By trying to erase progressive history, he not only shows how it threatens conservatives but urges us to keep the fight going.

One thing you have to say for Governor Paul LePage of Maine is that he's an honest guy. Right-wing Republicans incessantly proclaim their reverence for the American past. But the Governor has made it quite clear that, contrary to their repeated claims, conservatives do not revere the nation's history but actually fear it and believe they must act to control what people remember and know of it.

Determined to make Maine ever more inviting to business executives and their investments, LePage not only has set out -- like many another Republican governors, such as Scott Walker of Wisconsin -- to weaken, if not destroy, public employee unions and workers' rights. LePage also has taken steps to "neutral[ize]" American history. He has ordered both the removal of a labor history mural from the walls of the state's Department of Labor Building and the renaming of its conference rooms so that they no longer bear those of 1960s farm-worker leader César Chavez, 1920s labor activist Rose Schneiderman, and President Franklin Roosevelt's Labor Secretary Frances Perkins (the first woman ever to hold a Cabinet-level appointment).

Three cheers for Governor LePage! Instead of denying what he's up to, he reveals all. He wants to wipe the walls of government clean of the progressive story of what has made America prosperous and ever more free, equal, and democratic. He wants a history that makes the rich and the right comfortable, happy, and ready to roll.

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Forget the blissful ignorance of Minnesota congresswoman Michelle Bachmann. History, historical memory, and imagination matter and the folks on the right know it. Pursuing class war from above for more than thirty years now, conservative and corporate leaders have persistently sought to harness the past -- or their strange renditions of it -- to bolster their own pro-corporate and reactionary ambitions and schemes. Following the lead of their champion, actor-turned-politician Ronald Reagan, the unrivaled master of using and abusing history, Republicans and their ilk continue to conjure up their marble images of the Founders, wrap themselves in the American flag (if not the Stars & Bars on occasion), and talk of bygone eras and their desire to restore "the America we have lost." You can find them doing so from the halls of Congress and many a statehouse, from the studios of FOX News and many an AM radio station, and from the pages of innumerable books and periodicals.

But they really do not seek to redeem the past. Rather, they want to hijack it by variously and variably fabricating it, obscuring it, and burying it in favor of a tale that denies the power of "We the people" past and present and enhances their own power and wealth forever after.

We progressives have so much to do today. But in doing it we must not fail to challenge the right regarding American experience and greatness. We must do a better job of cultivating and speaking to American historical memory and imagination. We must re-engage America's past -- to defend it, to redeem it, to make it our own.

In 1939, when the Great Depression still stalked the United States and fascism and imperialism were threatening to rule the world, Max Lerner wrote in "It Is Later Than You Think: The Need for a Militant Democracy", "The basic story in the American past, the only story ultimately worth the telling, is the story of the struggle between the creative and the frustrating elements in the American democratic adventure."

In that spirit, we must never forget the exploitation and oppression, the tragedies and injustices, and the struggles and defeats that have marked our history. But we must also remember the victories of 1776, 1865, 1920, 1935, 1945, 1965. We must hear the encouraging words and inspiring ideals: All men are created equal... Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness... We the People... A new birth of freedom... Government of the people, by the people, for the people... Freedom of speech, Freedom of worship, Freedom from want, Freedom from fear... We shall overcome. And we must honor those men and women -- in all their American diversity -- who fought those battles, spoke those words, and progressively advanced America's historic purpose and promise.

Three cheers for Governor LePage -- not just for revealing all, but also for reminding us of what we need to do, especially now with the resurgence of America's democratic impulse emanating from Wisconsin!

Propelled by the memory and legacy of those who came before us, the yearnings and aspirations we ourselves feel, and the responsibility we have to those yet to come, we can pursue not only the imperatives of recovery and reconstruction, but also that of making a freer, more equal, and more democratic America. We too can both secure the past and make history. And perhaps one day our children will recall 2011, recite the words "This is what democracy looks like," and not only return the labor mural to the walls of the state office building in Maine, but also add their own historical panels to that work.

