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and racial foundations of our practice (Barbour1994; Leone 1995). The class structure of ar-chaeology, however, has remained largely a hid-den issue. This should not surprise us because

the denial of class and class differences has longbeen a fundamental aspect of American ideology(Domhoff 1983:3-6). Despite this denial, classremains one of the inherent relationships thatstructure modern capitalist America. By denyingor overlooking its existence we ignore an impor-tant factor that affects the histories that we writeand that structures the audiences for which wewrite. Finally, by denying class we conceal theclass inequities that exist within our own disci-

pline.Archaeology is a locus of contemporary class

struggle. In the universities, downsizing, declin-ing employment opportunities, restructuring, anddecreasing funding levels have proletarianized thelife of the mind (Aronowitz 1997). A reservearmy of part time professors and gypsy scholars

now performs more than 40% of the teaching.Class struggles have erupted between teaching

assistants, professors, and administrators (Nelson

1997a). In cultural resource management (CRM),a group of managers have formed a trade as-sociation, the American Cultural Resource Asso-

ciation (ACRA), and numerous field technicianshave banded together in an AFL-CIO affiliatedunion, the United Archaeological Field Techni-

cians (UAFT). These struggles involve all ar-chaeologists in one way or another, and they areprofound forces shaping our discipline.

Archaeology exists in a tangled skein of class

relations. In our effort to untangle the strandswe have found it useful to distinguish betweenarchaeology as a discipline and the various occu-pational structures in which archaeologists labor.The discipline of archaeology is a branch oflearning grounded in a distinctive craft that canbe used to study the world (Shanks and McGuire1996). Individuals who master this craft, andwho apply it to do research in the world are ar-chaeologists. Archaeologists have different pro-

fessions or careers, and labor within various oc-

RANDALL H. MCGUIREMARK WALKER

Class Confrontations inArchaeology

ABSTRACT

Archaeologist not only live class they also study it. Archae-

ology as a discipline serves class interests and as a profession,or occupation, it has its own class structure. The discipline

of archaeology has, since its founding, primarily served middle-class interests. It has formed part of the symbolic capital thathas been necessary for membership in the middle class during

this century. Archaeology has traditionally reproduced itselfin the university using a guild model of apprenticeship andmastery. In both the academy and in cultural resource man-

agement today this guild model has become an ideology that

obscures the existence of an archaeological proletariat of teach-ing assistants, adjuncts, and field techs. The ideology justifies

denying these archaeologists respect, a living wage, job secu-

rity, and benefits. A seven step program is proposed to rectifythe structural class inequalities of modem archaeology.

introduction

The papers in this volume demonstrate thatarchaeologists can confront class in the past bymaking classes, class relations, and class con-sciousness the objects of their study. Archaeolo-gists do not, however, just confront class, it alsoconfronts us. Class and class relations permeateall aspects of capitalist society and as a part ofthat society archaeology embodies these relations.Archaeologists approach the study of class in thepast from a discipline that has traditionally served

middle-class interests. This discipline also has itsown dynamic class structure and this structure isbecoming increasingly exploitative both in theacademy and in cultural resource management.Archaeologists may study class in the past, butwe must live class in the present.

The idea that archaeologists labor in a socialcontext is not a new one. In the last decadehistorical archaeologists have presented explicitcomments on the gender (Chester et al. 1994;

Spencer-Wood 1994; Beaudry 1994; Zeder 1997)

Historical Archaeology, 1999, 33(1):159-183.Permission to reprint required.



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cupational structures. For most of this centuryprofessional archaeologists practiced their trade inthe academy (museums, colleges, and universi-ties), and amateur archaeologists did archaeology

as a hobby or as an avocation. Today, archae-ologists still ply their craft in these two contexts,but the vast majority of professional archaeolo-gists labor in CRM, where most are employedeither in the governmental or in the private sec-tor (Patterson 1995). Archaeology as a disciplinehas a class position and class interests. As a pro-fession or occupation it has a class structure.

Archaeology has typically served middle-classinterests. It is part of the intellectual apparatus

(things such as schools, books, magazines, orga-nizations, and arts) that produces the symboliccapital (things such as esoteric knowledge, sharedexperience, certification, and social skills) thatindividuals need to be part of the middle class.This apparatus, including archaeology, developedas part of the historical struggles that created thecapitalist middle class (Trigger 1989; Patterson1995). Because it is set in the middle class,archaeology attracts primarily a middle-class fol-

lowing and often does not appeal to working-class audiences. Archaeology also uses the intel-lectual apparatus of the middle class to reproduceitself. Ideally this reproduction follows the guildmodel of apprenticeship and mastery. In the ide-alized guild model all archaeologists are eithermiddle class, or apprentices moving towards thatstatus.

In our current era of rampant capitalism, all ar-chaeologists are not either middle class or ap-

prentices with a reasonable hope of becomingmasters. The class structures that archaeologistscurrently labor in, both in the academy and inCRM, entail permanent class divisions that ex-ploit subordinates and that do not provide themwith a living wage. In the academy these struc-tures have arisen as a result of changes in therole of the university in reproducing the middle

class. In CRM they arise from the competitive,profit driven nature of contracting, and have ledto the practice of employers paying skilled ar-chaeologists at lower wage rates than unionized

HISTORICAL ARCHAEOLOGY 33(1)

unskilled laborers. In both cases the ideology ofthe guild model obscures the realities of exploi-tation.

What then is to be done? The first step to a

class praxis in archaeology is the realization thatarchaeologists do live class and that class inter-ests limit the audience of the discipline and ex-ploit individuals within it. From this shouldcome a questioning of privilege by those whohave it, whether they be tenured faculty orproject directors. These questions could includehow we remake our practice to mitigate the ex-ploitation we find. Finally, those in subordinatepositions, whether they be field technicians or

adjuncts, need to organize to represent andstruggle for their own interests.

The Discipline of Archaeology and ClassInterests

Numerous scholars have argued that the disci-pline of archaeology as a global phenomena isprimarily a middle-class product and that it tendsto express the ideology of that class (Kristiansen

1981; Trigger 1989; McGuire 1992; Potter 1994;Patterson 1995). The prevailing middle-classnature of archaeology manifests itself in the his-tory of our discipline and in the audience forarchaeology. The dominance of middle-class in-terests and ideologies in archaeology encouragesarchaeologists to see the middle-class perspectiveas universal and to disdain other class interestsand perceptions of the past. The discipline ofarchaeology reproduces itself in the middle-class

setting of the academy.

The Middle Class

The popular usage of the term middle class inthe United States equates this class either withmiddle income, or with white collar occupations.In contrast to this common usage, we speak of

class as a structural phenomenon defined by therelationship of a social group to the means ofproduction. In modern capitalism the middleclass are those individuals, such as managers,



CLASS CONFRONTATIONS IN ARCHAEOLOGY

administrators, and professionals, who stand be-tween the owners (or controllers) of the means ofproduction, and the workers who do the labor ofproduction (Braverman 1974:403-409, 1989:42;

Ehrenreich and Ehrenreich 1979). On averagethey earn considerably more than mean or me-dian income and make up no more than about20% of the population of the United States(Ehrenreich 1989:12). Most of these individualshave white collar occupations, but many whitecollar occupations such as clerks, secretaries, andbank tellers would not be considered middle classin this sense. The middle class is not a uniformmass, and some authors even write about it in

the plural, i.e. the middle classes (Patterson1995). Individuals who make their livings prima-rily through their command of a specialized bodyof knowledge form the professional middle classas opposed to those individuals who make theirliving primarily by managing the labor of others(the managerial middle class) (Ehrenreich 1989).We can also define class factions based on re-gional, racial, and cultural differences (Patterson1995).

In-deed many sociologists have argued that schol-ars should speak of classes being made up offamilies rather than individuals (Sennett andCobb 1972; Domhoff 1983, 1996). The processof reproduction entails both the maintenance ofthe structural position (the occupations and rela-tions between them), and socializing the nextgeneration to take up roles within that class po-sition.

