artificial Parts, Practical Lives as well as becoming deeply rooted into museum studies.[3] Yet there is little intersection between histories of disability in antiquity and the lived lives of prosthetic users—how prostheses were designed to be used and how users in turn, designed and modified their prosthesis to better fit their bodies.

Prostheses in Antiquity sets out to fill that gap. Based on a conference hosted at the University of Wales Trinity Saint David in 2015, this volume “focuses primarily on prostheses as material objects and considers their role (or roles) in the cultures and societies of classical antiquity” (p. 10). As Jane Draycott asserts in the editor’s introduction, prostheses were social objects with a complex set of meanings that impacted the daily lives of disabled people, including how these objects were navigated as nonmedical devices. After all, even though prostheses of classical antiquity were not considered therapeutic, nor do they appear in ancient medical literature, their materiality and artifact existence indicate how carefully and comprehensively makers were designing prostheses for proper usage. The eight chapters cover a broad range of prostheses, most frequently discussed in literary, documentary, archaeological, and bioarchaeological evidence: teeth, hair, toes, and limbs, as well as the broader cultural contexts and ideals of injury and impairment, including the ambiguity of prosthesis use.

Jacky Finch’s fascinating chapter brings together material culture, prostheses, and archaeology to reconstruct the Cairo Toe and another ancient Egyptian prosthetic toe, the Greville Chester Toe. Since “the rarity of these artefacts precluded their use in a laboratory trial,” Finch’s research team relied on volunteers to construct working models as design copies of the original (p. 35). Since the toe is made of wood and research revealed the craftsman used chisels to retain the anatomy of the foot, a carving expert was recruited to the team—the 2007 British Bird Carving Champion, no less! Two volunteers with missing big toes wore the prosthesis and provided valuable insight into the functionality of the design and its usefulness. This intersection of making, replication, and experimentation is a fascinating way to approach the history of prostheses, for understanding prosthesis use certainly provides crucial insight to the lived experiences of disabled people in antiquity.

The chapters by Jean-MacIntosh Turfa and Marshall Joseph Becker on dental appliances, and by Jane Draycott on prosthetic hair, enable us to rethink the usage of seemingly cosmetic prostheses and their inception as representing class distinctions. Since the diet of Etruia was healthy and dental profiles of skeletons did not indicate regular loss of teeth, “it would appear that the lost front teeth of Etruscan women of the upper classes wearing ornamental appliances may reflect a deliberate phenomenon” (p. 62). Likewise, in considering the cultural and social importance of hair to ancient Romans, Draycott demonstrates how wigs and hairpieces were not always an indication of poor health or stigma of hair loss, but “another means for the Roman elite to demonstrate conspicuous consumption” (p. 79).

Lennart Lehmhaus’s chapter turns to the existence of prostheses in rabbinic discourse in the Talmudic corpus. Acknowledging that such sources are biased, and anonymous with a collective authorship, they nevertheless reflect how prevalent prostheses and disability were in the ancient socioreligious Jewish world; as a result, discussions around prostheses tend to be “confined to permission or prohibition of usage on certain occasions … in a certain status … or in different religious realms” (p. 113). Josef Eitler and Michaela Binder’s chapter also examines socioreligious contexts surrounding prostheses, this time by examining the archaeological evidence of burial grounds, focusing on the discovery of a sixth-century middle-aged man with an amputated foot replaced by a wooden prosthesis, discovered at the Hemmaberg excavation in Australia. Turning to the functional aspects of prostheses, Katherine van Schaik’s chapter reevaluates ancient descriptions of paralysis and blindness in order to suggest how to (re)define prostheses in ancient and modern contexts.

On the “prosthetic imagination,” Anne-Sophie Noel explores whether the lived experiences of prostheses during the fifth century inspired Greek literary tragedies, including how objects became transformed into living things and whether they can be ascribed agency. Similarly, Ellen Adams broadens debate about the terminology used in discussions of prostheses to assess whether modern studies can be applied to antiquity. Drawing on scholarships from disability studies, psycho-prosthetics and sign language, Adams’s paper is an interesting contribution to existing scholarship on “normality.” However, the discussion of modern auditory aids, the Deaf community, and the cochlear implant are completely out of context given the focus of this book. I am wary of attempts to anchor modern discourse to antiquity. As Draycott asserts in the introduction, this volume is one of the few to tie disability history, material culture, and ancient history scholarship together, which presents for an exciting growth in the field. Recourse to metaphorical analysis, literary devices, and anachronistic summaries, unfortunately, diminishes the agenda. Nevertheless, Prostheses in Antiquity is an exciting collection that will appeal to a wide range of experts interested in the subject.