Harvey J. Kaye is the Rosenberg Professor of Democracy and Justice Studies at the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay and the author of Thomas Paine and the Promise of America. He is currently writing The Four Freedoms and the Promise of America. Follow him on Twitter: www.twitter.com/HarveyJKaye

Remembering Women’s History Month and the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire, New Deal 2.0 tells the surprising story of how women became citizens — and how their economic lives have evolved along with their rights. Eileen Boris explores how household workers get the shaft -- and why they are fighting back.

In time for Women's History month, the White House Council on Women and Girls has issued "Women in America: Indicators of Social and Economic Well-Being." This statistical survey, proclaimed as the first such report in fifty years, calls for "raising the visibility of women's lives, as well as thinking strategically about how to address these challenges." Notably missing is any mention of household workers, those who make it possible for other women to go out to their jobs by cleaning houses, cooking dinner, bathing children, and aiding the aged. These workers largely stand outside the law -- and the White House agenda. But their mobilization for respect and decent work challenges both the economic violence perpetuated in homes and conventional understandings of what is work and who deserves worker rights.

A half century ago, the President's Commission on the Status of Women offered a broader vision than today's Council. Kennedy-era labor feminists considered not only the bare facts of employment, but advocated moving domestic service from the personalistic realm of mistress and maid to the modern regime of labor law, recognizing it as a valuable occupation. The Women's Bureau, along with prominent organizations of black, Jewish, and Catholic women, relaunched the depression-era National Committee of Household Employment (NCHE) to improve working conditions in private households. NCHE promoted a voluntary "Code of Standards" with provisions for minimum wages, overtime, Social Security, sick leave, paid holidays, and a "professional" working relationship. It sought inclusion of private household workers in the New Deal Fair Labor Standards Act (FLSA).

Under black activist Edith Barksdale-Sloan, the NCHE organized the Household Technicians of America as a national association of domestic workers dedicated to "winning good wages and benefits, raising consciousness and educating consumers of domestic services." In 1974, private household workers won minimum wage under FLSA, though the same amendments removed elder companions, today's home care workers, from the law. The reorganization of domestic employment and ebbing of social movements in the next decade stalled further improvements.

Now thousands of household workers are on the move again -- creating ethnic and community-based associations, demanding dignity and living wages from employers, and lobbying governments for rights as workers. During the last fifteen years, in California, Maryland, and New York, immigrant and U.S. born women of color have built upon the example of worker centers and engaged in grassroots organizing to form associations that reach housekeepers, nannies, and elder caregivers in individual homes. They enhanced worker empowerment through education, leadership training, and service provision. They engaged in street actions denouncing employers who withhold food as well as payment, who abuse bodies and curtail physical movement. Like the NCHE, they issued voluntary codes of conduct and standards for decent work. They have sought legal as well as political redress.

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About six years ago, coalitions in California and New York City began pushing for a "Domestic Worker's Bill of Rights." In New York, the multi-ethnic Domestic Workers United and its allies, notably Jews for Racial and Economic Justice, petitioned, marched, and lobbied the legislature. Last September, Democratic Governor David Patterson signed such a framework for greater security. The pioneering New York bill guaranteed a living wage, paid sick and vacation days, and health benefits.

Though Republican Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger vetoed a similar measure in 2006, the California Domestic Worker Coalition -- composed of grassroots organizations like Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights of Los Angeles and Mujeres Unidas y Activas in the Bay area -- has returned with a new bill. The Domestic Work Employee Equality, Fairness, and Dignity Act of 2011 (AB 889) places household workers under the state's labor code, including worker compensation, occupational health and safety, overtime, meal and rest breaks, and pay reporting. Sensitive to cultural preferences, it calls for the availability of kitchens for personal food preparation. Additionally, the bill authorizes eight hours of uninterrupted sleep for 24-hour and live-in workers, paid sick and vacation days, termination notice, and cost of living increases. In treating domestic labor like other jobs, it resembles the "Decent Work for Domestic Workers" convention set for final approval by the International Labor Organization next June, for which the National Domestic Workers Alliance has help secure U.S. support.

