Mexican writers of the twentieth century have often imagined cuisine to be a symbol of their national identity, a mestizo blend of Native American and Spanish influences. Salvador Novo, for example, a member of the Academia Mexicana de la Lengua and official chronicler of Mexico City, traced the beginnings of mestizaje to the “happy encounter” between corn tortillas and pork sausage that produced the first taco. The most common culinary metaphor for the Mexican nation was mole poblano (turkey in deep-brown sauce). Authors in the 1920s began attributing the origins of this dish to the convents of colonial Puebla, and in particular to Sor Andrea de la Asunción of the Dominican Santa Rosa cloister. About 1680 she supposedly combined seasonings from the Old World with chile peppers from the New in honor of Viceroy Tomás Antonio de la Cerda y Aragón. Mole thus represented Mexico’s “cosmic race,” created by divine inspiration and served up for the approval of the Spanish crown.

IN their essays on the congregation of Indians in New Spain, Lesley Byrd Simpson and Howard F. Cline advanced information on the general characteristics and legal bases of this royal policy. Essentially, the kings of Spain wanted to gather the Indians into towns for purposes of religious training and in order to facilitate fiscal and political administration. According to Simpson and Cline, the application of these laws in New Spain toward the latter part of the sixteenth century was largely ineffective and, apparently, the congregation program affected only a small portion of the native population. One of the main reasons for this partial failure was the fact that the Indians already had villages, and it was very difficult for them to move to newly established locations. The documentation of these socio-political processes is avowedly incomplete; investigators have not gone beyond 1606 and have not examined the intrinsic land tenure implications. Except for a case history presented by Cline in 1955, other social aspects of this policy have hardly been studied.

“Our struggle has its inspirational roots in [our] national history and reality: our flag . . . is the same raised by Hidalgo, Morelos and Guerrero, Juarez, Zapata and Villa.”

Genaro Vazquez Rojas, La Asociacion Civica Nacional Revolucionaria, 1968

It was in 1531 that, according to the apparition legend first recorded over a hundred years later in 1648, Juan Diego’s visionary experience of the Virgin of Guadalupe was miraculously mapped onto his tilma (tilmatli in Nahuatl) or woven cloak. This painted cloth, hereafter referred to as the tilma image, is said to be the same relic venerated today in the basilica of the Virgin of Guadalupe in Mexico City (fig. 1). However, no sacred image is invented from whole cloth, to use a highly appropriate metaphor here, and the Mexican Virgin of Guadalupe is no exception. Moreover, its very materiality makes it vulnerable to the passage of time, the laws of physics and human intervention. As an object of human craft produced post-Conquest, it has a traceable genealogy within the combustible mix of art modes, mixed media and theological tracts found circulating in early colonial New Spain.

In recent years, scholars from a variety of fields have advanced the idea that native legal activism worked as one of the most widespread and effective strategies for the defense of communal assets, political autonomy, and customary law in early colonial Peru. Indigenous claimants, petitioners, and legal intermediaries begin to appear in the historical record just ten years after the initial encounter at Cajamarca in 1532. After embracing Iberian legal culture in the early 1540s, individuals of noble Inca descent began to engage with local and metropolitan courts, preparing letters, reports, petitions, and proofs of services and merit aimed at securing their status within the new order. Native lords (caciques) and communities of non-Inca origin joined as active litigants and petitioners in the late 1540s, hiring advocates and solicitors and sending their own delegations to tend to their legal affairs in Lima, seat of a royal court of appeal. During the two decades that followed the promulgation of the New Laws (1542), which granted these courts of appeal or audiencias in the Americas the right to assess and revise Indian tributary quotas, Lima experienced an explosion of litigation by native polities requesting a reduction of their fiscal burdens and caciques seeking confirmation of their chiefly rank. Lawsuits pertaining to lands and pastures, town boundaries, and lordship (cacicazgo) rights soon ensued. In the early 1560s, the first Andean caciques crossed the Atlantic on behalf of their communities and reached the still-itinerant Habsburg court. Indigenous groups quickly became expert litigators in secular and ecclesiastical courts. Their legal activism continued unabated throughout the Habsburg era.