Notes

[1]. See the Disability History and the Ancient World website, accessed October 30, 2019, https://www.disabilityhistory-ancientworld.com/. 

[2]. Anne Sharples, “Survival of the Fittest? Experiencing Disability in Antiquity,” Warwick Globalist, November 11, 2015, http://warwickglobalist.com/2015/11/11/survival-of-the-fittest-experiencing-disability-in-….

[3]. See “Case Study: Prosthetics in Museums,” Disability and Inclusion: Resources for Museum Studies Programs website, Art beyond Sight, accessed October 30, 2019, http://www.artbeyondsight.org/dic/case-study-prosthetics-in-museums/.

Citation: Jaipreet Virdi. Review of Draycott, Jane, ed., Prostheses in Antiquity. H-Disability, H-Net Reviews. November, 2019. URL: http://www.h-net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id=53417This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Review of Williamson, Bess, Accessible America: A History of Disability and Design by Elsbeth Bosl

Bess Williamson. Accessible America: A History of Disability and Design. New York: NYU Press, 2019. 304 pp. $30.00 (cloth), ISBN 978-1-4798-9409-3.

Reviewed by Elsbeth Bösl (Universität der Bundeswehr München) Published on H-Disability (October, 2019) Commissioned by Iain C. Hutchison (University of Glasgow)

Printable Version: http://www.h-net.org/reviews/showpdf.php?id=53666

Bess Williamson is an associate professor of art history, theory, and criticism at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. A historian of design, material culture, and arts by training, she received her PhD in American history from the University of Delaware with her thesis on the links between design and disability rights in the United States from 1945 to the present.

The primary topic of this book is the relations and interdependencies between politics, design, and social movements. The research objective explored is the advent, proliferation, and differentiation of accessible design. Williamson’s concept of access in the context of disability is that architecture, infrastructure, and products be physically usable. Her analysis therefore concentrates on physical disabilities and so may perpetuate a dominant bias found in much disability history writing during the last decade. This is, however, not only a deliberative decision on methodology by the author, but reflects a feature of disability rights activism and is characteristic of the logic of accessible design where easily visible and comprehensible artifacts such as curbs and stairs have long been at the center of attention.

Williamson’s analysis is shaped by a social-constructionist perspective. Access does not just happen and neither does disability: when activists, designers, experts, tinkerers, and users address everyday technologies and architectural features as either barriers or as accessible, they define disability as a phenomenon emerging from the material environment. This could be interpreted as the reason for disabilities, but also the key to inclusion. Williamson’s stance on design is that it can be a device and vector for empowerment, but also for critique—by designers who speak against their own profession, by disabled persons who protest at societal attitudes, by critics of access legislation and disability rights.

Apart from that, the political inscribes itself into artifacts and designs; they become politically charged. Thus they are both products of political contexts and factors that influence political discourse. It is intriguing to read how the notion of access has been weighed against other US ideals such as civic autonomy, capitalism, freedom, the rights of the individual, the free market, and individualism. Both advocates and opponents of accessible planning and building invoked such typically American ideals. Activists from the 1970s onward, for example, saw access legislation as a means to independent, self-determined lives. Opponents regarded federal and other legal regulations as a severe threat to autonomy, individualism, and independence. Some feared an interventionist state and a steered economy. Other opponents primarily attacked the costs of access and weighed the concerns of a perceived minority over the interests of the majority. This was not a question of money only, but also of rights and equality. Were a small number of disabled people to have greater rights than the many able-bodied people—and even at the expense of that majority mainstream? While there was always a strong belief that access should not place an additional financial burden on the public, reduce the functionality of the “normal,” or interfere with aesthetics, such calculations were particularly intense in the 1980s within the political climate of the Ronald Reagan (1911-2004) administration (1981-89). 