In modern capitalism, the reproduction of the

middle class is the most insecure of the classpositions (Frykman 1987; Ehrenreich 1989:12).Working-class occupations minimally require theability to do physical labor, or in many casessets of skills that can be acquired from a parentor with modest education. Upper-class familiesusually have capital resources (wealth, stocks,property, etc.) that allow them to ensure thattheir children will be able to maintain the classposition of their parents (Mills 1956; Domhoff

1996). Middle-class families, however, typically

Classes reproduce themselves over time.

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lack the capital resources to guarantee theirchildren’s class position and instead seek to pro-vide them with a formal education that will al-low them to enter the middle class. Formal edu-

cation gives middle-class children the technicalskills necessary for middle-class occupations, butof equal importance it entrusts to them the sym-bolic capital of the middle class. Education pro-vides individuals with a body of esoteric knowl-edge, social skills, shared experience, and certi-fication that will identify them in the future asmiddle class. Middle-class status derives prima-rily from the control of this symbolic capital.

For most of this century entry to the middle

class has typically necessitated a college educa-tion, and this need has been a major barrier toworking-class individuals that sought to enter themiddle class (Wolff 1969:151; Ryan and Sackery1996:lOl-109; Aronowitz 1997:190). Highereducation commonly separates learning from do-ing (Potter 1994:148-149). This separation oflearning and doing creates a hurdle to working-class individuals who must seek work to maintainthemselves and their ow n families. These peoplecan only afford to learn as part of their work, tolearn in their time off from work, or to rapidlylearn technical skills that they can directly applyto work.

The separation of learning and doing also per-meates the relations of labor between the middleand working classes. The work of the middleclass is by and large intellectual labor, the appli-cation of formal knowledge or principles, com-monly to tasks that working-class individualsexecute. Middle-class ideology puts a high value

on the intellectual apparatus of capitalism, espe-cially educational institutions, both because theclass reproduces itself through this apparatus,and because much of the class finds employmentin it. Working-class ideology tends to resent thisapparatus as elitist both because it hinders theirown class mobility and because in the workplace their experience and skill is usually subser-vient to formal knowledge (Ryan and Sackrey1996: 106-109). Middle-class individuals thus

tend to value book learning, in contrast with the



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working-class appreciation for knowledge basedon experience (Sennett and Cobb 1972; Frykman1990).

The segmentation of learning from doing, of

intellectual labor from physical labor, and ofknowledge workers from manual workers, lies atthe heart of modern capitalism (Braverman 1974).This segmentation is the culmination of over acentury of class struggle. The discipline of ar-chaeology was both a tool in, and a product of,this struggle (Trigger 1989; Patterson 1995).

Class and T h e History of Archaeology

Archaeology is a distinctive product of West-ern Civilization that emerged in the mid- 19thcentury (Daniel 1981:212). Trigger (1989:14)links the appearance of archaeology with the riseto power of the middle class in Europe and ar-gues that archaeology broadly expresses the ide-ology of that class. The middle class has foundin archaeology a tool to build a common identity,to legitimate their power and privilege, and tojustify historical events that served their interests.

This process involvedan

alliance with the upperclasses who defined the broader interests of capi-talist society and initially funded most of the

work. Archaeology has also been a weaponwielded in those struggles within the middle andupper classes between class factions (Patterson

1995).The rise of the middle class took place in a

context of nation state formation. A nation is apeople who share a common culture, language,territory, and heritage (Anderson 1983). Thenew middle class manipulated the process ofnation creation by inventing traditions that de-fined and re-enforced the culture, language, andheritage of the nation (Hobsbawm 1983; Harris1990). They also established national institutionsof education and learning (such as museums)both to manipulate these traditions and to educatetheir youth. Archaeology fit into these new in-stitutions as way to confirm middle-class notionsabout history and human nature (Trigger 1989:14;

HISTORICA L ARCHAEOLOGY 33(1 )

Wallace 1996:4-32, 178-186). In the middle ofthe 19th century, the first professional, middleclass, archaeologist, Jens J. A. Worsaae, receivedhis training and employment in one of these na-

tionalist institutions, the Museum of NorthernAntiquities in Denmark (Trigger 1989:81).

At the beginning of the 19th century the newnation of the United States faced a fundamentalcontradiction in the ideology that justified itsexistence as a nation. The people of the nationstate were not the indigenous people of the con-tinent, but rather were interlopers who had forc-ibly taken the territory from the true Native

Americans.

Competing class factions of upper and middle-class interests developed rival ideologies to rec-oncile this contradiction (McGuire 1992). Anurbane East Coast elite steeped in enlightenmentthought argued that Native Americans were thefirst Americans, a race of noble savages whocould not withstand the vices of civilization andwho, as they vanished, had passed legitimateownership of the continent to the new Americansfrom Europe. Upper-class individuals such asThomas Jefferson and George Washington as-serted that the great mounds of the Midwest andsouth were proof of the accomplishments of theFirst Americans. Through the 19th centurymiddle-class professionals in eastern institutions,including Henry Schoolcraft, Samuel G. Morton,and John Wesley Powell, conducted research tosupport the first American point of view(Kennedy 1996:238). A rural, mid-western andsouthern elite, including presidents Andrew Jack-son and William Henry Harrison, embraced amore fundamentalist notion that Americans wereGod’s chosen people and that Native Americanswere not part of the nation. Midwestern middle-class individuals such as Ephraim G. Squire,Edwin H. Davis, and J. W. Foster did the legwork to support the idea that a race of civilizedMound Builders had built the mounds only to beoverwhelmed by red savages who destroyed them(Patterson 1995:28; Kennedy 1996:238). CyrusThomas disproved the mound builder myth in




1894, four years after the last official battle ofthe Indian Wars at Wounded Knee made mootthe legitimacy of a European nation on theAmerican continent. The ideological battles of

the class factions had shifted to other terrain.By the turn-of-the-century the upper class of

the United States had created a complex intellec-tual apparatus that included colleges, universities,and museums (Patterson 1995:46-47). Theystaffed these institutions with technicians, scien-tists, and other professionals, including archaeolo-gists. This intellectual fraction of the middleclass mastered the techniques and know how thatcreated and maintained capitalist culture, and they

argued that this mastery justified their control ofthat culture and of knowledge production. Bythe second decade of the 20th century these in-stitutions were becoming the defining locus ofclass reproduction for the middle class (Patterson199558; Aronowitz 1997:190). The intellectual

middle class manufactured the symbolic capitalnecessary to join the middle class, and controlledwho gained access to it. Archaeology formed

part of this symbolic capital that a well-educated,

that is middle class, person had to possess.In the universities and colleges, archaeologiststaught upper and middle-class students an officialhistory that primary and secondary teachers dis-tilled and simplified for school children. Until

the 1960s this history tended to deny culturalchange in Native American pasts and thus rein-forced the idea that Native American cultures hadto fade away in the face of dynamic, inventiveEuropeans (Trigger 1989:128-129). After 1960

archaeologists spoke of culture change in NativeAmerican history in theories that made a mana-gerial elite (a primitive middle class?) the primemovers, or in terms of environmental cautionarytales that reinforced then current middle-classconcerns with ecology (Trigger 1989:314-315).In the 1980s Native Americans confronted ar-chaeologists, challenging this control of theirpasts and asserting their own histories, whichthey had not forgotten (Patterson 1995: 115).This challenge shattered the complacency of ar-chaeology and confronted us with the fact that

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we do not simply produce objective knowledge

for a widespread audience.