Kind, gentle, humble, mother to all. This is the traditional Catholic image of the Virgin Mary. Beginning in the fifth century A.D., the popular devotion to the mother of Christ increased rapidly in Europe. Numerous apparitions and accompanying shrines during the late Medieval and early modern period demonstrated her new role in folk Catholicism. In Spain, as in other areas of Europe, the Virgin Mary became one of the major intercessional images, protecting believers from drought, floods, and sickness. Considering her role in the popular belief system of the Iberian peninsular, it was only logical that the sacred image of Mary would travel the Atlantic to New Spain and appear to Native American neophytes who years earlier had worshipped Tonantzin, mother earth, among other female deities. The image of the Virgin Mary could easily incorporate diverse groups under a single symbolic entity. Catholicism held that she was open to all, listened to all, aided all of pure heart. Mary was a force of integration; yet, depending upon the circumstances and the believers, such devotion could also fragment society This study analyzes the history of one such symbol; an integrating force that is best remembered as being one of the most divisive: the Virgin of Remedies of Mexico City.

It was the perfect murder, really. Illicit passions: two beautiful women-of-the-night feuding over a dashing young rake, a masked ball, casual taunts, thwarted assaults, escalating threats. Heinous crime: the lover's borrowed gun, midnight bordello visit, fighting words, a gun shot, a maid's scream, a young woman's tragic death. Cruel punishment: suicidal remorse (by some accounts), humiliating public trial, twenty lost years (the maximum sentence for a woman) in Mexico City's squalid Belem jail. The Tarasquillo Street murder had it all!

And so it happened that, in an era enamored of all things French, Mexico City had its very own cause célèbre. A scant twelve years earlier, professional francophile and amateur criminologist Rafael Zayas de Enríquez had devoted an entire volume of his Fisiología del crimen to notorious foreign criminals like Alfonse Dupont, the hunchbacked wife-killer, and Charles Guiteau, the deranged assassin of President Garfield. Now, Mexico too could claim a prominent place in the international annals of infamous crime.

The indigenous historian Chimalpahin seemed quite certain that events on a certain day in 1479 had unfolded as he described them, though he wrote over a century later and saw it all through the refracting lens of the intervening Spanish conquest. Posterity has been the more inclined to believe him since there exists a song amongst those collected in the sixteenth century under the auspices of the Franciscans entitled “The Song of the Women of Chalco” (Chalca cihuacuicatl) in which the singer addresses Axayacatl as the conqueror of Chalco and as her own lord and master. But what can we in the twenty-first century make of these two sources? We might pursue a number of interpretive avenues. In this article I will ask specifically what we actually know about the fifteenth-century performance event, and what, if anything, we can glean from the song concerning the lives of the Nahua women in that nearly untranslatable category whom we know in English as “concubines.”

Scholars of colonial Spanish America are divided between those who cherish Spaniards for respecting indigenous land rights and those who denounce them for not having done so. For the first group, Spanish respect was enshrined in political and theological debates and in legislation and practice that from the sixteenth century asserted that natives had right to the lands they possessed before Europeans arrived. For the second group, native dispossession was a dominant feature of colonial life. Whatever the theory may have mandated, the balance of power favored non-natives by allowing them access to a wide variety of social, legal, political, economic, and cultural instruments enabling them to control the land.

Although there have been numerous important contributions to the social history of colonial Spanish America published in recent years, these studies have generally ignored the artisan and semi-skilled working classes that were, numerically, the largest urban components of these societies. This article will examine one colonial artisan group, the bakers of Buenos Aires, during a period when the city and its hinterland experienced significant economic and political change, 1770-1820. At the beginning of the period, Buenos Aires was little more than a large village with a population of approximately 20,000 and an economy dominated by contraband trade. As part of a major reform of Spanish strategic and economic policy, Buenos Aires was selected in 1776 as the political capital of a new viceroyalty that included the vast region bordered by the Andes, the Atlantic and Brazil. The city's new political importance with a viceregal court, enlarged military garrisons and augmented bureaucracy stimulated both urban and regional economies and attracted large numbers of immigrants from the interior and from Europe. It is increasingly clear that these alterations in the city's economic life and social structure contributed to the political crisis that culminated in the independence period. Although this study will concentrate on a single occupational group, it is hoped that this effort to measure the responses of the bakers to the altered opportunities and challenges of the late colonial and early independence periods will also provide some new insights into the economic and political history of the region during this crucial period.