The book also spells out nicely how closely the ideal, the politics, and the realities of access or non-access are connected to categories such as race, social class, income level, and gender. Indeed, access may be even more about poverty than about disability. Throughout her book Williamson gives examples of how environments and architecture were manufactured around an ideal of male, white, able-bodied people—especially in designs by architects of the first phase of modernity such as Charles-Édouard Jeanneret Le Corbusier (1887–1965), or witnessed in streamlined vehicle design of the 1940s and 1950s. Such concepts and innovations were not created with disabled people in mind. However, this does not mean that disabled people did not embrace these developments. Access may have been limited, difficult, or risky, but people with disabilities have always been adept at finding ways to reach an accommodation with both the public and private environments with which they are confronted, even when many spaces remained inaccessible to them. However, as the author shows, they went to remarkable lengths to gain entry to these hostile environments and devised ingenious devices to achieve these goals. Many of these responses resulted in alterations and compromise solutions of last resort that today may appear to us as degrading practices—and many of them were—but they should also be recognized in the historiography as examples of very smart self-help.

While accessibility has been an important field of research within disability studies, historians of disability have only recently begun to look into the materiality and the meaning of technology, building, and design. This is especially true for the non-US context, while in the United States, Williamson’s book is the third by a historian of design and material culture to appear within two years: Aimi Hamraie published Building Access: Universal Design and the Politics of Disability in 2017 and Elizabeth Guffey published Designing Disability: Symbols, Space and Society in 2018From the point of view of a historian of both technology and disability, this new interest is a welcome development. All three authors make an important point about the differences between a normative concept, a policy statement, a template, and actual, individual user experiences. They combine to increase the presence of disability as a category in design history.

Williamson bases her study on archival material, periodicals and other published sources, and interviews conducted in the course of disability history projects. One chapter, for example, is based on interesting archive material from the Disability Rights and Independent Living Movement Collection at Berkeley. The author strives to take not just the perspective of planners, architects, bureaucrats, or experts of various kinds, but to embrace those of users. However, individual disabled persons who were outside the architectural professions, and were not core figures in disability activism, are particularly dominant in the initial chapters, but they have little presence in the latter chapters where, sources permitting, it would have been nice to hear their voices continue with greater resonance.

The book is structured around seven chapters. Chapter 1 is about government policies and regulations in the aftermath of the Second World War, when the honoring and rehabilitation of disabled veterans was at the core of political interest. There were three major technical components to these policies: prosthetics were meant to complete the individual, customized cars were intended to take them to work and back, and accessible houses were to help reinforce US family and gender norms. It is very interesting to read that driving an automobile as a veteran was, in the postwar period, openly regarded as a material symbol of masculinity and freedom; it was advertised as such by car manufacturers and medical experts, even leading to a national car subsidy for veterans. However, despite provision of prosthetics, cars, and houses, the many barriers of the built environment faced by disabled veterans were largely ignored. Rehabilitation was regarded as the responsibility of the individual. Furthermore, high-tech prosthetics, wheelchair-accessible housing and specially equipped cars were components of an aid system limited to veterans. Disabled people who were not eligible for veterans’ programs received much less attention, especially in the spheres of financial support and technical aids.

Chapter 2 focuses on the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign because this was the first university campus where, in the 1950s, wheelchair-accessible devices were installed. Williamson traces the creation of a coordinated set of ramps, curb cuts, and customized interior building. This first systematic intervention into the built environment was devised largely by Timothy Nugent, the university’s rehabilitation services director. The chapter is about his and other rehabilitation experts‘ views on access: access was proposed as a means of medical and social rehabilitation and integration into the labor force and civil life. It was also rather enforced on people with disabilities. They were expected to perform, to be resourceful, well-disciplined, and tough. Access was not regarded as a right; it was given as a help so that the disabled individual could commit to his or her responsibility to function within society and overcome disability. Williamson calls this the rehabilitation approach to access. It was by no means a US phenomenon but was also typical of 1950s and 1960s Europe. The 1961 American National Standard Specifications for Making Buildings and Facilities Accessible, to, and Usable by, the Physically Handicapped was to become the model for many European standardization attempts; clause 117.1 suggested measurements for access while maintaining that the problem was largely the person, not the environment, and that access should be realized without much cost or design change.