The Audience For Archaeology

Most archaeologists see their audience as broad

and diverse (DeCicco 1988; Lynott 1990;Jameson 1997). The limited studies that havebeen done of the constituency for archaeologysuggest that this is not the case, and that, in fact,the middle class forms the primary audience forarchaeology. In general, visitors to all types of

museums, other than school groups, strongly tendto be middle class, with open air museums draw-

ing a slightly broader audience (Falk andDierking 1992:20-24; Hooper-Greenhill 1994:65-66; Wallace 1996:25). Trotter’s (1989:2) study

of visitors to Wupaki National Monument inArizona found that most of them were well-edu-cated, middle-class Anglos. Likewise,Merriman’s (1987, 1991) study of visitors to ar-

chaeology museums in England found that theytoo were predominantly well-educated and middleclass. The vast majority of the readers of the

popular magazine Archaeology come from themiddle or upper classes with over 60% havingcollege degrees, and over 80% being profession-als, administrators, or managers (Archaeology

1996). National Geographic has a broader audi-ence with a higher proportion of working-classreaders, but still it is primarily middle-class indi-viduals who read the magazine (Lutz and Collins1993:222).

People who participate in professionally ledfield programs in archaeology also seem to bepredominantly middle class. High schools in the

United States rarely include archaeology in theircurricula, and when they do, they are usuallysuburban, predominantly middle-class schools.Consequently most people who obtain formaltraining in archaeology do so only in college.Archaeology is always well represented in EarthWatch’s expeditionary programs that allow indi-viduals to participate on scientific field projects.More than 94% of Earth Watch participants arein, or retired from, middle-class occupations (stu-



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dents, professionals, managers, or administrators).Merriman’s (1987) study of volunteers on ar-chaeological field projects in Great Britain sug-gests the same conclusion.

There are many possible reasons that somesegment of the middle class makes up the pri-

mary audience for archaeology. Members of thisclass generally have leisure time and money thatcan be used for such pursuits. Many working-class jobs do not provide sufficient quantities ofeither of these resources to allow the pursuit ofarchaeology. The middle-class interest in archae-ology clearly flows from the emphasis on educa-tion and formalized learning that characterize the

class. Middle-class individuals are socialized torespect, value, and appreciate expert knowledgewhile the life experience of working-class peopleencourages them to distrust, spurn, and disparagesuch knowledge (Ryan and Sackrey 1996:105-107). Archaeology also resides in the institutionsof the class so that middle-class children gainfamiliarity with it from an early age. Finally, thethemes and interests of archaeology have paral-leled those of the middle class throughout this

century (Trigger 1989; Patterson 1995). For ex-ample, Trigger (1989:313, 319-320, 355) has ar-gued the scientific evolutionism of 1960s archae-ology, with its emphasis on progress and humani-ties’ ability to solve problems and make life bet-ter, reflected the self-confidence and faith in tech-nology of a prospering United States middleclass. This prosperity began to wane in the early1970s leading to greater insecurity and pessimismin the middle class (Ehrenreich 1989; Patterson

1995:104) and archaeologists began advocating a“cataclysmic evolutionism” that stressed howtechnological change forced people to workharder, and how technology degrades the environ-ment.

Archaeology and Working-Class Interests

Archaeology’s tendency to represent middle-class interests as universal fits easily into a larger

American ideology that says we are all middleclass, except for a very small number of wealthy


and poor individuals (Sennet and Cobb 1972;Domhoff 1996). Archaeologists often representthose individuals who hold different interests inthe past, or use the past in different ideological

ways, as being ignorant, pernicious, or motivatedsolely by greed (Lynott 1990). They have rarelyconsidered that these differences in attitudes maybe class based. Nowhere is this more evidentthan in the archaeologist’s abhorrence forpothunters and looters (not to be confused withamateur or avocational archaeologists who arepart of the discipline).

Archaeologists approach their data base with areverence uncommon in other disciplines. From

the first introductory course to the conclusion ofthe f e s t s chr i f , we sanctify the archaeologicalrecord. We justify it as a source of knowledge,and, more importantly, as our heritage. Westand in a unique relationship to our data; unlikemost other disciplines our investigations destroythat which we wish to study. Furthermore, thearchaeological record is given and finite; whatwe destroy cannot be replaced. Thus, in the ide-ology of our discipline the archaeologist exists to

serve a higher goal, the search for knowledge,but archaeologists must also serve the archaeo-logical record. This ideology includes a strongnotion of self-sacrifice, that the archaeologistshould sacrifice economic gain and even wellbeing to achieve knowledge and to protect the

archaeological record. Such self-sacrifice embod-ies middle-class ideals of the sanctity of learning.

Looter: An individual who plunders archaeological sitesto find artifacts of commercial value, at the same time

destroying the evidence that archaeologists rely upon tounderstand the past (Ashore and Sharer 1993:616).

A strong animosity to pothunters or looters,runs through archaeology. Archaeologists arguethat looters destroy the archaeological record torecover things, objects that can be bought andsold. This process both denies the archaeologistmaterial necessary to the production of formalknowledge and it violates the archaeologist’s

sense of reverence for the archaeological record.Archaeologists portray looters as lacking an ap-




preciation of the past, being needy or greedy, andas lacking any understanding of the intellectualvalue of the materials that they seek. Most ar-chaeologists seem to agree that we need to edu-

cate looters to appreciate the record, to see thingsour way (Lynott 1990).Our data on who loots archaeological sites, and

why, is every bit as meager as our informationon who appreciates archaeology. This limitedknowledge does suggest, however, that the loot-ers come predominately from working-class back-grounds and that the distinction between middle-class archaeologists and working-class pothuntersgoes back at least to the 1930s (Patterson

1995:59; Duke and Matlock n.d.). Hodder(1984:29-30) noted that the antagonism betweentreasure hunters and archaeologists in Britain wasrooted in broader class differences. Merriman(1987) surveyed metal detector users who lootedarchaeological sites in Great Britain. He foundthat the majority of these people were working-class individuals with slightly above average in-comes. Potter (1991, 1994) has argued that weneed to recognize the cultural differences between

ourselves and looters and ask why these individu-als engage in these activities and what needs oftheirs they fulfill. Only then can we engage ina dialogue with these people that might change

both their and our behavior.Clearly those people who loot archaeological

sites and advocate cult archaeologies have a dif-ferent concept as to the value of the past thanwe do as archaeologists. It is argued that thesedifferences are not simply the manifestations of

greed or of ignorance. If, as it appears, a classdifference separates archaeologists from looters,than each group approaches the past with verydifferent beliefs about formal knowledge and in-tellectual labor. The programs that archaeologistshave developed to educate the public-exhibits,site tours, magazines, classes, and pamphlets-appeal more to middle-class individuals who lookto books and authorities for knowledge, and lessto working-class people who stress practical

know how. Hodder’s (1984), and Merriman’s(1 987) studies suggest that many working-class

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people have a deep interest in the past, but thatthey also feel alienated from an archaeologywhich they identify as elitist. The charge of elit-ism is not unwarranted since the traditional pro-

cess of reproducing archaeology seeks to removearchaeologists from the day-to-day world ofwork, and to imbue them with a sense of mem-bership in an exclusive group.

Reproducing Archaeology

The discipline of archaeology has traditionallyreproduced itself in the university through a guildmodel. This process involved a long apprentice-

ship (graduate school), journeyman status(untenured faculty), and finally the security ofmaster status (tenure). In theory at least, theserelationships are ones of age, maturity, and pro-ficiency. Apprenticeship, journeyman, and mas-ter form a class structure, but again in theory, itwas a structure of mobility. Not all apprenticesbecame masters, and exploitation did occur, butall apprentices had the opportunity to becomemasters, and all masters were once apprentices.

In this idealized model, teams of scholars con-ducted archaeological fieldwork. Senior membersof the teams were established researchers withpublications and recognition. Junior memberswere apprentices there to learn and to acquireboth the skills, and eventually the status of theirmentors. The participants in this process saw itas a non-economic one where they received onlyas much money as was needed to support thehigher goals of the research and they saw their

rewards in the process as advancement throughthe guild.

Until about 20 years ago, the vast majority ofarchaeologists labored in the academy. Today aperson must still pass through the academy tobecome an archaeologist. The BA is usually aminimum requirement for regular employment,and supervisory or managerial positions virtuallyalways require at least a MA, if not a Ph.D.The academy remains the locus of socialization

for archaeologists. In this context, they aretaught a reverence for the resource base, to sac-



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rifice economic well being for research, the guildmodel of hierarchy, and the mental and practicalskills of the discipline.

