Lisa McGirr’s ‘The War on Alcohol’ illuminates past,
sheds light on present
The more-or-less official motto of historians is the famous line from George Santayana: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” A codicil to this might be: “Historians who cannot connect the past to the present are condemned to irrelevance.” Far too many histories fail to make clear how their readers could learn from the past, not just to understand it on its own terms, but to avoid repeating its mistakes. Harvard historian Lisa McGirr’s new book, “The War on Alcohol: Prohibition and the Rise of the American State” emphatically connects the past to the present.
What it meant to live under the Volstead Act and government enforcement regimes differed based on what sort of American you were, and not just along a Wet-Dry axis. Rich or middle class or working class or poor, urban or small town or rural, white or black or Latino, male or female: Prohibition and its law enforcement effected everyone differently, in ways that had profound and lasting effects on American culture.
The most famous clichés about Prohibition focus on mobsters like Al Capone and the image of glamorous nightclub speakeasies in the big city. McGirr’s analysis of urban America under Prohibition (especially Chicago and Pittsburgh) undermines this superficial image and shows how law enforcement and criminals alike made life miserable for working-class immigrant Americans. Gangland violence was centered in ethnic neighborhoods, because that’s where many of the consumers of illegal booze lived. Working class drinkers suffered due to high prices and bad hooch, but also bore the brunt of brutal law enforcement, especially in the later years of “the Great Experiment.”
Local cops were famously corrupted by bootleggers and their vast wealth, but McGirr recalls how Prohibition created a new federal police culture, one that mostly focused its attention on marginalized Americans. While the well-to-do could consume pre-1919 alcohol they had stockpiled or smuggled goods in the privacy of their homes or clubs, the poor in cities had to brew their own or buy ill-made, expensive and often poisonous drink in violent and crime-ridden speakeasies. The law focused its attention, then as now, on the poor who lacked the political clout or financial means to fight back in court. Many working class or immigrant Americans had been relatively apolitical, thinking that voting was unnecessary or irrelevant to their daily lives. Prohibition helped change that. As McGirr points out, “While Prohibition was not necessarily the central concern of working-class men and women, selective enforcement added a significant new assault on their efforts to sustain an independent realm of leisure, culture, and community ritual.” This assault led ethnic immigrant urbanites to see Prohibition not as a moral crusade, one meant to purify and uplift them, but as a discriminatory war against them.
Like everything else in American culture, Prohibition was further complicated by race. Prohibition’s rise, especially its latter years of strict enforcement, helped create the second Ku Klux Klan — who often acted as vigilante supplements to official law enforcement — and helped whitewash the racist violence of so much Southern culture. As McGirr puts it: “In an era when its ‘best’ men and women kept silent about the public murder of African-Americans through lynching, Prohibition promised to burnish the moral authority of southern elites, realigning the ‘moral and patriotic elements of Southern society on the side of the law.'” Then as now, under mandatory sentencing laws, poor black people went to jail for longer terms than whites, for committing even minor crimes.
Yet even this seemingly clear-cut example of the racism of Prohibition enforcement has deeper complications based on class, the axis of identity American culture most likes to pretend doesn’t exist. McGirr writes that “one of the novel aspects of the Eighteenth Amendment was the extent to which poor whites — carpenters, farmers, and other small-time moonshiners — were targets of southern law enforcement alongside African-Americans.” So, while many whites — rich or poor — might have been fine with enforcing Prohibition on black moonshiners and speakeasy operators, the fervor for “enforcement” swept up poor whites as well as poor blacks, giving them common cause.
Here is where McGirr’s book pivots from being a very good, tightly focused, history of Prohibition to a great history of broader American politics, one that connects to contemporary issues in a profound way. Prohibition was not just an aberrant period, something to be bracketed off from the Gilded Age before it and the Depression and World War II after.
This change did not happen overnight: Anti-Catholic prejudice prevented 1928 Democratic Presidential candidate Al Smith for capitalizing on such a coalition sooner. But the subsequent four years of draconian federal encroachment on everyday life — and vigorous political organization and get-out-the-vote drives by Democrats — enabled Franklin Delano Roosevelt to lead the way to the New Deal by campaigning for repeal.
The relevance to 21st-century America, in the fifth decade of the “War on Drugs” declared by President Richard Nixon, is crystal clear by the time the “War on Alcohol” concludes. McGirr writes, “The U.S. war on alcohol built the foundations of the twentieth-century federal penal state. At the same time, the widened scope of federal power and the state administrative apparatus over a fourteen-year period oriented Americans ever more toward the nation-state for the resolution of social problems, while inspiring paradoxical disquiet over that very expansion of the government’s sphere of action.”
To cite yet another maxim about history, William Faulkner’s: “The past is never dead. It isn’t even past.” McGirr eloquently demonstrates that while national Prohibition of alcohol died in 1933, it is not past; we are repeating its mistakes eight decades later. The contemporary American and international prohibition on drugs parallels the violent crime, extreme law enforcement and vast prisons born out of Prohibition.
Bill Savage teaches Chicago literature at Northwestern University.
‘The War on Alcohol’ By Lisa McGirr, W.W. Norton, 330 pages, $27.95
This is a superb commentary on a truly significant piece of historical investigative reporting. I wish it could appear in every newspaper in America. Congratulations, Mr. Savage, on adding to the insights so thoroughly captured by Lisa McGirr.