Chapter 3 is an innovative discussion, marvelously devoted to DIY approaches, to tinkering and homemade adaptions to gadgets, medical equipment, and tools. I like that the author puts emphasis on the role of DIY constructions and ingenious inventions by persons with disabilities and their families, these being exacted during the 1940s to 1960s before there was a public debate, special design interest, and advocacy action. The background story is one of US consumerism and white middle-class lifestyle ideals. Williamson’s focus is on disabled veterans and polio survivors and their families. This is because these were the two groups of people with physical disabilities that dominated media coverage and received the most government attention in the postwar period. Williamson’s account of DIY and self-help journals is a fascinating and engaging read. It is about resourcefulness, inventor spirit, and agency. Williamson also makes clear that while white middle-class veterans and polio survivors may have been a privileged group at the time, they were also under significant pressure. There was strong expectation that they should “achieve,” meaning that they were supposed to operate “normally” in the spheres of consumerism and work, be independent and productive, fulfill mainstream gender roles, and keep their impaired condition private, ideally mimicking a nondisabled state. In an atmosphere of consumerism where consumption lay at the core of US civic identity, they could do this by shopping, having hobbies, and caring for their homes. However, mass-produced aids to achieve all these objectives were scarce and limited in variety. So there was a constant need for disabled people to be creative, to devise things independently. This matched well with a general trend towards DIY activities in these decades. Thus, tinkering to create access was both normal and normative, as well as extraordinary because adjusting to disability had an entirely different meaning to DIY undertaken for enjoyment or self-expression. It is important to note, too, that this kind of disabled peoples’ approach to access had an entirely different nature from rehabilitation specialists’ concepts of defining regulations and guidelines. The former was personal, experiential, imaginative, and local.

Chapter 4 shows how this latter type of knowledge, that of rehabilitation specialists, about barriers, access, and disability, became the reference base for the emancipation movement that emerged in the later 1960s and the 1970s. The movement promoted the new idea of a new type of expert: the disabled person as a specialist of disability. Experiential knowledge was now regarded as the most valuable type of knowledge and the rehabilitation specialists’ and the authorities’ take on disability and access was largely rejected by the movement. Williamson traces the advent of the new stakeholder and interest groups in accessible planning and building to the disabled student group that began the independent living movement at Berkeley. She then turns to the 1970s, when a nationwide emancipation movement was born. It quickly assumed the character of a civil rights movement—inspired by the boom in wider civil rights issues at that time. The concept of and the fight for access were at the core of the disability rights movement. Activists drew on individual experience and expertise and at the same time called for legislative action. In the wake of this, access became more and more a matter of standards and measurements. It was increasingly defined in quantitative terms.

Questions of scope and quantity are continued in chapter 5. It discusses how proponents and opponents of accessible design discussed the rights issue. These debates focused on calculating costs and benefits, and weighing the benefit of a perceived small group of people against the concerns of what seemed to be the majority. The 1973 Civil Rights Act addressed disability as a civil rights issue and thus access became a civil right by law. But was it worth the effort, or was accessible design still a design excess? Should communities afford this, and did they need it at all? Williamson uses the example of the public bus system to demonstrate how opponents of accessible design suggested the extension of individual transportation by, for example, dial-a-ride-taxis as an alternative; additionally, to them, taxis seemed less costly and more comfortable. The backdrop to those arguments was the conservative preference for privatization and for self-interested companies over federal programs or even legislation under the Reagan administration. Separation was preferred over integration while at the same time these opponents of access regulation asserted that disabled people gained more benefit from separate provision. While the disability protest movement of the 1980s grew ever stronger, it experienced a harsh backlash from conservatives. Williamson portrays the 1990 Americans with Disabilities Act as a victory for the rights movement that made access enforceable, but she also points out that rights were increasingly quantified and the material objects in question remained the subject of heated debates.

Chapter 6 moves on to examining design principles and development from ergonomics to Universal Design. Before ergonomics, designers worked with highly standardized measurements and statistical averages that allowed for little variation. Ergonomics took variation as a starting point. In the meantime, disabled persons were increasingly regarded as consumers of the mass market. They began to be attractive to companies and access was increasingly defined by market logics. Williamson is critical of Ron Mace’s 1980s concepts of Universal Design and Design for All, although these were very appealing at the time. The idea of design usable by all people and for everyone appears more inclusive at first glance than the design of special, add-on accessibility technologies. Universal Design, however, veils power and class issues, and “gloss[es] over disability in favor of aesthetic and functional appeals” (p. 150). The emphasis on “all” may easily conceal power relations and inequalities in society. Who might this “all” be, anyway?