Workers hired by families are using the state to transform private labors into public work. But one group of household laborers remains apart -- those paid by governments to care for needy elderly and disabled people. The California proposal explicitly excludes In Home Supportive Service workers, the type of worker whose omission from federal law the Supreme Court upheld in 2007 and the Obama administration has yet to rectify through new labor regulations. Meanwhile, Republican governors, as in Wisconsin, are eliminating collective bargaining for home care workers. An irony of current struggles might be that these public employees end up with fewer rights and poorer conditions than those who labor for individual housewives.

Eileen Boris is Hull Professor and Chair, Department of Feminist Studies, University of California Santa Barbara. With Jennifer Klein, she is the author of the forthcoming Caring for America: Home Health Workers under the Shadow of the Welfare State.

Remembering Women’s History Month and the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire, New Deal 2.0 tells the surprising story of how women became citizens — and how their economic lives have evolved along with their rights. Brigid O'Farrell urges Republicans like Scott Walker to listen to the women following in the footsteps of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory strikers and Eleanor Roosevelt.

For Women's History Month this year, thousands of people around the country are commemorating the 100th anniversary of the Triangle Fire. On Saturday, March 25, 1911, flames engulfed a sweatshop just off of Washington Square, in New York City, where women's shirtwaist blouses were made. One hundred and forty-six workers, mostly young Jewish and Italian girls, were burned to death by the fire or jumped to their deaths to escape. Doors were locked and the fire ladders couldn't reach the top floors of the burning building. Women died at their sewing machines, but they didn't have the right to vote in elections. The fire was an historic turning point for the country. The movement for social justice took on new urgency. Workplace safety legislation became a reality, the union movement gained momentum, and eventually women won the right to vote.

March is a time to celebrate the progress that women have made since the Triangle Fire, but there is also reason to pause and consider the fight that continues. We need only turn to Wisconsin. Governor Walker's outright attack on unions is, indeed, a fundamental attack on working women. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, over half of state workers and 61% of city workers are women. Thirty-one percent of state workers and 42% of local government workers belong to unions. They earn better wages than those who are not union members and the pay gap between women and men is smaller among union members.

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These employees are our elementary school teachers, university professors, nurses, social workers, secretaries, and administrative assistants. They are women who are critical to making our cities work and who help turn our towns into livable communities for our families. Through their unions they have secured decent wages, reasonable benefits, ways to resolve grievances, and some security for their retirement. Yet they are being criticized and their rights taken away for economic problems they didn't create.

We can learn from Eleanor Roosevelt. She believed that all workers had a right to a voice at work. Legislation and unionization were the only two ways to protect workers, and she thought joining a union was the best way for women to improve their working lives. For her, workers' rights were human rights, and it is this basic right to have a voice at work that is being lost in Wisconsin.

Eleanor Roosevelt gave careful consideration to her positions. President Roosevelt was skeptical of public-sector unions, though definitely not anti-union as some conservatives have suggested, and his wife struggled with the issue in her newspaper column "My Day" after his death. In the 1950s, as public employee unions began to organize and grow more rapidly, however, she was shocked when a city police commissioner refused to meet with a workers' grievance committee. She acknowledged budget problems, but asked if "any workers should be kept at starvation wages?"

By the late 1950s, she concluded that unionization in the public sector was necessary because employers in the public sector were little different from those in the private sector, refusing to listen to workers and treat them fairly. "Employees who are quite evidently not receiving a living wage and are dissatisfied with their conditions of work," she wrote, "would simply be slaves if they were obliged to work on without being able to reach their employers with their complaints and demand negotiation."

When teachers went on strike in New York City in 1962, shortly before her death, she wrote that there was no "method of complaint and adjustment that could take the place of collective bargaining with the ultimate possibility of a strike." She concluded that "Under the present set-up teachers have no other recourse but to strike to draw attention to their legitimate complaints." Female public employees in Wisconsin followed Roosevelt's advise and joined unions.

