The excerpt from Chapter 14 of The Jungle will provide the basis for answering that question. The Jungle excerpt can be found in the Pearson Reader selection under Unit 6–The Progressive Era.\u00a0 For questions part 1 and 2, do not use outside sources–just the excerpt provided from The Jungle, Chapter 14, along with the lecture notes and textbook in a supporting role, if necessary. <\/p>\n
You may use outside resources to answer part three of the question below. <\/p>\n
Part 1: List one way that the meat packing industry in Chicago abused its workers.\u00a0 Provide one direct, multi-sentence quote from The Jungle, the lecture notes, or the textbook to support your answer. <\/p>\n
Part 2:\u00a0 List one way did the meat packing industry in Chicago defiled the meat they were in charge of? Provide one direct, multi-sentence quote from The Jungle, the lecture notes, or the textbook to support your answer.<\/p>\n
Part 3:\u00a0 What protections do we have in place today to keep similar abuses from occurring to our workers or the products they produce? <\/p>\n
Of course, correct spelling, grammar, and punctuation are expected. <\/p>\n
\u00a0 <\/p>\n
THE JUNGLE <\/p>\n
by Upton Sinclair, (1906) <\/p>\n
Chapter 14 <\/p>\n
With one member trimming beef in a cannery, and another working in a <\/p>\n
sausage factory, the family had a first-hand knowledge of the great <\/p>\n
majority of Packingtown swindles. For it was the custom, as they found, <\/p>\n
whenever meat was so spoiled that it could not be used for anything <\/p>\n
else, either to can it or else to chop it up into sausage. With what had <\/p>\n
been told them by Jonas, who had worked in the pickle rooms, they could <\/p>\n
now study the whole of the spoiled-meat industry on the inside, and read <\/p>\n
a new and grim meaning into that old Packingtown jest–that they use <\/p>\n
everything of the pig except the squeal. <\/p>\n
Jonas had told them how the meat that was taken out of pickle would <\/p>\n
often be found sour, and how they would rub it up with soda to take away <\/p>\n
the smell, and sell it to be eaten on free-lunch counters; also of all <\/p>\n
the miracles of chemistry which they performed, giving to any sort of <\/p>\n
meat, fresh or salted, whole or chopped, any color and any flavor and <\/p>\n
any odor they chose. In the pickling of hams they had an ingenious <\/p>\n
apparatus, by which they saved time and increased the capacity of the <\/p>\n
plant–a machine consisting of a hollow needle attached to a pump; by <\/p>\n
plunging this needle into the meat and working with his foot, a man <\/p>\n
could fill a ham with pickle in a few seconds. And yet, in spite of <\/p>\n
this, there would be hams found spoiled, some of them with an odor so <\/p>\n
bad that a man could hardly bear to be in the room with them. To pump <\/p>\n
into these the packers had a second and much stronger pickle which <\/p>\n
destroyed the odor–a process known to the workers as “giving them <\/p>\n
thirty per cent.” Also, after the hams had been smoked, there would be <\/p>\n
found some that had gone to the bad. Formerly these had been sold as <\/p>\n
“Number Three Grade,” but later on some ingenious person had hit upon <\/p>\n
a new device, and now they would extract the bone, about which the bad <\/p>\n
part generally lay, and insert in the hole a white-hot iron. After this <\/p>\n
invention there was no longer Number One, Two, and Three Grade–there <\/p>\n
was only Number One Grade. The packers were always originating such <\/p>\n
schemes–they had what they called “boneless hams,” which were all the <\/p>\n
odds and ends of pork stuffed into casings; and “California hams,” which <\/p>\n
were the shoulders, with big knuckle joints, and nearly all the meat cut <\/p>\n
out; and fancy “skinned hams,” which were made of the oldest hogs, whose <\/p>\n
skins were so heavy and coarse that no one would buy them–that is, <\/p>\n
until they had been cooked and chopped fine and labeled “head cheese!” <\/p>\n
It was only when the whole ham was spoiled that it came into the <\/p>\n
department of Elzbieta. Cut up by the two-thousand-revolutions-a-minute <\/p>\n
flyers, and mixed with half a ton of other meat, no odor that ever was <\/p>\n