Chapter 7 focuses on more recent developments in design and politics. Williamson contends that while accessible design is now ubiquitous and some features, such as ramps, are iconic, there is not much reason to feel celebratory. There is still a lot of resistance and ADA rights have to be pushed through by lawsuits. What is more, ramps and other devices of access are not the end of exclusion. She quotes an artist’s bon mot of “beautiful progress to nowhere” to illustrate this (p. 186). The rights movement has made much progress, but to where, precisely? What has really changed? Williamson leaves this question unanswered, turning instead to discuss a new development in design, the concept that disability these days is made more visible and readable from the artifact. Prosthetics and devices take into account fashion and individual style preferences. It is interesting to read that disabled people branded their own design as “crip design,” borrowing from crip culture. She also argues that disabled designers in general see and create things differently, inscribing their different experiences into their products. But maybe this chapter is a little too enthusiastic about fashionable prosthetics design and chic wheelchairs. Obviously, those are great achievements, but such items are often only available to a user elite or even a few avant-garde users. Here the narrative appears rather teleological (design turning into the better) and misses out on power and income inequalities. Options for self-expression are still limited—maybe not by design, but certainly by financial resources. It is great that design is much more varied these days, but disabled persons’ choices often are not independent. In her conclusion, Williamson touches on these limitations directly when she highlights recent curbs in disability rights and threats to financial aids under the Trump administration.

The author’s overall political point is clear: access is not the same as inclusion. And access is not the same as ramps, door measurements, or variety of choice in prosthetics. Different needs and wishes have to be addressed by very different design approaches—if they can be addressed by design at all. For example, the realm of the sensory impaired asks for very different design approaches—light design, sound design, texture design, et cetera, all of which are quite different from issues of physical mobility.

Williamson treats access as an ideal, that is, something easy to understand but hard to reach. She demonstrates convincingly that the idea of a universally accessible world for all of us is both an illusion and not even what all disabled people want or need—particularly if access means the compulsion to function and behave “normally.” Disability cuts through the mainstream ideas of functioning and participation. Not everyone needs or wants to function or do things the “normal” way even if this is possible with the help of a certain type of design. There needs to be room to live differently. This kind of choice, she argues, needs to be given greater respect.

To have shown such ambivalences and paradoxes is a merit of this investigation. Altogether, this book is easy to like. It is free of jargon. The many short summaries are very useful. They are placed either at the opening or at the end of each chapter. The contents of this book are a win for historians of disability as well as for historians of technology, architecture, and design. I certainly recommend it.

Citation: Elsbeth Bösl. Review of Williamson, Bess, Accessible America: A History of Disability and Design. H-Disability, H-Net Reviews. October, 2019. URL: http://www.h-net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id=53666

PUBLIC DISABILITY HISTORY AWARD -Applications Due Dec. 20, 2019

Did you complete a public disability history project in the last two years? Was it a community-anchored or community-led project designed with physical and programmatic accessibility in mind?

Apply now to win a new cash award sponsored by the Disability History Association. 

Visit our web site(https://dishist.org) to learn more about project criteria. Applicants must currently be members of the Disability History Association. You can join or renew your membership here

Submit a cover letter, project description, and other supporting materials such as media coverage to Nicole Belolan, Award Chair and Disability History Association Secretary, by December 20, 2019, at nbelolan@gmail.com. Questions about the application process are welcome and encouraged. Award will be announced in February 2020.

To learn more about how to make your public disability history work accessible, check out our resource library.

Please help spread the word. You can find additional promotional materials at: https://dishist.org/?page_id=1230. Please help us spread the word!

REVIEW: Robson on Reber, ‘Tuberculosis in the Americas, 1870-1945: Beneath the Anguish in Philadelphia and Buenos Aires’

by H-Net Reviews

Vera Blinn Reber. Tuberculosis in the Americas, 1870-1945: Beneath the Anguish in Philadelphia and Buenos Aires. New York: Routledge, 2018. 348 pp. $149.95 (cloth), ISBN 978-1-138-35950-5.

