Portraits of Thinking: An Account of a Common Laborer

For the sixth story about cognition in action, I want to go back into history and reflect on the infamous description of a man named Schmidt, a common laborer in Frederick Winslow Taylor’s 1911 The Principles of Scientific Management. Taylor’s portrayal of Schmidt reveals an undemocratic and contradictory American attitude toward physical work, one that carries with it strong biases about intelligence. For those of you who missed the previous entries where I discuss the purpose of these portraits of thinking, I’ll repeat two introductory paragraphs now. If you did read the earlier entries, you can skip right to the reflection on Schmidt, which is drawn from The Mind at Work.

As I’ve been arguing during the year of this blog’s existence—and for some time before—we tend to think too narrowly about intelligence, and that narrow thinking has affected the way we judge each other, organize work, and define ability and achievement in school. We miss so much.

I hope that the portraits I offer over the next few months illustrate the majesty and surprise of intelligence, its varied manifestations, its subtlety and nuance. The play of mind around us.

***

Following is one of the most reproduced depictions of a laborer in Western occupational literature, drawn from Taylor's The Principles of Scientific Management. It captures American industry’s traditional separation of managerial intelligence from worker production.

Taylor was a fierce systematizer and a tireless promoter of time study and industrial efficiency. He uses an immigrant laborer named Schmidt to illustrate how even the most basic of tasks—in this case, the loading of pig iron—could be analytically broken down by the scientific manager into a series of maximally effective movements, with a resulting bonus in wages and a boom in productivity. Schmidt, Taylor claimed, jumped his rate from twelve-and-a-half tons of pig iron per day—each "pig" an oblong casting of iron weighing close to one-hundred pounds—to an astonishing tonnage of forty-seven.

Before he introduces Schmidt, Taylor sets the scene with a dispassionate analysis of the loading of pig iron at Bethlehem Steel, Schmidt's place of employment. Enter Schmidt, "a little Pennsylvania Dutchman," seemingly inexhaustible (he "trots" to and from work), frugal, in the process of building "a little house for himself." Then comes this interaction between Taylor and Schmidt:

'Schmidt, are you a high-priced man?'
Vell, I don't know vat you mean.'
'Oh, yes, you do. What I want to know is whether you are a high-priced man or not.'
'Vell, I don't know vat you mean.'
'Oh, come now, you answer my questions. What I want to find out is whether you are a high-priced man or one of these cheap fellows here.
What I want to find out is whether you want to earn $1.85 a day or whether you are satisfied with $1.15, just the same as all those cheap fellows are getting.'
'Did I vant $1.85 a day? Vas dot a high-priced man? Vell, yes, I vas a high-priced man.'
'Oh, you're aggravating me. Of course you want $1.85 a day—every one wants it!…For goodness' sake answer my questions, and don't waste any more of my time. Now come over here. You see that pile of pig iron?'…

Taylor badgers Schmidt for a little while longer—one wonders what Schmidt thinks of all this—and then introduces him to the supervisor who will direct his scientifically calibrated labor:

Well, if you are a high-priced man, you will do exactly as this man tells you to-morrow, from morning till night. When he tells you to pick up a pig and walk, you pick it up and you walk, and when he tells you to sit down and rest, you sit down. You do that right straight through the day. And what's more, no back talk. Now a high-priced man does just what he's told to do, and no back talk. Do you understand that? When this man tells you to walk, you walk; when he tells you to sit down, you sit down, and you don't talk back at him.

"This seems to be rather rough talk," Taylor admits, but "[w]ith a man of the mentally sluggish type of Schmidt it is appropriate and not unkind." Later, Taylor observes that Schmidt "happened to be a man of the type of an ox…a man so stupid that he was unfitted to do most kinds of laboring work, even."

There's much to say about this depiction, and a number of critics, beginning with Upton Sinclair, have collectively said it: the insidious mix of scientific pretension, class and ethnic bias, and paternalism; the antagonistic management stance, the kind of authoritarian control that would lead to industrial inflexibility; the absolute gulf between managerial brains and worker brawn; the ruthlessness of full-blown industrial capitalism. All true.

In addition, though, I keep thinking of Schmidt himself, rereading Taylor's rendering, trying to imagine him beyond the borders of Taylor's page. Let us follow him through the plant, out into his world, down the road home. Though Taylor claims that a man like Schmidt "is so stupid that the word 'percentage' has no meaning to him," Taylor also tells us that Schmidt is building a house from his meager earnings. So, Schmidt had to calculate and budget, and even if he could not do formal arithmetic—we don’t know if he could or couldn't—he would have to be competent in the mathematics necessary for carpentry. And for him to plan and execute even a simple structure, use hand tools effectively, solicit and coordinate aid—all this requires way more intelligence than Taylor grants him.