Governor Walker should listen to Eleanor Roosevelt. He would learn that his time might be more productively spent cooperating with the women who teach our children and care for the sick and meet the needs of the public everyday. He could learn to solicit their ideas on how to improve services and reduce costs, then negotiate solutions. Wisconsin government could be a model of a democratic workplace, rather than a leader in an effort to dismantle workers' rights. The women of Wisconsin are joining the spirit of their sisters in the Triangle Fire and they are fighting back. They need our support. As Eleanor Roosevelt said, "We can't just talk, we have got to act."

Brigid O’Farrell is an independent scholar whose new book is She Was One of Us: Eleanor Roosevelt and the American Worker, Cornell University Press.

How a farmer, a weaver, and a backwoods prophet took on the money interest in founding-era politics -- and won.

One of the better-known episodes in American founding finance occurred in 1791, when Alexander Hamilton, the first Treasury Secretary, proposed forming the United States' first central bank. James Madison of Virginia, serving in the House of Representatives, objected. Prefiguring the Republican lawmakers who recently pledged not to introduce legislation without first citing the constitutional provision enabling it, Madison asserted that because the Constitution doesn't grant Congress a specific power to form banks, a national bank would be unconstitutional.

Hamilton famously responded by arguing that if a power to do something is constitutional, then powers necessary to doing it must be constitutional too, even when not enumerated. If Congress determines that exercising its power to do anything "necessary and proper" in the discharge of its duties calls for forming a bank, it can form a bank. Any unconstitutionality, for Hamilton, would require a specific prohibition against banks ("Congress shall make no law...," etc.).

So that's typically how history students and readers get introduced to a key founding moment in American public finance: ideologically, intellectually and legally, in the context of a constitutional dispute between the lions of ratification Hamilton and Madison, two thirds of the "Publius" who authored "The Federalist," now coming at odds in the fledgling republic. Anyone hoping to find anything related to how money and credit might flow to ordinary Americans will be disappointed. Hamilton was arguing for the nationalist finance agenda he'd been pursuing since becoming a young protégé of the financier Robert Morris in the early 1780s. Democratic ideas about popular finance were just what Morris and Hamilton had been trying to quell. With a national government in place at last, central banking would be critical.

And in opposing central banking, Madison was arguing on behalf of security in property, limits on power, representative consent, and a land-based economy. He condemned Hamilton's finance plan as crass, urban, and Yankee: un-republican, that is, to Madison. No democrat, Madison would never have endorsed paper currencies, legal relief for the debtor class, and demands by the less propertied for better access to the franchise -- the program advocated by American populist regulators in their struggle against elite finance. Madison's famous "Federalist No. 10" expresses a genteel revulsion for paper finance and social equality at least as deep as Robert Morris's.

It's therefore been easy for many well-regarded historians -- riveted by great men, perpetually rehearsing the Hamilton-Madison binary -- to dismiss founding-era democratic finance theory and practice. Robert Whitehill? Herman Husband? William Findley? Names rarely conjured. The irony is that to Alexander Hamilton and Robert Morris, those names were anything but obscure. Little-remembered today, they made Morris seethe with exasperation precisely over issues of central banking and public debt. Our founding egalitarians' successes and failures complicate received historical binaries and offer intriguing models for today's struggles over public and private finance.

Robert Whitehill was a farmer, Herman Husband a career activist, William Findley a weaver. All lived in western parts of Pennsylvania, where antipathy prevailed both for big planters tying up land and eastern slicksters tying up money and credit. Whitehill led an early 1770s movement for western independence from Philadelphia, as important to his constituency as American independence from England. Husband had led the North Carolina Regulation in the 1760s, barely escaping hanging; as a fugitive in the Pennsylvania wilderness, he experienced Biblical visions of a democratically ruled America, the New Jerusalem. Findley was a natural pol, anything but visionary: he thrived under Jefferson but exemplifies the rough-and-tumble politics of the Jackson era.