Reviewed by Charmaine Robson (University of New South Wales) Published on H-Disability (October, 2019) Commissioned by Iain C. Hutchison (University of Glasgow)

Printable Version: http://www.h-net.org/reviews/showpdf.php?id=53717

This is a study of two cities—Buenos Aires in South America and Philadelphia in North America—and their experiences of tuberculosis in the period 1870-1945. In the nineteenth century, this disease emerged as a major cause of infirmity and mortality internationally, linked to the rise of urbanization and industrialization, but for most of this period it was poorly understood. Tuberculosis in the Americas 1870 to 1945 by historian of medicine, Vera Blinn Reber, opens at a time when advances in European biomedicine occurred, leading to international consensus on the etiology and treatment of tuberculosis. Crucial to this development was the emergence of germ theory and, in particular, identification of the causative bacillus by Robert Koch (1843-1910), Mycobacterium tuberculosis, in Berlin in 1882. But a cure did not follow until 1945, when streptomycin, a newly discovered antibiotic, was found to be effective. In the intervening years, with 8-15 percent of all deaths worldwide attributed to tuberculosis, the disease became both a global public health issue, with measures to prevent the spread of the disease, and the subject of medical research in the battle to find a cure. This forms the medical context for the social and public health histories presented in this book.

Tuberculosis in the Americas has seven chapters plus an epilogue. The first chapter focuses on medical and scientific discourse in relation to tuberculosis from the 1890s to 1920s. In this period, the theory of heredity was gradually replaced by that of contagion, as reflected in public health policies of isolating the tuberculosis sufferer from society. Chapter 2 describes Philadelphia and Buenos Aires during the period under discussion. It shows that in many ways these cities were like others of their time and, interestingly, resembled one other. As of the 1920s, they had become leading cities of their respective nations and modern centers of commerce, education, and manufacturing, with a rising middle class and growing migrant populations. By 1907, deaths from tuberculosis in both Buenos Aires and Philadelphia exceeded deaths from all other infectious disease epidemics. Both cities established internationally recognized research and treatment facilities for tuberculosis, but local variables, such as climate and culture, to some extent differently shaped the sites and nature of medical institutions that found acceptance for tuberculosis treatment in the two cities. 

In chapter 3, Reber analyzes the incidence of tuberculosis and its consequences for the cities’ migrants, both from within and outside the Americas. To the extent that these groups occupied the lowest socioeconomic positions, this chapter offers both a class and race critique of public health policies. Its conclusions echo what historians have found elsewhere: the correlation of tuberculosis deaths with substandard living and working conditions led to anxiety about the spread of the disease from the migrant poor and was accompanied by targeted, morally judgmental interventions from charities and government.[1] However, Reber also points to positive responses by authorities in their initiatives to improve housing and green spaces, which ultimately resulted in ameliorating the poor health of their citizens and lessening the risk of contracting tuberculosis.

Chapter 4 examines the medical treatment of tuberculosis patients. It does an excellent job of explaining the available tests, treatment regimens, and education campaigns during this period, as well as the different sites of treatment—home, outpatient clinics, and hospitals. With a subtitle of “Patient and Physician Experiences,” we might expect this chapter to consist mainly of diverse first-person perspectives, but this is not the case. The only substantial accounts were between Dr. Lawrence Flick (1856-1938) and his wealthy patient, George Macklin, as conveyed in Bargaining for Life: A Social History of Tuberculosis, 1887-1938 (1992) by physician Barbara Bates (1928-2002). There is little to substantiate the chapter’s early claim that “gender, class and age” affected diagnosis and treatment, despite some allusions to these different categories (p. 123). Read on to the next two chapters, and class and age are subject to some analysis. Chapter 5 expands on tuberculosis treatment by looking at life in the sanatoria, with an interesting section on patient protest and how it differed between the two cities. Chapter 6 is an excellent study of tuberculosis measures for children, especially the poor of Buenos Aires and Philadelphia. As Reber reminds us, governments were willing to foster expensive public health measures for the young in the interests of producing “vigorous, patriotic adults who could serve in the military and contribute to the national economy” (p. 216).

Chapter 7 considers the two cities against the background of international tuberculosis policies and practices, providing glimpses of, for example, Spain, whose changing relationship with Argentina was reflected in the latter’s shifting medical discourses. The epilogue does three things: it provides the aftermath to successful antibiotic therapy in the 1940s, it sums up the book’s content, and it provides an analysis of the late twentieth-century tuberculosis global outbreak.