in a ham could make any difference. There was never the least attention <\/p>\n
paid to what was cut up for sausage; there would come all the way back <\/p>\n
from Europe old sausage that had been rejected, and that was moldy and <\/p>\n
white–it would be dosed with borax and glycerine, and dumped into the <\/p>\n
hoppers, and made over again for home consumption. There would be meat <\/p>\n
that had tumbled out on the floor, in the dirt and sawdust, where the <\/p>\n
workers had tramped and spit uncounted billions of consumption germs. <\/p>\n
There would be meat stored in great piles in rooms; and the water from <\/p>\n
leaky roofs would drip over it, and thousands of rats would race about <\/p>\n
on it. It was too dark in these storage places to see well, but a man <\/p>\n
could run his hand over these piles of meat and sweep off handfuls of <\/p>\n
the dried dung of rats. These rats were nuisances, and the packers would <\/p>\n
put poisoned bread out for them; they would die, and then rats, bread, <\/p>\n
and meat would go into the hoppers together. This is no fairy story and <\/p>\n
no joke; the meat would be shoveled into carts, and the man who did <\/p>\n
the shoveling would not trouble to lift out a rat even when he saw <\/p>\n
one–there were things that went into the sausage in comparison with <\/p>\n
which a poisoned rat was a tidbit. There was no place for the men <\/p>\n
to wash their hands before they ate their dinner, and so they made a <\/p>\n
practice of washing them in the water that was to be ladled into the <\/p>\n
sausage. There were the butt-ends of smoked meat, and the scraps of <\/p>\n
corned beef, and all the odds and ends of the waste of the plants, that <\/p>\n
would be dumped into old barrels in the cellar and left there. Under the <\/p>\n
system of rigid economy which the packers enforced, there were some jobs <\/p>\n
that it only paid to do once in a long time, and among these was the <\/p>\n
cleaning out of the waste barrels. Every spring they did it; and in <\/p>\n
the barrels would be dirt and rust and old nails and stale water–and <\/p>\n
cartload after cartload of it would be taken up and dumped into the <\/p>\n
hoppers with fresh meat, and sent out to the public’s breakfast. Some of <\/p>\n
it they would make into “smoked” sausage–but as the smoking took <\/p>\n
time, and was therefore expensive, they would call upon their chemistry <\/p>\n
department, and preserve it with borax and color it with gelatine to <\/p>\n
make it brown. All of their sausage came out of the same bowl, but when <\/p>\n
they came to wrap it they would stamp some of it “special,” and for this <\/p>\n
they would charge two cents more a pound. <\/p>\n
Such were the new surroundings in which Elzbieta was placed, and such <\/p>\n
was the work she was compelled to do. It was stupefying, brutalizing <\/p>\n
work; it left her no time to think, no strength for anything. She was <\/p>\n
part of the machine she tended, and every faculty that was not needed <\/p>\n
for the machine was doomed to be crushed out of existence. There was <\/p>\n
only one mercy about the cruel grind–that it gave her the gift of <\/p>\n
insensibility. Little by little she sank into a torpor–she fell silent. <\/p>\n
She would meet Jurgis and Ona in the evening, and the three would walk <\/p>\n
home together, often without saying a word. Ona, too, was falling into a <\/p>\n
habit of silence–Ona, who had once gone about singing like a bird. She <\/p>\n
was sick and miserable, and often she would barely have strength enough <\/p>\n
to drag herself home. And there they would eat what they had to eat, and <\/p>\n
afterward, because there was only their misery to talk of, they would <\/p>\n
crawl into bed and fall into a stupor and never stir until it was time <\/p>\n
to get up again, and dress by candlelight, and go back to the machines. <\/p>\n
They were so numbed that they did not even suffer much from hunger, now; <\/p>\n
only the children continued to fret when the food ran short. <\/p>\n
Yet the soul of Ona was not dead–the souls of none of them were dead, <\/p>\n
but only sleeping; and now and then they would waken, and these were <\/p>\n