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What the three shared, along with passion for democratic finance, was sudden electability under the new Pennsylvania Constitution, which in 1776 shocked famous founders from John Adams to Hamilton by smashing the old Whig connection between representative rights and property ownership. (Whitehill helped write it.) With the unpropertied voting in Pennsylvania, Husband entered the Pennsylvania assembly in the mighty year of 1776, Whitehill and Findley in the early 1780s. For the first time, democratic finance was no longer a crowd protest but a legislative effort.

Husband really was a prophet. He proposed such things anathema to the creditor class as going off the gold standard and managing a slow, deliberate rate of paper depreciation; imposing taxes on wealth and income; making those taxes progressive; and instituting programs for supporting the elderly after they could no longer work. Prefiguring Bretton Woods, the New Deal, and Great Society by nearly two centuries, Husband became known as "the madman of the Alleghenies."

Whitehill and Findley attacked the bank that Robert Morris had founded in Philadelphia. Its charter belonged to the people of Pennsylvania, they asserted, not Morris, and the bank served no public function, existing only to enrich its founders. They proposed revoking the charter, establishing a land bank for small-scale lending, and issuing legal-tender paper to enable small transactions and debt relief. They wanted the electorate, via representatives in the assembly, to regulate public and private finance on behalf of ordinary working people.

Robert Morris himself was serving in the assembly, so floor debate was intense. His merchant constituents were panicking. Investors everywhere in America relied on the bank for gigantic, poorly secured loans to fund their speculations in the land bubble, the bond rollercoaster, and their own fabulous lifestyles. James Wilson, one of the bank's directors, had personally borrowed more than $250,000 from the bank for the purpose of wild speculation. Wilson too served in the Pennsylvania assembly, and in hopes of saving the charter, he and Morris found themselves forced to duke it out with the low-rent likes of Whitehill and Findley.

In a stunning benchmark legislative victory for popular finance, the Pennsylvania assembly did revoke the bank's charter. When the charter came up in the next session, the assembly refused to reinstate it. The people had won. Rich men far and wide gasped in fear of what a democratic American legislature might achieve. Morris announced that a mob was confiscating his property. But for once there was nothing he could do. In a democratic process of republican government, struggling against an enormously powerful money interest in politics, economic fairness had prevailed. That was 1785.

Skeptics of our early democratic finance point to Pennsylvania's bumpy ride under its 1776 constitution, suggesting that the Whitehills, Husbands, and Findleys turned out to be naive in comparison to men like Morris, Wilson, and Hamilton -- financial sophisticates who could quote the philosopher David Hume and the economist Jacques Necker. Morris was "financier of the Revolution," after all. Wilson was the brilliant lawyer who helped author the U.S. Constitution.

So in judging the relative effectiveness of popular versus elite finance, it's worth considering some outcomes. The sophisticates Morris and Wilson, like many of our best-certified wizards today, persisted in speculating well past the point where rationality would suggest stopping, often in manifestly dubious ventures. The unabashed scale and mounting danger of their adventuring will sound familiar. In a time of widespread economic depression, Morris at one point owned most of western New York and many millions of acres in Pennsylvania and the South. Wilson borrowed at rates of up to 30% to invest, among other things, in what turned out to be the Yazoo land fraud in Georgia.

And inevitably, just as today, it all came crashing down. Wilson was serving on the U.S. Supreme Court when his increasingly desperate throwing of good money after bad finally landed the great legal scholar in debtors prison. Our mighty founding financier Robert Morris? He ended up in debtors prison too. In 1800, the first Bankruptcy Act was passed -- in large part to get Robert Morris out of jail.

William Hogeland is the author of the narrative histories Declaration and The Whiskey Rebellion and a collection of essays, Inventing American History. He has spoken on unexpected connections between history and politics at the National Archives, the Kansas City Public Library, and various corporate and organization events. He blogs at http://www.williamhogeland.com.