Tuberculosis in the Americas relies on a rich selection of sources for its evidence, including the secondary literature and government archival records. The book is replete with tables setting out a myriad of statistics, connecting tuberculosis deaths to occupation, age, place, et cetera. Reber’s main point is that, while modern medical advances were crucial to combating tuberculosis in Philadelphia and Buenos Aires, improved living and working standards and access to health services were also essential to the decline of tuberculosis in the two cities. 

The importance of this book does not lie in any significant break with current historiographical themes and insights of tuberculosis history. Indeed, Reber makes the point that Philadelphia and Buenos Aires were not exceptional in the approaches taken to manage tuberculosis in this period. Her work, to quote the editors of one volume on tuberculosis history, is an example of the several “studies that show the contingent character of anti-TB policies across time and space.”[2] Nonetheless, Tuberculosis in the Americas contributes to tuberculosis and public health history through its painstaking documentation and broad-ranging study of institutions, treatments, medical discourse, and social conditions in these two cities of North and South America.

Notes 

[1]. See, for example, Emily K. Abel, Tuberculosis and the Politics of Exclusion: A History of Public Health and Migration to Los Angeles (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2007); and Matthew Gandy and Alimuddin Zumla, eds., The Return of the White Plague (London and New York: Verso, 2003).

[2]. Linda Bryder, Flurin Condrau and Michael Worboys, “Tuberculosis and its Histories: Then and Now,” in Tuberculosis Then and Now: Perspectives on the History of an Infectious Disease, edFlurinCondrau and Michael Worboys (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2010), 8.

Citation: Charmaine Robson. Review of Reber, Vera Blinn, Tuberculosis in the Americas, 1870-1945: Beneath the Anguish in Philadelphia and Buenos Aires. H-Disability, H-Net Reviews. October, 2019. URL: http://www.h-net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id=53717

Call for applicants: DHA Mentorship program

The Disability History Association’s Mentorship Program was founded as part of the American Historical Association’s Advisory Committee on Disability, to assist in facilitating network connections between graduate students and established faculty working on disability history. 

Mentoring is a crucial process of academic learning. For graduate students, it offers an opportunity to ask questions about challenges they may face in the duration of their career: doing research, preparing for their exams and defense, learning about effective teaching strategies, dealing with administrative roadblocks, and more. For faculty volunteers, mentoring serves as an extension of teaching skills and presents an opportunity to guide rising scholars in the field. 

The DHA Mentorship Program aims to match volunteer mentors with students who are either pursuing a graduate degree in the same subfield of history or who have the same disability, if that information is disclosed. The mentor is not meant to replace or interfere with the supervisor-student relationship, but rather to serve as a helpful resource in the field for general advice and professional development. 

This informal Program is based on communication through email, phone, or Skype. The frequency and mode of contact will depend on the mentee and mentor, but DHA recommends it must be no less than 1-2 hours every 4-6 weeks for at least a year.

QUALIFICATIONS FOR THE PROGRAM

Mentees

  • Graduate students doing a MA or PhD in history, disability history, history of science or history of medicine with a specialization in disability history. Students working in related disciplines, such as American studies, historical sociology, historical anthropology, or material culture studies are also welcome. Students working outside the U.S. are welcome to apply.
  • Demonstrated an interest in developing a career as a researcher and teacher/faculty in the history of disability
  • Students with disabilities are especially encouraged to apply

Mentors

  • Scholars worldwide working in the area of disability history or related fields 
  • Faculty with disabilities are especially encouraged to apply

To apply, please send an email to Dr. Jaipreet Virdi, director of the Mentorship Program at jvirdi@udel.edu with a short paragraph outlining:

  • Your name, affiliation, and email
  • Your field of study/program, year of graduation (mentees), and area(s) of specialty.
  • What do you aim to achieve from this program?
  • If so desired, you are welcome to disclose your disability/disabilities 
  • For mentors: how many mentees are you willing to take on if they are a good match? (DHA recommendation is 1-3) 

Applications for the fall semester are due AUGUST 19. Mentee-mentor matches will be set by September 1. The next round of applications will be in December for a January match. 

If you have any questions, please contact the director of the Mentorship Program, Dr. Jaipreet Virdi at jvirdi@udel.edu.

A Word Document of this call is available here.