cruel times. The gates of memory would roll open–old joys would stretch <\/p>\n
out their arms to them, old hopes and dreams would call to them, and <\/p>\n
they would stir beneath the burden that lay upon them, and feel its <\/p>\n
forever immeasurable weight. They could not even cry out beneath it; but <\/p>\n
anguish would seize them, more dreadful than the agony of death. It was <\/p>\n
a thing scarcely to be spoken–a thing never spoken by all the world, <\/p>\n
that will not know its own defeat. <\/p>\n
They were beaten; they had lost the game, they were swept aside. It <\/p>\n
was not less tragic because it was so sordid, because it had to do with <\/p>\n
wages and grocery bills and rents. They had dreamed of freedom; of a <\/p>\n
chance to look about them and learn something; to be decent and clean, <\/p>\n
to see their child grow up to be strong. And now it was all gone–it <\/p>\n
would never be! They had played the game and they had lost. Six years <\/p>\n
more of toil they had to face before they could expect the least <\/p>\n
respite, the cessation of the payments upon the house; and how cruelly <\/p>\n
certain it was that they could never stand six years of such a life as <\/p>\n
they were living! They were lost, they were going down–and there was <\/p>\n
no deliverance for them, no hope; for all the help it gave them the vast <\/p>\n
city in which they lived might have been an ocean waste, a wilderness, a <\/p>\n
desert, a tomb. So often this mood would come to Ona, in the nighttime, <\/p>\n
when something wakened her; she would lie, afraid of the beating of her <\/p>\n
own heart, fronting the blood-red eyes of the old primeval terror of <\/p>\n
life. Once she cried aloud, and woke Jurgis, who was tired and cross. <\/p>\n
After that she learned to weep silently–their moods so seldom came <\/p>\n
together now! It was as if their hopes were buried in separate graves. <\/p>\n
Jurgis, being a man, had troubles of his own. There was another specter <\/p>\n
following him. He had never spoken of it, nor would he allow any one <\/p>\n
else to speak of it–he had never acknowledged its existence to himself. <\/p>\n
Yet the battle with it took all the manhood that he had–and once or <\/p>\n
twice, alas, a little more. Jurgis had discovered drink. <\/p>\n
He was working in the steaming pit of hell; day after day, week after <\/p>\n
week–until now, there was not an organ of his body that did its work <\/p>\n
without pain, until the sound of ocean breakers echoed in his head day <\/p>\n
and night, and the buildings swayed and danced before him as he went <\/p>\n
down the street. And from all the unending horror of this there was a <\/p>\n
respite, a deliverance–he could drink! He could forget the pain, he <\/p>\n
could slip off the burden; he would see clearly again, he would be <\/p>\n
master of his brain, of his thoughts, of his will. His dead self would <\/p>\n
stir in him, and he would find himself laughing and cracking jokes with <\/p>\n
his companions–he would be a man again, and master of his life. <\/p>\n
It was not an easy thing for Jurgis to take more than two or three <\/p>\n
drinks. With the first drink he could eat a meal, and he could persuade <\/p>\n
himself that that was economy; with the second he could eat another <\/p>\n
meal–but there would come a time when he could eat no more, and then <\/p>\n
to pay for a drink was an unthinkable extravagance, a defiance of the <\/p>\n
agelong instincts of his hunger-haunted class. One day, however, he took <\/p>\n
the plunge, and drank up all that he had in his pockets, and went home <\/p>\n
half “piped,” as the men phrase it. He was happier than he had been in a <\/p>\n
year; and yet, because he knew that the happiness would not last, he was <\/p>\n
savage, too with those who would wreck it, and with the world, and with <\/p>\n
his life; and then again, beneath this, he was sick with the shame of <\/p>\n
himself. Afterward, when he saw the despair of his family, and reckoned <\/p>\n
up the money he had spent, the tears came into his eyes, and he began <\/p>\n
the long battle with the specter. <\/p>\n
It was a battle that had no end, that never could have one. But Jurgis <\/p>\n
did not realize that very clearly; he was not given much time for <\/p>\n