Unlike fields such as business, engineering, or

nursing, archaeology traditionally did not trainstudents to take up professions. Rather, archae-ology, as part of a liberal arts education, servedto reproduce the middle class through under-

graduate programs, and to reproduce itselfthrough apprenticeship by a small number of in-dividuals in graduate programs. Archaeologywas part of the socialization process of themiddle class in undergraduate programs, givingthem shared experience and knowledge (symbolic

capital) that was not easily obtained outside ofthe university by working-class individuals. In-dividuals who were drawn to master archaeology(to become university professors) traditionallywere people who searched for a life of the mindand who wished to escape the day-to-day worldof capitalism. The growth of contract archaeol-ogy has greatly changed this situation, creating aprofessional arena that employs the vast majorityof archaeologists in the day-to-day world of capi-

talism. It is very much our impression, however,that the majority of students who pursue appren-ticeship in the academy have the traditional long-ing for a life of the mind, and seek to emulatetheir professors of archaeology (Zeder 1997:16-17).

Archaeologists, like most middle-class Ameri-cans, have had little awareness of the class struc-tures within which they work and live. The vastmajority of archaeologists come from middle to

upper socioeconomic backgrounds and a recentSociety for American Archaeology survey of thediscipline by Zeder (1997: 13) suggests that theimbalance may be increasing. Archaeologistshave also been by and large white-Anglos, withfew African-American, Asian-American, Latino,or Native American individuals. The SAA sur-vey shows that more than 98% of the individu-als in our field are white-Anglos (Zeder1997:13). The racial imbalance in part reflectsthe fact that the middle class in American soci-ety is predominantly white. It is also the case


that the class position of middle-class people ofcolor is more precarious than that of the whitemiddle class because people of color must alsodeal with racial prejudice and racism. Middle-

class people of color tend to direct their childrento more practical, stable, and financial secure

professions (Barbour 1994:12; Franklin 1997:800),They also direct their children away from archae-ology because they often identify it with the rac-ism and discrimination that they experience inmodern American society (Hill 1994; Pullar1994). Most archaeologists, thus share a com-mon social background and they see each otheras the same. The common experience of the

university reinforces this sense of sameness andthe guild model tends to obscure from archaeolo-gists the class nature of archaeological interestsand also the class structure within the profession.

Traditionally therefore, archaeology has repro-duced itself as a discipline by training individu-als to take up a very specialized niche, the uni-versity professor, in the reproduction of themiddle class. This traditional training, however,does not meet the realities of archaeology as an

occupation in our present era. Archaeologists,both in the academy and in CRM, work in acapitalist system that does not fit the guild modelof the university. More importantly, in both theacademy and in CRM the guild model has be-come an ideology that is used to mask or hideclass relations and exploitation within the occu-pational structures of archaeology.

Working as an Archaeologist in an Era of

Ramp ant Capitalism

Capitalism is rampant in the United States to-day. Right wing ideas of free trade, individualresponsibility, and noninterference by governmentin economic affairs dominate government policy.We have also witnessed shifts in the class struc-ture of the country with declining working-classwages, more wealth concentration in the upperclasses, and a squeezing of the middle class(Domhoff 1996). What has emerged in theUnited States since the 1980s is a split economy




with relatively fewer secure well-paying jobs thanbefore and relatively more insecure low-payingjobs (Patterson 1995:104). These changes havetransformed archaeology as an occupation. To-

day this split economy exists in both the acad-emy and in cultural resource management withincreasing numbers of archaeologists trapped inclass positions that do not pay them a livingwage or grant them the respect that their mastery

of the craft of archaeology deserves. In both ofthese professional situations this denigration ofarchaeological labor threatens a deterioration ofstandards and quality in the archaeological prod-uct.

Even though the occupational structures of theacademy and cultural resource management aredistinct they remain interconnected and will al-ways be so. The discipline still reproduces itselfin the academy and almost all archaeologists

share the experience of the academy. Also, eventhough there exists a core of higher level, estab-lished professionals (professors, managers, projectdirectors) in each profession, the two enterprisesshare a common pool of aspiring archaeologists.

These aspirants move back and forth between thetwo occupations until they drop out of the disci-pline, land a permanent professional position inone or the other, or resolve themselves to a life

in the new archaeological proletariat.

The Changing Relationship of Class and theAcademy

The processes of the last 20 years have prole-

tarianized the academy both in the sense of itsrole in the reproduction of the class structure andin terms of the occupational structure in the uni-versity. The democratization of the university inthe postwar United States transformed it from anexclusive portal to the white middle class intothe training ground for the middle class and atechnically skilled working class. This haseroded the symbolic capital of the middle classbecause a university degree no longer ensures

middle-class status. Concurrently, the occupa-tional structure of the academy has been trans-

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formed from a guild of masters and apprenticesto a knowledge factory dependent upon a reservearmy of underemployed teaching assistants andlecturers. The net result of these changes has

been the creation of a class structure for archae-ologists who labor in the academy that is differ-ent from the idealized guild relations of previousepochs.

In the 1960s and 1970s there was a massive

expansion of colleges and universities in theUnited States, both because of the demographicbulge of the baby boom, but also because ofever increasing percentages of young people en-tering college. In 1947 there were 1,800 colleges

and universities in the United States with 2.3million students. By 1990 the number of insti-

tutions had risen to 3,200 and the number of stu-dents to 12.5 million (Aronowitz 1997:190-191).

This expansion fueled a massive increase in thenumber of anthropology departments in the coun-

try, and it provided jobs for an unprecedentednumber of archaeologists in the academy(Patterson 1995:81; Roseberry 1996:9).

The universities were opened up and thousands

of people from working-class backgrounds usedthe university as a stepping stone to the middleclass (Aronowitz 1997; Menand 1997). The uni-versity ceased to be the sole preserve of themiddle and upper classes. In 1947 10% of highschool graduates went on to higher education.This number increased to 40% in 1960, 50% in1980, and 62% in 1994. In the last ten yearsmost of this increase has been fueled by the en-try of students of color-African Americans,

Asian Americans, Latinos, and Native Ameri-cans-into higher education (Menand 1997:48).In an expanding economy, a significant portionof these new graduates could gain access to themiddle class.

The economic downturn that started in the

1970s, and has continued until recently, changedthis situation. Within the academy the economic

decline halted expansion and new Ph.D.s in an-thropology hit a solid wall of fully-employed

departments (Patterson 1995:17-108; Roseberry1996). Individuals graduating with bachelor de-



168

grees hit similar walls and since the 1980s auniversity degree has not guaranteed entry intothe middle class, although it remains a require-ment. Fifty percent of the workforce today en-

ters college, but only about 20% of the jobsavailable are middle class (Menand 1997:48).Social science enrollments, including anthropol-ogy, plunged as students sought more practicaltraining in business and professional colleges(Givens and Jablonski 1996:5). At the sametime, real working-class wages declined, so thatwe have witnessed an ever widening gap betweenworking-class and middle-class lifestyles. Theinsecurity of the middle class has increased as

the material costs of failure in reproduction, thatis of their children slipping into the workingclass, have escalated (Ehrenreich 1989).

Starting in the 1980s the academy came undera concerted and sustained attack by the politicalright (Roseberry 1996:17). The right sought to“defund” the left by actively interfering withgovernmental endowment and funding agencies,and by attacking the privilege of the professorate(Bloom 1987; Sykes 1988). These attacks found

widespread support within the middle class inpart because of the changing relationship of thatclass to the university. As the university studentbody has increasingly become more proletariatand less white, the support of the white middleclass for the university has declined (Aronowitz1997; Nelson 1997a). In a climate of increasedmiddle-class insecurity, rising university costs,and a decreasing efficacy of university credentialsin the reproduction of the class, middle-class in-

dividuals wanted universities to be more practical,and cost effective (Ehrenreich 1989). Working-class families facing declining real wages, andincreasing university costs that limited their

children’s access to the essential credentials forclass mobility, responded warmly to right wingattacks on intellectual elites and universities.

