Watch Out for Fallout

be prepared!, originally uploaded by msmail.

A little while ago, I noncommittally insinuated that at some point, someday, in the future, I would maybe post more of my Adventures in Historical Ephemera. And I quote: "Maybe next week I will talk about my research on fallout shelters and consumerism!"

Well, okay. In retrospect, that was pretty committal.

So I guess it's not "next week" anymore, but I don't know. Maybe it's all this deceptive spring air, or the sunlight in Cambridge that is actually made of icicles, but I'm feeling adventurous. Below, I've posted the first two paragraphs from a paper I wrote last year: "Your Life May Depend On It: Selling Americans on Fallout Shelters, 1950-61." As usual, if you are brave and unwitting enough to actually want to read the whole thing, all it takes is one email: diana (dot) kimball (at) gmail (dot) com.

The 1950s in the United States marked the decade when Americans became full-fledged consumers. World war and the invention of the atomic bomb had stained the 1940s with an atmosphere of apocalyptic fear. After the United States abruptly ended World War II in 1945 by dropping the atomic bomb over Hiroshima, Americans slowly withdrew their gaze from the world stage to the home front—nevertheless keeping a watchful eye on the new specter of the atomic bomb. In the wake of such anxiety and uncertainty, citizens of the 1950s took comfort in their families and homes, while retreating to the suburbs in droves. According to historian Elaine Tyler May, “investing in one’s home, along with the trappings that would presumably enhance family life, was seen as the best way to plan for the future.” In their pursuit of the ideal nuclear family home, Americans did their best to buy themselves safety, comfort, and peace of mind.

And yet, as atomic power proliferated in both the United States and the Soviet Union, enabling the Cold War to creep onto the scene, American families faced constant reminders that their suburban strongholds could not protect them from the fallout of a potential atomic attack. Sensing a market for assured protection, popular magazines and independent contractors began to sell consumers on the idea of the fallout shelter, a potentially priceless addition to any home. Meanwhile, realizing that in the atomic age, “the whole world is a battlefield,” the government pushed single-family fallout shelters in radio spots and pamphlets—largely in an effort to convince Americans to take on the expense of civil defense for themselves. Whether made of concrete, steel, wood, or dirt; whether buried in the backyard, or tucked away in the basement, the basic premise of the fallout shelter was that it would protect families from deadly radiation and shrapnel in the event of an atomic attack. Between 1950 and 1961 the government, the media, and eager companies sold Americans on the idea of fallout shelters—not only as concrete commodities, but also as vessels for safety, family solidarity, and, above all, consumer goods...

...and so it continues, for another 10 pages. The Douglas Fir Plywood Association makes a cameo. As does Coca-Cola. I'm saving the good parts, see, for the two people in the world who will actually be interested in this.

It's sort of like bribery. Only, with more reading. And less money.

Electro, the Smoking Robot, and Other Stories from the 1939 New York World's Fair

Why, hello there!

It's been a blur around here. I spent the past week researching and writing an epic term paper on chubbiness and consumerism among young teenage girls during World War II. And yes. It was exactly as crazy as it sounds.

...I love history.

Speaking of history: something brilliant happened this week in my RSS feed reader. Everything I love converged at a single point on the Internet, and that point was this 55-minute promotional film for the 1939 New York World's Fair.

And yes. It is exactly as amazing as it sounds.

Haven't had time to watch the whole thing yet, but I'm inclined to save it for a rainy day. Just listen to this description, courtesy of the Prelinger Archive of ephemeral films:

This drama illustrates the contribution of free enterprise, technology, and Westinghouse products to the American way of life. The Middleton Family at the New York World's Fair pits an anti-capitalist bohemian artist boyfriend against an all-American electrical engineer who believes in improving society by working through corporations. The Middletons experience Westinghouse's technological marvels at the Fair and win back their daughter from her leftist boyfriend.

Memorable moments: the dishwashing contest between Mrs. Modern and Mrs. Drudge; Electro, the smoking robot; and the Westinghouse time capsule.

Did you hear that? It's the sound of my heart skipping a beat.

My discovery of this outstanding contribution to society was all thanks to the Prelinger Archive's RSS feed, which notified me of its appearance. And, considering that the film is stored online at the Prelinger Archive and that it involves the 1939 New York World's Fair—i.e. my favorite world's fair of all time—I do believe it connects to not one, not two, but three of my posts from November.

It all feels almost too fortuitous. At this point, the Prelinger Archive might as well just go ahead and upload an operating time machine. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they did. Because, honestly? I don't see how else they're going to follow this act.

I Have Seen the Future

Three years ago, I placed an order with Neighborhoodies. Black hoodie, front zip, teal letters slanting in rounded capitals on the back: I Have Seen the Future.

This was well before I knew what my future would actually contain—before I started college, before I decided to concentrate in history, before I knew that the next four years would contain countless yellowing magazines and aging photographs. At the time, history meant one thing to me, and one thing only. And that thing was world's fairs. Also known as My Obsession.

The Trylon and Perisphere at the 1939 New York World's Fair.
Photograph from the New York Public Library.

It started with a term paper on world's fairs during my junior year of high school, but soon my fascination had spiraled out of control. I remember stumbling into a used bookshop the sleepless afternoon after finishing a world's fair paper draft, and blearily asking for artifacts—anything to mark the moment. The store owner found me a pamphlet from the 1939 New York World's Fair—by far, my favorite—and handed it to me in its sturdy plastic sleeve. It was out of my price range, but I was well beyond logic. I bought it anyway.

The hoodie came the next year. Unsurprisingly, it was a world's fair reference—visitors to the 1939 New York World's Fair who attended General Motors' Futurama exhibit received "I Have Seen the Future" pins on their way out. One day, not long after I started wearing my future hoodie, someone stopped me on my way to class and asked me, "How is it?" I was startled, and fumbled, "How is what?"

"The future," he replied.

Of course.

Inspired by this Wired article on The Original Futurama, which today caused me to just about explode with happiness.