reflection. He simply knew that he was always fighting. Steeped in <\/p>\n
misery and despair as he was, merely to walk down the street was to be <\/p>\n
put upon the rack. There was surely a saloon on the corner–perhaps on <\/p>\n
all four corners, and some in the middle of the block as well; and each <\/p>\n
one stretched out a hand to him each one had a personality of its own, <\/p>\n
allurements unlike any other. Going and coming–before sunrise and <\/p>\n
after dark–there was warmth and a glow of light, and the steam of hot <\/p>\n
food, and perhaps music, or a friendly face, and a word of good cheer. <\/p>\n
Jurgis developed a fondness for having Ona on his arm whenever he went <\/p>\n
out on the street, and he would hold her tightly, and walk fast. It was <\/p>\n
pitiful to have Ona know of this–it drove him wild to think of it; the <\/p>\n
thing was not fair, for Ona had never tasted drink, and so could not <\/p>\n
understand. Sometimes, in desperate hours, he would find himself wishing <\/p>\n
that she might learn what it was, so that he need not be ashamed in her <\/p>\n
presence. They might drink together, and escape from the horror–escape <\/p>\n
for a while, come what would. <\/p>\n
So there came a time when nearly all the conscious life of Jurgis <\/p>\n
consisted of a struggle with the craving for liquor. He would have ugly <\/p>\n
moods, when he hated Ona and the whole family, because they stood in his <\/p>\n
way. He was a fool to have married; he had tied himself down, had made <\/p>\n
himself a slave. It was all because he was a married man that he was <\/p>\n
compelled to stay in the yards; if it had not been for that he might <\/p>\n
have gone off like Jonas, and to hell with the packers. There were few <\/p>\n
single men in the fertilizer mill–and those few were working only for a <\/p>\n
chance to escape. Meantime, too, they had something to think about while <\/p>\n
they worked,–they had the memory of the last time they had been drunk, <\/p>\n
and the hope of the time when they would be drunk again. As for Jurgis, <\/p>\n
he was expected to bring home every penny; he could not even go with <\/p>\n
the men at noontime–he was supposed to sit down and eat his dinner on a <\/p>\n
pile of fertilizer dust. <\/p>\n
This was not always his mood, of course; he still loved his family. But <\/p>\n
just now was a time of trial. Poor little Antanas, for instance–who <\/p>\n
had never failed to win him with a smile–little Antanas was not smiling <\/p>\n
just now, being a mass of fiery red pimples. He had had all the diseases <\/p>\n
that babies are heir to, in quick succession, scarlet fever, mumps, and <\/p>\n
whooping cough in the first year, and now he was down with the measles. <\/p>\n
There was no one to attend him but Kotrina; there was no doctor to <\/p>\n
help him, because they were too poor, and children did not die of the <\/p>\n
measles–at least not often. Now and then Kotrina would find time to sob <\/p>\n
over his woes, but for the greater part of the time he had to be left <\/p>\n
alone, barricaded upon the bed. The floor was full of drafts, and if he <\/p>\n
caught cold he would die. At night he was tied down, lest he should kick <\/p>\n
the covers off him, while the family lay in their stupor of exhaustion. <\/p>\n
He would lie and scream for hours, almost in convulsions; and then, when <\/p>\n
he was worn out, he would lie whimpering and wailing in his torment. <\/p>\n
He was burning up with fever, and his eyes were running sores; in <\/p>\n
the daytime he was a thing uncanny and impish to behold, a plaster of <\/p>\n
pimples and sweat, a great purple lump of misery. <\/p>\n
Yet all this was not really as cruel as it sounds, for, sick as he was, <\/p>\n
little Antanas was the least unfortunate member of that family. He <\/p>\n
was quite able to bear his sufferings–it was as if he had all these <\/p>\n
complaints to show what a prodigy of health he was. He was the child of <\/p>\n
his parents’ youth and joy; he grew up like the conjurer’s rosebush, and <\/p>\n
all the world was his oyster. In general, he toddled around the kitchen <\/p>\n
all day with a lean and hungry look–the portion of the family’s <\/p>\n