Taylor does not tell us if Schmidt is literate, but does note that many of the laborers "were foreigners and unable to read and write." If Schmidt were illiterate, did he develop informal literate networks to take care of personal and civic needs? We know that ethnic communities were rich in fraternal organizations that served as places of entertainment, but also as sites of political discussion and the exchange of news about the old country. Literate members would write letters, read newspapers aloud, both in their native language and English, and act as linguistic and culture brokers with mainstream institutions. The parish church or synagogue was another source of exposure to literate practices and social exchange, and, for some, a place of reflection.

Though Bethlehem Steel was not yet a site of significant union activity, labor unrest had already erupted in some sectors of steel, and discussions about safety, work conditions, and the length of the work day were in the air. Schmidt might well have heard the early rumblings about these issues and might have talked about them to others in the yard, the saloon, the neighborhood.

The point is that one cannot assume—as so many have—that the men looking back at us impassively from those photographs of the open ditch or the pouring of fiery steel, faded, blurring to silver, had no mental life, were sluggish, dull, like oxen.

Portraits of Thinking: Composing a Poem in Special Ed

There have been a lot of posts over the last few weeks, and I want to continue the discussion about education policy. I’m writing something now, but need a little more time to track down some facts. So let me offer another portrait from a classroom that displays the kind of teaching and learning that has been the driving force behind our ongoing discussion of education policy.

This scene is from a special education class in a Mississippi high school. For those of you who missed the previous entries where I discuss the purpose of these portraits of thinking, I’ll repeat two introductory paragraphs now. If you did read the earlier entries, you can skip right to the portrait of Joann Wynn and her student, LaFonda, which is drawn from Possible Lives.

As I’ve been arguing during the year of this blog’s existence—and for some time before—we tend to think too narrowly about intelligence, and that narrow thinking has affected the way we judge each other, organize work, and define ability and achievement in school. We miss so much.

I hope that the portraits I offer over the next few months illustrate the majesty and surprise of intelligence, its varied manifestations, its subtlety and nuance. The play of mind around us. I hope that collectively the portraits help us think in a richer way about teaching, learning, achievement, and the purpose of education—a richer way than that found in our current national policy and political discourse about school.

***

LaFonda’s short fingers moved in slow, deliberate motion over the keyboard of the word processor, little finger up as if at tea, the fingers, the thumb moving, finding letters with a soft touch. Touch, then press:

T-h-e  n-i-g-h-t  t-i-m-e…

She was bundled up, the puffy sleeves of her blue ski jacket resting on the arms of the wheelchair, thinking, concentrating, a smile passing as she found the key, completed the line:

i-s  e-x-c-i-t-i-n-g  a-n-d  f-u-n

Ms. Wynn, her teacher, was working with another student close by. That student couldn’t or wouldn’t write, and Ms. Wynn, gentle and persistent, was trying to elicit a few words, coming at it one way, then another, then another – for eventually the student would have to write a short, timed essay to pass the high school equivalency exam, the goal of many in this special education class. That was not LaFonda’s goal, however.

She wanted to go to college and become a social worker. She continued to compose her poem, pausing, reading the lines, nodding, then back to the keyboard, pressing softly. Earlier with the aid of a laptop machine that produces a mechanical voice, she had read to the class a story about oceans and shorelines and freedom. Mrs. Wynn and another teacher have been trying to get her enrolled at the local community college. The word processor and voice generating machine have been of great help. LaFonda used to be in a vocational program, her words and desire muffled. But Joann Wynn knew better; she had been pushing on boundaries of what traditional special education thought was possible. She got up from her reluctant writer, who was composing now, and went over to check on LaFonda.

LaFonda laughed softly at her concluding couplet, enjoying the rhyme, and extended her little finger toward the print key, reaching. And the poem began whirring out of the printer:

The Night Time

The night time is exciting and fun

When everyone can do, 

what they want.

The night time is like a hunter’s home. 

It is spooky, scaring 

And soundless.

You can see it black body. 

And you can see it 

million eyes.

Boo-Boo, goes the night child.

You can see its moving and 

you can hear its talking.

If you want ugly night monsters to go away, 

You better get on your knees and pray.