A consequence of these shifts has been an ef-fort to restructure the university and a crisis ofemployment in the academy (Roseberry 1996:17).

Increasingly the guild model of the university as

HISTORICAL ARCHAEOLOGY 33(1 )

a community of scholars is under attack. Col-leges and universities have become knowledgefactories that employ a significant portion of theUnited States work force (Aronowitz 1997:188).

In 1991 colleges and universities in the UnitedStates employed 2,662,085 workers (Kelley1997:146). In many communities, colleges anduniversities are the largest employers and land-lords in the area (Kelley 1997). A hierarchicalsystem of higher education has developed wherethe class and racial exclusivity of the traditionalacademy only exist at the highest tiers, in privateschools and state flagship universities, while thelower tiers train proletariat workers. For ex-

ample, one of the reasons for the establishmentof community colleges was to provide a steppingstone to four year schools but increasingly acommunity college degree is a terminal degreethat gives access to a working-class occupation(Aronowitz 1997:189). In this context there hasbeen a decline in the autonomy and in the privi-lege of university teachers, except for an elitestrata of stars. University workers at all levelsmore and more find themselves facing the same

challenges and difficulties (Nelson 1997a:6). Oneof the few growth areas for unions in the 1980swas in colleges and universities. As of 1997,25% of full time faculty at colleges and univer-sities in the Unites States are unionized as op-posed to 10% of all workers in the economy(Aronowitz 1997:188, 204).

In the 1990s the federal and state governmentshave cut funding to the academy and administra-tors are actively downsizing colleges and univer-

sities. As a result the number of full-time ten-ured, or tenure track, positions in the academy

has declined. Universities have responded tothese cuts by replacing tenured faculty withgraduate assistants and adjuncts to teach moreand more classes. Twenty years ago about 25%of faculty were part timers. Currently about 45%of the individuals who teach courses in the acad-emy are employed part time (Joseph and Curtiss1997; Pratt 1997:265). Even among full timers

the percentage of non-tenure track faculty has



170

faculty member. Adjuncts were the auxiliaries ofthe academy, but as positions have been cut anddemands on faculty time increased, administratorshave increasingly used adjuncts to preform core

teaching functions in the university. Tenuredfaculty have acquiesced to, or even supported,this shift in order to maintain their own privilegeand position (Nelson 1997b:1-3).

Today, individuals often cannot escape thisadjunct status and it has become a career track.One or two adjunct positions convey experiencebut at some point the candidate becomes dam-aged goods, and undesirable because departmentswonder what personal failing has kept him or her

from the tenure track position (Nelson1997b:159-161). Moving from town to town,each year or semester, adapting to a new cam-pus, and teaching four or five courses on mul-tiple campuses to make ends meet does not leavethe adjunct the time to nurture their own intellec-tual life or produce the kind of research that willget them the tenure track job (DiGiacomo 1996).As graduate students they ran hard to stay in oneplace. As adjuncts they run hard to fall further

behind.These “gypsy scholars,” so called because they

must move from job to job, receive lower pay(25% to 35% of regular faculty pay [DiGiacomo1996:5]), and fewer (or no) benefits than regularfaculty. They arguably form a lesser class withinthe professorate, and are regarded and treated assuch by the tenured faculty (DiGiacomo 1996;McKenna 1997). This new class or reserve armyof the underemployed is also disproportionally

female, both in general (Thompson 1997:278;Sullivan 1997) and in archaeology (Zeder1997:16). These people are arguably middleclass but in a fractional position quite distinctand disadvantaged from the university professor.

As Roseberry (1996) points out within anthro-pology, this shift has greatly increased the differ-ential between “elite” Ph.D. programs that placea higher percentage of their students in tenuretrack positions and “commoner” programs that

supply the individuals for the adjunct and tempo-rary appointments. Within the academy tenured


faculty often justify the position of the gypsyscholars by claiming that they are inferior re-searchers (DiGiacomo 1996). These ideologiesof achievement and prestige from a past when

each apprentice had a chance to become a mas-ter obscure the fundamental structural change inhow the academy now reproduces itself as aclass stratified community.

Our view of the current situation for archaeolo-gists in the academy is grim. It is feared, asNelson (1997b5) points out for the discipline ofEnglish, that the present situation is not tempo-rary, and that it represents a structural change inacademic labor. We can only echo his warning:

“Again, I write on behalf of every job candidateto tell you the academic profession is sick andbroken and in need of change. In the meantime,take Mao’s advice: dig tunnels deep, store graineverywhere” (Nelson 1997b.170).

Archaeology weathered some of the changes ofthe last two decades better than many of theother social sciences because of the coincidentaldevelopment of contract archaeology in this pe-riod. In the 1970s. as academic employment hit

the wall and then shrank, employment in thecontract sector grew enormously. This growthslowed or stopped in the 1980s but even todayarchaeologists have an option for employment intheir field that is not open to many other socialscientists such as historians and sociologists.Contract archaeology has also opened up newdimensions of class structure that were not tradi-tionally part of our profession.

The Class Structure of Cultural ResourceManagement

CRM archaeology has evolved since the boomyears of the 1970s. Private companies devotedexclusively to contract-based archaeology havelargely replaced universities and museums as theproviders of services, a shift that was evident bythe close of the decade (Fitting and Goodyear1979). A business model, in which the results of

archaeological research are commodified, a “de-liverable” produced for a client and priced within




competitive market conditions, replaced the disci-plinary ideal of “pure research” (Fitting andGoodyear 1979; Shott 1992:9-11). In this model,profit derives from the difference in the price

paid for the product and the costs to the contrac-tor of labor and materials.

Economic efficiency has become a necessity asmore and more companies compete for scarcecontracts. Many companies survive by doingarchaeological work as quickly and as cheaply aspossible. In general, the purchasers of requiredarchaeological services are unconcerned with thequality of the work except insofar as it gets them

through various permitting “hoops.” The overall

result of this is a downward pressure on archaeo-logical work. Standards and guidelines ofSHPOs’ offices and regulatory agencies havebecome not minimum standards, but, for manycontractors, the only standards. The implicationsfor the quality of CRM research as a whole havebeen addressed elsewhere (Lacey and Hasenstab1983; Shanks and McGuire 1996). The need tobe competitive prods CRM companies towardsminimum effort, standardized research, and in-

creased production (more contracts executed inless time for less money). These same pressuresdepress wages.

CRM companies, and the archaeologists withinthem, must work within a set of tensions be-tween the often incompatible demands of the dis-ciplinary ideals of archaeological research and the

economic demands of the marketplace. HowCRM companies and archaeologists work withinthese structural tensions varies tremendously, de-

pending on the policies and “cultures” of theindividual companies, the size of their contracts,

and the commitment of the employees. Somecompanies may choose to compromise the disci-pline for the sake of business efficiency whileothers sacrifice profitability to do interesting re-search. The people within the companies maylikewise respond in different ways. PrincipalInvestigators may put the minimum effort into areport for it to meet standards, or, as is more

often the case, exploit themselves, working long

171

hours in order to do research that makes a con-tribution to the discipline. The bulk of the im-portant work in historical archaeology has beendone within the context of CRM. More often

than not though, individual investigators accom-plished this work through self-sacrifice, in spiteof the economic realities of CRM.

The escalating competitive pressure on CRMcompanies has also resulted in increasing discor-dance between the disciplinary ideals of researchand the lived experience of the CRM labor force,the workers in the field projects and laboratories.Currently the field is rent by a debate as to

whether or not field work is skilled labor, and by

recent efforts to have archaeological field techni-cians legally classed as unskilled labor. In thisrespect, CRM has followed a trajectory typical ofmost capitalist industries, and like most indus-tries, it finds itself confronted with labor prob-lems. While there have been sporadic attemptsto organize field technicians, the growing contra-dictions within CRM have recently prompted thestrongest organizing efforts to date.