allowance that fell to him was not enough, and he was unrestrainable in <\/p>\n
his demand for more. Antanas was but little over a year old, and already <\/p>\n
no one but his father could manage him. <\/p>\n
It seemed as if he had taken all of his mother’s strength–had left <\/p>\n
nothing for those that might come after him. Ona was with child again <\/p>\n
now, and it was a dreadful thing to contemplate; even Jurgis, dumb and <\/p>\n
despairing as he was, could not but understand that yet other agonies <\/p>\n
were on the way, and shudder at the thought of them. <\/p>\n
For Ona was visibly going to pieces. In the first place she was <\/p>\n
developing a cough, like the one that had killed old Dede Antanas. She <\/p>\n
had had a trace of it ever since that fatal morning when the greedy <\/p>\n
streetcar corporation had turned her out into the rain; but now it was <\/p>\n
beginning to grow serious, and to wake her up at night. Even worse than <\/p>\n
that was the fearful nervousness from which she suffered; she would have <\/p>\n
frightful headaches and fits of aimless weeping; and sometimes she would <\/p>\n
come home at night shuddering and moaning, and would fling herself down <\/p>\n
upon the bed and burst into tears. Several times she was quite beside <\/p>\n
herself and hysterical; and then Jurgis would go half-mad with fright. <\/p>\n
Elzbieta would explain to him that it could not be helped, that a woman <\/p>\n
was subject to such things when she was pregnant; but he was hardly to <\/p>\n
be persuaded, and would beg and plead to know what had happened. She <\/p>\n
had never been like this before, he would argue–it was monstrous and <\/p>\n
unthinkable. It was the life she had to live, the accursed work she had <\/p>\n
to do, that was killing her by inches. She was not fitted for it–no <\/p>\n
woman was fitted for it, no woman ought to be allowed to do such work; <\/p>\n
if the world could not keep them alive any other way it ought to kill <\/p>\n
them at once and be done with it. They ought not to marry, to have <\/p>\n
children; no workingman ought to marry–if he, Jurgis, had known what a <\/p>\n
woman was like, he would have had his eyes torn out first. So he would <\/p>\n
carry on, becoming half hysterical himself, which was an unbearable <\/p>\n
thing to see in a big man; Ona would pull herself together and fling <\/p>\n
herself into his arms, begging him to stop, to be still, that she would <\/p>\n
be better, it would be all right. So she would lie and sob out her <\/p>\n
grief upon his shoulder, while he gazed at her, as helpless as a wounded <\/p>\n
animal, the target of unseen enemies.
\u00a0 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The excerpt from Chapter 14 of The Jungle will provide the basis for answering that question. The Jungle excerpt can be found in the Pearson Reader selection under Unit 6–The Progressive Era.\u00a0 For questions part 1 and 2, do not use outside sources–just the excerpt provided from The Jungle, Chapter 14, along with the lecture […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[10],"class_list":["post-52049","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-research-paper-writing","tag-writing"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/papersspot.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52049","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/papersspot.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/papersspot.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/papersspot.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/papersspot.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=52049"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/papersspot.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52049\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/papersspot.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=52049"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/papersspot.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=52049"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/papersspot.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=52049"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}