A story circulated in Hartford toward the end of the 19th century about a young boot black who worked on a steamship. Perhaps he found the competition on dry land too stiff; the number of boys working in the trade always grew when times were hard. But even the meagre sum that shining shoes brought into the family could mean the difference between eating and going hungry.
As a stocky, bearded man walked by on the deck, the boy asked him if he needed a shine. The man clearly did, but the boy was polite enough not to criticize, just to inquire. The man stopped and lit a cigar; the boy went to work. When he finished, he held out his hand waiting to be paid. The man slipped him a paper bill, in a quarter-dollar denomination.
This angered the boy. He wanted coins, not a “worthless” greenbacks. Yes, holding paper money was a show of faith in the U.S. Government, both during and after the Civil War. But those who hoarded gold and silver were waiting for the North to lose the conflict, or to collapse altogether. Those who used paper money were optimists and patriots.
A bystander saw the boy’s distress and approached him. “That was General Grant,” he told the boy.
Boot blacks have long been the subject of nostalgia in American culture, with stories in the local press about colorful figures like Speck Macton and Cesar Diggs. But the reality of a bootblack’s life was no quaint tale. The art of shining shoes, as poorly paid as it was, became a trade that kept working people a step ahead of poverty.
Many boot blacks formed unions for mutual protection. At a national convention in 1900 of the American Federation of Labor (AFL) one young boy took the platform to demand that the unionists clean house before passing lofty resolutions. Referring to the shoe shine services at the convention’s hotel, he declared “I want those scab boot blacks to keep out! I am a union boy and I want them put out!”
Hartford regulated the trade as far back as 1888. The city limited the number of bootblack licenses to seventeen (thirty-five rag pickers were allowed to work that year). Only one license per family was allowed. The police could arrest a bootblack without a license, and the chief could take away a boy’s permit for almost any reason.
The number of boot blacks swelled when the Great Depression hit Connecticut. As unemployment increased, so did the numbers of men and boys looking for income. Boot blacks rose from 100 to 250 in Hartford alone. One boy’s story typified the hardships faced by the poor of the city.
Danny D’Onofrio was 12 years old and lived with his family on Charles Street in Hartford’s poorest neighborhood. His father had died; his mother was raising seven children. One of his brothers was in the hospital with a deformed spine, and one of his sisters had her own child. Danny was the main breadwinner. Like others, he worked from the morning to late at night, seven days a week. “Sometimes not all the cops pay for their shine,” he told a reporter.
As the trade grew, so did the complaints against it. Italian boys waited for business in front of the post office. Men who loafed around the area would throw coins into the crowd and cheered when the boys fought over the money. Boot blacks were considered a nuisance by local businesses and the police.
The Board of Aldermen held hearings in July, 1930 to “close downtown” to the boot blacks. Anonymous complaints alleged that the boys were guilty of “gambling, profanity and rowdyism.”
Alderman James Kennedy pointed out that a bootblack’s weekly earnings were far below the average adult wage. The boys defended their livelihood at City Hall. Dominic J. Curio and Sergio Gionfriddo were officers of the Hartford Boys Boot Black Association and spoke on behalf of their co-workers.
Dominic explained how he bought groceries and paid the rent for his family who were stuck deep in poverty. He spent seven days a week on the job, and earned a total of $6.00 to $10.00 for a 60-70 hour workweek. (In contrast, electricians made $6.00 for one eight-hour day.)
Dominic provided an “able defense” before the elected officials, and taught the lawmakers the real conditions of poverty that festered as the Depression grew.
“If you take us off the busy streets and put us on streets that are not busy, we won’t make enough to buy shoe leather,” Dominic told the Council. The bootblacks’ younger brothers and sisters ran barefoot on the hot summer streets, he said.
Finally, in 1932 the City Council accepted a plan offered by a social service group to allow boot blacks to work at designated stations around the downtown area. Taking into account the demands of local businesses, the number of shoeshine boxes were limited on certain streets. The Friends of Hartford Boys mapped out 200 sites where from one to four boot blacks could set up shop. The plan was still opposed, to no avail, by the larger, more established bootblack stands that employed individual shoe shiners and made a profit off their work.
By 1953 the City had designated 325 stations in the business district. Still visible today are some of the official “BB” marks painted on Hartford curbs.
Steve thanks for the memories and historical perspective. In the 50s Mr. Henry Barnum was a City social worker who supervised “Bootblacks” or shoe shine boys. I was one of them. Barnum’s office was on Temple Street. That’s when you paid for a license and learned the locations where the BB-marks were painted on the curves. It was a fun time for young entrepreneurs!
William M. (Lew) Brown
On Sat, Feb 27, 2016 at 2:29 PM, The Shoeleather History Project wrote:
> Steve Thornton posted: “A story circulated in Hartford toward the end of > the 19th century about a young bootblack who worked on a steamship. Perhaps > he found the competition on dry land too stiff; the number of boys working > in the trade always grew when times were hard. But even” >