Almost all archaeologists in CRM are trained

in the academy, and are often ill-prepared for therealities of research within a profit-driven busi-ness (Schuldenrein 1992, 1995; Blanton 1995).A notable number of archaeologists working in

CRM have expressed dissatisfaction that theiruniversity training did not give them realisticexpectations as to the careers available to themor adequately train them for the jobs that theynow have (Zeder 1997:13, 17). Even as thesearchaeologists adjust to a market and profit-

driven archaeology, they still retain assumptionsand expectations that derive from their disciplin-ary backgrounds.

These assumptions and expectations enter CRMlabor relations as an ideology that emphasizes theacademy-derived, guild-based or “apprenticeship”ideal of career advancement. In this ideal, theposition of field worker is a temporary position,

an interlude of acquiring skills and putting theminto practice for a couple of years after gradua-

tion. After a period of time the field worker, by



17 2

now probably a crew chief, is expected to leavethe field and enter graduate school where he orshe will acquire the necessary accreditation tobecome a director and eventually a principal in-

vestigator-leaving the working class of CRMand joining its middle class. In this ideology,long-term or permanent field workers are an ab-erration, trapped because of their own failings orlack of ambition in a position that should betemporary. Like adjuncts in the academy, theyare blamed for their lack of advancement.

We should note that this ideal of career ad-vancement is not a lie promulgated by managersto deceive their workers. It does in fact reflect

the lived experience of many managers, most ofwhom entered CRM in the boom years of the1970s. Reminiscences of this experience are acommon trope in communications from managersto field staff. The vast majority of individualsentering CRM since the end of the 1970s, how-ever, have not shared this experience. A con-stant turn over of individuals means that fieldtechnicians positions continue to open up, but,without the requisite degrees, field techcians are

unable to advance to supervisory positions. Thisideology also ignores the skyrocketing costs ofeducation (Schuldenrein 1995) and the fact thatsalaries in CRM are generally insufficient to payoff extensive student loans (McGuire 1984).

The guild ideal also emphasizes a vertical cor-porate solidarity rather than a class-based one. Itsays that we are all archaeologists, bondedthrough our mutual concern for the preservationof the archaeological record. As archaeologists,

our economic well-being and quality of life aresupposedly secondary considerations to the pres-ervation of this record, and the knowledge thatwe gain from it. Managers portray economicdemands by, in this case field technicians, asendangering the discipline because they “arerocking the Section 106 boat” (Kintz 1996).Managers fear that increased wages will drive upthe costs of projects, ultimately increasing oppo-sition to cultural resource legislation, an alarming

prospect in the current political climate.


The CRM Labor Force

Field workers in CRM confront the contradic-tion between the ideology of the discipline of

archaeology and the economic realities of theindustry. In both the academy and CRM, ar-chaeologist workers are usually taught that thediscipline of archaeology requires skill, profes-

sionalism, and detailed, meticulous work. Theyare expected to comport themselves as skilledprofessionals, obtaining mastery for their ad-

vancement in the discipline. As apprentices theyare expected to willingly sacrifice their livelihood

for the sake of the discipline. Yet, field techni-

cians see many managers arguing that fieldwork,i.e., the excavation of the archaeological record,is a job for unskilled, or at best semi-skilled la-bor.

Compiling a picture of the CRM labor force isnot easy. A general impression has been formedfrom the people who have worked on ourprojects, and we use these subjective impressionswithout apology, since there is little availablequantifiable data. A full-scale survey of archaeo-

logical field workers is encouraged as a valuableproject. Two surveys of field workers havemainly been drawn upon; one compiled by theeditors of The Underground newsletter in 1995

(Kintz 1995) and the other published by theUnited Archaeological Field Technicians (UAFT1996). The Underground editors made the rawdata from their survey available to us. For wageinformation, a survey of CRM companies con-ducted by the editors of The Grapevine Newslet-

ter (1996) has been used. None of these surveysis ideal. They all suffer from small samplesizes, regional biases, and self-selected samples.At the time of writing, however, these surveysare the only current data that are available.

In general, the field workforce consists prima-rily of relatively young (27-33), middle class,college graduates. The UAFT survey indicatesthat 70% of field technicians had college degrees.Of the 21 Underground survey respondents who

classified themselves as technicians or crew




chiefs, and who listed their education, 20 werecollege graduates. The UAFT survey indicatesthat 75% of technicians leave archaeology afteran average of three years. The Underground

data do not disagree with this, although thesample size is too small to be definitive. Thepattern suggested by these data is that the aver-age field technicians has been in archaeology2.8 years. Those who have been in the fieldlonger tend to be crew chiefs, who increase themean to 5 years. Seventy percent of techniciansand crew chiefs who responded to the Under-

ground survey had been in the field for less thanfive years. These surveys confirm common

knowledge that the CRM labor force turns overcontinually. The job of field technician is stilltemporary, but is no longer an apprenticeshipposition, a step on the way to master/principalinvestigator status. Instead technicians appear tobe leaving the field of archaeology altogether.The CRM industry consumes workers, drawingon a pool of fresh college graduates, essentiallya reserve army of labor. These workers toil inthe trenches for 3-5 years, until disgruntled, and

probably in debt, they leave the field altogether.Towards the end of their careers, they are ex-pected to train the incoming replacement workers,workers who earn the same wage as the moreexperienced people training them.

Field technician wages average from $8.00/hr(UAFT 1996) to $9.10 (Grapevine Newsletter

1996). The mean annual income for field tech-nicians ranged from $1 1,200 in the UAFT surveyto $12,000 in the Underground survey. Assum-

ing year-round employment, the annual income ateven $8.00/hr should be higher, $16,640. Thefigures support the common knowledge thatmany field technicians have substantial periodsduring the year with no work. Field workers canserve as crew chiefs, who get paid on average$2.00 hr. more, but otherwise experience andseniority-related pay raises do not become anoption until one has a permanent staff position,generally director or principal investigator.

Benefits, such as health insurance, not to men-tion job security, are also rare at the field worker

173

level. In general, the wage structure of CRM isdiscontinuous. The Grapevine survey suggests anincremental progression in wages from “CrewMember” (Archaeological Technician) through

“Archaeologist I” (equivalent to Director) inroughly $2.00/hr “hops,” and then a $7.00 to$10.00/hr. leap when principal investigator statusis achieved (Grapevine Newsletter 1996). Thedisparity in wages between field workers andmanagement (directors and principal investigators)is in fact even greater than these figures suggest.Managers have staff positions and benefits, andalso do not pay hidden costs such as travel timeor depreciation of personal equipment such as

vehicles. Unsurprisingly, most field workers findthe pay insufficient. They manage to survive bytaking other jobs, by going on unemployment, byrelying on per diem for housing, and/or by tak-ing loans from parents (UAFT 1996).

Another less quantifiable, but equally impor-tant, issue that field workers face is the devalu-ing of their labor. In modern capitalism, mentalor intellectual labor is separated from, and valuedabove, physical labor (Braverman 1989). Al-

though this separation is less pervasive in archae-ology than in other disciplines, the blue collarworkers of CRM, the field technicians, are stilloften made aware of their inferior or junior sta-

tus. The appeal that we are all archaeologistsand scholars stands in contradiction to the com-mon representation of field technicians in stereo-typical proletarian terms as alcoholic, childlike,and in need of firm discipline, the “field animal”(Underground 1995). We have all heard the

slang terms for field workers-”shovel bums,”“grunts,” or, in a revealing overlap with racialdiscourses, “digroes” (UAFT 1996).

