Buttons on Buttons

By Cloe Warwick

Buttons are making a comeback. While some may say that they never really left, it is undeniable that in the last couple of years pin-back buttons and their close cousin, the enamel pin, have had a significant increase in popularity. We can see this happening even within the SFU community as buttons are becoming more commonly used by clubs, unions, and events, and are often one of the first items to be snatched up on a table of merchandise. Buttons have also become an expected cash register knick-knack for smaller businesses and a new product avenue for artists. All this to say, we are currently seeing a recycling of the button trend from the 1960s-1980s when their central role in the evolving social and political climate made them a staple of the time (Carter). A lot of these priceless historical buttons are now housed in archives of various sorts waiting for modern viewers to uncover the rich histories they hold. With a particular interest in LGBTQ+, feminist, and activist buttons, this essay explores the origin of the button, the role and significance of buttons in archives, and the (dis)connection to button-wearing today.

As is the case with a lot of innovations, the genealogy of the button is not entirely clear cut, but there seems to be some relative agreement that pin-back buttons, at least in North America, can be traced back to 1789 with the engraved buttons featured on George Washington’s inaugural coat (Carter). From there, decorative engraved buttons became a more highly sought-after product among everyday citizens who wanted to commemorate Washington’s historic moment. Seeing this opportunity in the market, political “medalets” and early photo buttons became popular ways for candidates to spread their message. Skipping forward to 1896, the button as we know it today, with its celluloid cover and metal pin, was officially patented in New Jersey and continued to grow in the following century, branching from politics into product advertisement and then being taken on by a variety of different social causes (Carter). The period from 1960-1980 is particularly remembered as a prime time for buttons as hundreds were being made every day for causes ranging from civil rights to anti-war to environmental advocacy (Carter). In a lot of ways, the popularity of buttons can be attributed to the fact that organizations wanted a cheap, trendy, simple way to advertise (Carter; Majekodunmi 756), but of course, another contributing factor is that people had their own multifaceted motivations for button-wearing. For example, Eleanor Medhurst talks about how, in many lesbian communities, explicitly queer buttons like those that read “encourage lesbianism” acted as a way for lesbians to quickly and unquestionably identify themselves in public and reach others who shared their desire for shameless lesbian connection. This act of seeing and being seen by your community was a central part of queer button-wearing, and queer life more generally, especially during times of heightened non-acceptance and discrimination (Medhurst). Other types of buttons had slightly different goals, like those that proclaimed, “ABOLISH APARTHEID” or “KEEP YOUR LAWS OFF MY BODY” (“Buttons”). Buttons in this category engaged in what K.J Rawson calls “rhetorical activism,” meaning they served to raise awareness about particular issues, show support, encourage fruitful grassroots conversations, and ultimately bring people to the cause (Majekodunmi 766; Rawson 540). A lot of button-wearing was also practical in terms of promoting marches or events that were happening instead of relying on posters or physical advertisement. There is of course significant overlap between all these motivations as a button for a pride march serves to advertise the event itself while simultaneously showing involvement in the community.

Numerous buttons from the 1960s-80s are now housed in archives around North America, but what does this act of preservation mean for the buttons themselves, their stories, and those who are seeking them out? Take the Lesbian Herstory Archive, for example. Their goal is to preserve Lesbian history, and as a part of that, they have an extensive digital button archive with over 2000 buttons carefully catalogued and uploaded (“Buttons”; “Our Herstory”). Yet, even with this abundance of material, viewers are still left with so many questions regarding the buttons’ dates of creation, past owner(s), donors, and other details related to their lifetime out in the world. Rawson would also add that we rarely know “why they mattered, or what effects they may have had” (539). This unknowability can be interpreted as a strength of button archives as it allows viewers to approach each item with a blank slate and let the material speak for itself without being tied to a singular perspective. On the other hand, researchers like Norda Majekodunmi would argue that buttons cannot paint a complete picture of the past unless we also learn from the original wearer, collector, or other people who can contextualize their existence (757-58). She insists that “just touching the buttons is not enough; hearing the narratives behind the buttons is of equal importance” (770). Majekodunmi sees this narrative accompaniment as a no-brainer for archival buttons since it is a powerful “counter-memory” tool that ensures marginalized voices are remembered and documented for future generations (753) In an ideal world, there would perhaps be more oral history featured in button archives, but there are several logistical limits to implementing these practices today, given the length of time the buttons were worn and donated.

Fortunately, these limits do not mean that decontextualized buttons have nothing to offer. In fact, there are several things to learn from buttons solely based on their designs, wording, and presence in archives. One example of this would be buttons from the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA) ratification movement in the 1970s and 80s. The movement “produced innumerable three-dimensional objects [...] that proclaimed support for or opposition to the ERA,” and most of this material, namely the buttons, remain disconnected from the personal histories of their wearers (Gotewals 41). Jenny Gotwals suggests that the sheer volume of ERA-related ephemera points to its importance in women’s lives and “the urgency of the campaign” (42). Taking this idea a step further, the quantity of specific buttons in an archive can provide insights about the popularity of certain causes and even about which communities were in the best position to create, preserve, and donate their buttons.

Despite these opportunities to investigate and learn from ‘orphaned’ buttons, it is still disappointing to think about all the personal stories connected to these intriguing historical artifacts that we may never get to know. Inspired by this research and my own interest in buttons, I have assembled a small archive of photographs that provide a snapshot into the button-wearing habits of queer, feminist, and activist circles around SFU. This process involved approaching button-wearers around campus and requesting to take a photo of their bag or backpack-based buttons. Displayed below you can see the great diversity of different pin styles and designs that university students are proudly wearing today. Button themes span numerous topics and causes like Free Palestine, LGBTQ+ pride, pro-choice, reading banned books, protecting transgender children, Indigenous struggles, anti-street harassment, environmental issues, Alzheimer’s awareness, Pink Shirt Day and so much more. Creating this small and informal archive highlighted the fact that buttons are usually displayed in collections of two or more, something that is missing from most button archives, which document buttons individually. I see this as a major loss since the placement of buttons in such close proximity is always intentional in one way or another, as it aims to tell the public a more complete story about the wearer. A lesbian pride flag, for example, conveys a connection to the lesbian community, and when displayed next to an orange shirt pin shows support for Indigenous issues; together, these buttons create a more well-rounded image of the button wearer’s identity and values. Creating this archive and looking at it side by side with the Lesbian Herstory Archive also cemented the fact that queer people and our button wearing-tendencies are here to stay no matter how our communities, or button design, evolves. We can only hope that someone is making the effort to preserve the incredible buttons from our generation so that this continuity can be seen for generations to come.