“Deskilling” also devalues archaeological field-work. In a pattern that has occurred repeatedlyin the past 200 years for many kinds of capital-ist workers, the workers of archaeology are be-ing redefined from skilled craftsmen into un-skilled laborers, essentially an “archaeologicalproletariat” (Paynter 1983). This deskilling flows

from the economic pressure towards routinizationof archaeological research, the pressure to pro-



174

duce more for less. Just as cookie cutter re-search designs and reports increases productionfor principal investigators, cookie cutter excava-tion methods, data recovery, and recording in-

creases production for field technicians. Thedevaluing of archaeological field workers goeshand in hand with a devaluing of archaeologicalfield work. It may be possible to routinize someaspects of recording and excavation to the pointthat any one can do them. Yet we all know thatgood excavation requires experience and theknowledge of archaeological principles such asstratigraphy, an understanding of what kinds ofmaterial can be sampled for what kinds of analy-

sis, artifact identification, manual skills in the useof trowels and other tools to expose delicate fea-

tures, and an awareness of how to use photo-graphic and drawing to record what is found.There exists for all archaeologists a tension be-tween standardization and creativity, but the alter-native to deskilling is not chaos. We cannot dogood archaeology without standards or testedtechniques, but neither can we reduce good ar-chaeology to a series of repetitive motions.

Whether archaeological fieldwork is skilled orunskilled labor is not an abstract issue or justone that is important for the quality of archaeo-logical research. It is the terrain on which thestruggle over wages is taking place. Within ar-chaeology, the main voices in this debate, andthose that have the greatest potential for effect-ing change, have been the UAFT on one hand

and ACRA on the other.The UAFT arose from field technicians labor-

ing beside organized workers on pipelines.“Working along side Union Pipefitters on count-less jobs in countless states and watching themmake six times our annual wage with no one toblame but ourselves for failing to stand together,we decided to do something” (UAFT 1997:l).The UAFT is a local (No. 141) of the Union ofOperating Engineers. This affiliation with thepipeline workers union is a logical consequenceof the kind of work field technicians do, and it

allows the UAFT to draw on the legal and orga-nizational expertise of the AFL-CIO (West 1994;


UAFT 1997). Even though the UAFT is thestrongest effort to date to organize archaeologicalworkers, it does not speak for all field techni-cians, although they may all share in the benefits

the union achieves. In fact, field techniciansmay be more resistant to organizing than work-ers in many other industries because of themiddle-class background of most technicians, andthe dispersed and mobile nature of the workforce.

Founded in March 1995, ACRA functions as a

trade association to advance the interests of the

cultural resources industry in the national arena.

As such it is comparable to other trade associa-

tions including the American Egg Board, the

Contact Lens Manufacturers Association, the

Lead Industry Association, or the Valve Manu-

facturers Association. Currently ACRA repre-

sents 119 firms of the over 1,000 that it esti-

mates operate in the United States today. ACRA

seeks to promote the business needs of cultural

resource practitioners, professionalism in the in-

dustry, education, and public awareness of cul-

tural resources (ACRA 1997). Although all

CRM companies may share in the benefits ofACRA’s work, not all CRM companies belong to

ACRA, or support its goals, and there is in fact

a considerable diversity of opinion within ACRA

(ACRA 1997).

CRM companies have reacted in different waysto the UAFT. Individual companies have en-gaged in various activities to stem unionization of

archaeological field technicians. Some firmshave been scrupulously legal, but proactive in

their response to unionization, hiring legal firmsto instruct their middle management and supervi-sory personnel on how to act, and not act, ifunion organizers appear at the work place. TheLabor Relations Committee of ACRA has dis-

seminated information to its members to assistthem in dealing legally with union organizing

efforts (Pape 1996b). Other firms have engagedin activities, such as rejecting individuals foremployment because of their union association

(blackballing), that are patently illegal underUnited States labor law.




Both the UAFT and ACRA have participatedin the legal debate over whether archaeologicalworkers are skilled or unskilled labor. TheUAFT justifies a higher wage for field techni-

cians on the basis that they are skilled workers,who are entitled to a living wage comparable toskilled workers in other fields (UAFT 1996,1997). As it stands, field technicians receive lessthan many unskilled workers in other fields. Forexample, in Broome County, New York, wherewe reside, the federal prevailing wage for un-skilled labor on highway projects is $18.64 anhour Archaeologists on the same projects rou-tinely receive around $9.00 an hour. Unskilled

labor is cheap labor, and unorganized labor, re-gardless of skill is cheaper still.

Starting in the mid-1990s the UAFT had con-siderable success using the existing United StatesDepartment of Labor (DOL) classification of anArchaeological Technician to enforce prevailingwage laws on federal jobs. The prevailing wageof an Archaeological Technician (29020) in 1994ranged from a low of $8.49 for Fayatteville,North Carolina, (which is approximately the cur-

rent average wage), to a high of $21.75 forHouston, Texas (Pape 1996a). If companies hadpaid all archaeological field techs prevailing wage

it would probably have doubled the current aver-age wage. An increase of this scale for fieldworkers would have had severe ramifications forthe CRM industry by increasing labor costs, notjust for crews, but at all levels of employment.

In order to maintain the existing average fieldtech wage of around $8.00 an hour, ACRA es-

tablished a special fund and hired a labor lawyerfor an appeal to the Department of Labor (Pape1996a, 1996c, 1997a). ACRA also met with

several federal agencies (U. S . Forest Service,National Park Service, Bureau of Land Manage-ment, and U. s. Army Corps of Engineers), theobjective being to “develop a unified strategy forpresenting modified (Archaeological Technician)descriptions to the DOL” (Pape 1996c:6). With

input and assistance from ACRA, the U. S. For-

est Service lead the effort to have the DOL re-vise the job descriptions (Pape 1997a). The

175

three-tiered classification proposed by the U. S.

Forest Service was published by the DOL in

1997.This classification makes explicit the trend to-

wards deskilling archaeological fieldwork. TheArchaeological Technician I, the bottom tier ofthe classification, works under “the direct super-vision of archaeological crew chiefs and underthe general supervision of field director/projectarchaeologist performs unskilled and semi-skilledtasks at archaeological field sites” (Pape 199713;UAFT 1997). Although it is not stated in theDOL classification, the position taken by ACRAappears to be that this position is a crew mem-

ber, with the other two positions (II and 111)being crew chief and field supervisor (Pape1996c:6, 1997b). On the other hand, UAFT ar-gues that the Archaeological Technician I cannotbe a field technician position (Bryan West pers.

comm.) and instead can only be untrained labor-

ers.Many CRM managers express a pervasive fear

that the UAFT, by seeking to increase laborcosts, threatens the existence of CRM. CRM

companies are in the unfortunate position of sell-ing a product that is mandated by law, not bythe economic needs of the consumer. Givencurrent political attempts to free business fromthe “burdens” of such laws, they worry that anincrease in the expense of doing CRM could turn

the tide against CRM legislation in the federalgovernment (Duke 1991:1 1). Many apparentlyfeel that the preservation of the archaeologicalrecord requires that field technicians work for

low wages. In order to hold wages low, somemanagers argue that the archaeological record canbe excavated by unskilled labor, in essence sac-rificing the quality of the data and the archaeo-logical record in order to avoid paying theirworkers a living wage.

CRM archaeology has come of age as a busi-ness. It has labor problems. Realistically, theselabor problems are not going to go away. CRMcompanies are not going to be able to maintain

a skilled, highly motivated, but low-paid,workforce. The alternatives appear to be either



176

dealing with a unionized workforce or resort tohaving the most publicly visible aspect of archae-ology carried out largely by unskilled laborers.Neither of these alternatives is without conse-

quences for the practice of CRM and the preser-vation of the archaeological heritage of theUnited States.

The extreme segmentation of the labor forcethat characterizes current capitalism in the UnitedStates has had a profound effect on the profes-sion of archaeology. In both the academy and inCRM we now have a growing archaeologicalproletariat that lacks a living wage, job security,benefits, and respect. They are exploited. The

question then before us is; what is to be done?


chaeology. The discipline of archaeology retainsa middle-class orientation and produces a product

primarily for a middle-class audience. The classrelationships involved in this production are com-

plex. Producing archaeology requires the laborof working-class individuals, and not all middle-class consumers accept the product that we make(Yamin 1997). This awareness, linked with aconsciousness of race and gender, has implica-tions for the praxis of archaeology. Praxis inte-grates how we study the world, how we critiquethe world, and how we take action in the world.

Building a class praxis in archaeology thataddresses the exploitation that exists in the field

is difficult. Before archaeologists can address theinequities that exist within the practice of archae-ology, they must first recognize that these ineq-uities rest in class structures. The increased

employment of adjuncts in the universities, andthe legions of archaeological field technicians inthe country represent class positions that existoutside of the traditional guild model of archaeo-logical training. In both cases this ideology hasbeen used to marginalize, underpay, and withhold

benefits from these individuals.These class relations are not simply foibles of

the discipline of archaeology or of its practice.They are rather manifestations of the restructur-ing of class relations in modern capitalistAmerica. We cannot simply wish away this re-structuring or change it on a case by case basis.The academic department that refuses to use ad-juncts will find its budget cut as enrollmentsdrop relative to programs that do. The contract

firm that pays its workers a living wage andbenefits will be underbid by less scrupulous com-panies. We must confront class exploitation inarchaeology both on the global and the specificscales.

We can join our scholarly and political effortswith those forces that seek to transform thelarger structures. Historical archaeologists mightdo well to enter into the developing dialogue

between organized labor and historians. The

election of John Sweeny as president of theAFL-CIO in 1995 has lead to a revitalization of

Class Praxis in Archaeology

Our analysis of class relations in archaeologyis incomplete in many ways. Much of the evi-dence is buried and often fragmentary. In addi-tion to more conventional sources, it is foundlargely in xerographic newsletters that go out toselect mailing lists, Internet Listservs, WWW

pages, and informal conversations at conferencesand in our places of work. In formulating anabstract picture of class in archaeology, we speak

in generalizations: “the middle class is,” “ar-chaeologists are,” “managers in CRM believe,”

“field techs are,” and so forth. The complex andconcrete ways class is experienced by individualsin different circumstances requires finer scales ofanalysis. Our understanding of class in archae-ology is incomplete in large part because few

researchers have studied archaeology in classterms. Several studies have been done of thegender composition of our field (Beaudry 1994;Chester et al. 1994; Levine 1994), and they havebeen very valuable in identifying inequities and

the reasons for them. We know of no compa-rable studies of the class experience of archaeolo-gists, and the relationship of that experience totheir success in the field.

Our analysis does, however, demonstrate that a

complex web of class relations confronts archae-ology and that class distinctions exist within ar-



178

conditions. In the academy such rights shouldinclude provisions for teaching load, class size,professional benefits such as departmental supportof travel and research activities, and professional

respect for graduate students\adjuncts. In CRMthese rights should include decent living condi-tions in the field, working conditions that allowfield technicians to build and refine their skills,

and respect for their professionalism and craft.


department has an obligation to educate studentsat the beginning of graduate training about therealities of the archaeological job market andthen to provide these students with the skills they

need for that market. By producing large num-bers of graduates at all levels, university depart-ments also produce and replenish the reservearmies of labor that both the academy and CRMconsume. Having large numbers of students of-ten serves the department's interests and the in-terests of tenured faculty, but a seemingly unlim-ited supply of new fodder allows universities andCRM companies to use up people rather thanreform exploitative practices. Larger student to

teacher ratios also erode academic standards andworsen the training of graduates. The professor-ate should resist this erosion. It may be time forfewer departments producing fewer, but bettertrained, graduates.

CRM has been driven by two major goals,profit and research. Some firms have funneledprofits into not-for-profit branches to support re-search, but in most cases the welfare of bothmanagers and field technicians have been sacri-

ficed to do research. We would argue that CRMcompanies should respect three goals, profit, re-search, and providing for the welfare of theiremployees.

A Day's Pay for a Day's Work

The most basic right of every worker is tomake a living. Currently in the academy gradu-

ate students and adjuncts are paid far less percourse, or per student, than regular faculty. Perclass payments for temporary teachers should becomparable to those paid regular faculty and theexperience and skill of temporary teachers shouldbe rewarded with higher compensation as it iswith regular faculty. Archaeological field tech-nicians work for wages that are usually substan-tially less than those paid to unskilled laborerswho work on the very same construction projects

that they do. These workers deserve compensa-tion comparable to the skilled workers on theseprojects in recognition of the skills that theymust have to do archaeology. Finally, all tem-porary workers should receive benefits such ashealth and retirement, comparable to those thatpermanent workers in our society rightfully re-ceive.

Changing Priorities

The respect and compensation that the archaeo-logical proletariat deserve cannot be achievedwithout changing priorities. This is equally truein the academy and CRM.

Most graduate programs in the United Statestill train and treat students as apprentices work-ing to become university professors. This prac-tice is doubly pernicious because the vast major-ity of jobs in archaeology are outside the profes-

sion and because the number of tenured univer-sity slots for archaeologists is shrinking. Each

Organize

Given the larger structures that we all work in

it is naive to believe that the archaeological pro-letariat will receive respect, living wages, ben-

efits, and decent working conditions simply be-cause it is humane. Labor in the United Stateshas only won these things through organizationand struggle. The reason that construction work-ers are paid higher wages than archaeologists isbecause they have collective bargaining. Thereason that doctors and lawyers earn more thanarchaeologists is in part because of the AmericanMedical Association and the American Bar Asso-ciation. There is no reason to believe that ar-

chaeologists can win equitable working conditionsby any other means. It is very difficult to orga-




nize temporary and part-time workers. Those ofus who have stable employment need to assisttemporary and part-time workers to organize andfight for respect, fair treatment, and security.

179

communities. Addressing different interests willinvolve asking different questions of the past, and

producing different kinds of products that willspeak to those communities. Such an inter-

change between archaeologists and communitiesshould not be one way. Archaeologists need toask what the interests are of different communi-

ties and enter into a dialogue with those commu-nities. This dialogue will transform both thecommunities and the archaeologists.

The seven steps is not offered as a panacea,

but instead as a starting point to a dialogue tostop the deterioration of archaeological labor. Itis thought that archaeologists should give this

dialogue a high prominence in our scholarly andprofessional associations, a prominence compa-rable to that given reburial and repatriation in thelast decade and a half. This dialogue must startwith the realization that archaeologists live class.We live it everyday and it structures the wholeof our professional lives. It confronts us in ourclass rooms, on our excavations, in our offices,

and in our audience. As Sider (1996:80) so

drolly points out “social class is not dancing

class: you don’t come and go, but you are therethe whole time.”

Popularize Archaeology

Within the field several authors have arguedfor us to broaden our audience to the “generalpublic.” We share their recognition that all ar-chaeologists will benefit from increased popularsupport for our discipline. These discussions,however, usually lack explicit awareness of theracial and class structure of that “general public.”

A consumerist model lies at the heart of most ofthese efforts to communicate with the public. Inthis model archaeologists produce a product, usu-ally a watered down version of the academicversion, that they then package, and sell to thegeneral public (DeCicco 1988). The implicitassumption is that archaeologists have the author-ity, the knowledge, the skill, and the right todetermine how the past should be interpreted andwhat that interpretation should be. The problem

then becomes one of how to communicate, ormake relevant, that interpretation to a generalpublic; how do we educate them to see things

our way (Lynott 1990)? Educating them to seethings our way may in fact be impossible. The“general public” is structured by race, gender,and class and thus made up of many differentcommunities. Many of these communities holdvery different perceptions of history, education,knowledge, and authority than the white middle-

class habitat of archaeology.The alternative to the consumerist model is to

recognize that there are many different and legiti-mate interests in the past. Archaeology has tra-ditionally only served one or two of these inter-ests (the middle and upper class). Archaeology,however, has a craft that can be used to servemultiple interests (Shanks and McGuire 1996).This craft is our ability to use material culture tomake observations about the past and to recon-

struct the life of the past. This craft may servethe interests of many different racial and class

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We benefited from the help and insights of many

people in our preparation of this article. The editors of

this special volume, LouAnn Wurst and Robert Fitts,

both extensively reviewed and commented on the

paper. A number of other individuals reviewed the

paper including Becky Yamin, Theresa Kintz, Dean

Saitta, Philip Duke, Brian West, Paul Reckner, CharlesCobb, and Tom Patterson.

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