In 1686, Marcial de la Cruz, a Zapotec from the community of San Francisco Cajonos, confessed that he had murdered his wife, Catalina María, two years earlier. Tired of running from authorities, burdened with a guilty conscience, and concerned about the house and land that he had left behind, Marcial returned to tell his fantastic story. He recalled how on the day of the murder Catalina had convinced native officials from the neighboring community of San Mateo to release him from jail, where he was being detained because of a dispute over a mule. On the way back to San Francisco, Marcial stopped to bathe in the river, but Catalina decided to continue walking. After bathing, Marcial hurried along the narrow path to catch up with his wife, but she was nowhere in sight. Then, suddenly, a jaguar jumped out from behind a large maguey plant, poised to attack. Fearing for his life, Marcial commended himself to God and held out the rosary that he wore around his neck to fend off the ferocious animal. He picked up a large stick and struck the jaguar three times. As the jaguar dropped to the ground, Marcial heard a voice say to him in Zapotec “Cuckold, don't kill that woman,” and he saw the jaguar transform into his wife. Stunned by this terrifying vision, he sought refuge in the convent of Santo Domingo in Oaxaca City. His flight from authorities would eventually take him to Mexico City, Puebla, Vera Cruz, and Chiapas before he returned to San Francisco Cajonos.

By now it has perhaps become a commonplace that the “rural democratic model” of Costa Rican history–the idea that Costa Rican democracy is based on a heritage of racially homogenous, egalitarian small holders–is an ideology and should be studied as such, rather than accepted as an accurate portrayal of Costa Rica's history. Recent studies have focused on the Liberal (1880-1900) and Liberacionista (post-1948) periods in which the ideology was formulated and then reformulated, and emphasized its conservative nature. During the period between 1900 and 1948, however, this ideology was far from hegemonic. This period saw much of the militant labor activism and social struggle that Costa Rica's new social historians are trying to uncover.

On July 26, 1880, Benedito, the most notorious quilombola, or maroon, in São Mateus, the northern region of Espírito Santo province, Brazil, disappeared from the public prison in a flamboyant escape. After his drunken guards fell asleep, Benedito placed a cleaning bucket on top of his cot and employed it as a stepping-stone in tandem with a rope made from his bedsheet to scale the back wall enclosing the cell. He leapt to the other side, opened the back door, and slipped out noiselessly. Rendering the situation even more preposterous to those who discovered him gone were the handcuffs that lay on the floor smeared with sheep fat, which he had used to slip his hands out without forcing the locks.

The 1930s was a period of slow and painful capitalist formation in the Ecuadorian highlands. Marginalized Indigenous peoples who lived in rural areas particularly felt this economic transition as modernizing elites utilized their control of state structures to extend their power to the remote corners of the republic. It was also a time of gains in social legislation, including new laws which dealt with the “Indian problem.” One of the primary examples of this type of legislation was the 1937 Ley de Comunas which extended legal recognition to Indian communities. In certain parts of the country such as in the central highland province of Chimborazo, Indigenous peoples quickly embraced this comuna structure and formed more comunas than any other area of the country (see Map 1). In similar situations in the neighboring countries of Colombia and Peru, Indian villages also used legal frameworks which the government imposed on their communities to petition for ethnic and economic demands.

This essay presumes the baroque texture of colonial Mexico in its multiple styles, voices, and peoples differentiated by race, ethnicity, locale, culture, place of origin, position, wealth, and clientele. It also presumes, using Marina S. Brownlee's words, a “selfreflective and distorting” tendency of baroque societies to spin off countercurrents and transpositions of dominant culture. “Profusion of detail, hierarchy, and contrast,” Irving Leonard's well traveled characterization of the Mexican baroque, could not be confined easily to fixed orderings and orthodoxies. From the first, in fact, the project to order the colony created more rather than less diversity by “introduc[ing] new, upsetting influences.” These influences—new cultural valuations, “a new, exclusive religion, and new laws and procedures”— may have “unified a congeries of independent states and empires.” But they also combined in different ways, rates, and degrees with pre-existing and newly emerging political and cultural forms. Not as a uniform flood plain but as diverse sedimentations, the colony was formed by back-eddies and cross currents more than a single stream.

In 1519 Enrique, one of the few remaining caciques, or indigenous chiefs, of the island of Hispaniola, removed himself and some of his people from the reach of Spanish authority. For nearly a decade and a half he and his followers lived in the remote and barely accessible south-central mountains of his native island, occasionally raiding Spanish settlements for arms and tools and clashing with militia units but for the most part avoiding contact with Spanish society. Enrique eluded the numerous patrols that were sent to eradicate what became a stubbornly persistent locus of defiance of Spanish authority that attracted other discontented residents of the island, including both African and indigenous slaves and servants as well as small numbers of nominally ‘free’ Indians.

When the cottage textile industries in 18th century England were moved to urban factories, women and children also left their private existence and moved into public work in the mills. The situation was similar in Mexico and Colombia when their factories started to produce cloth, but after an urban labor force developed, men replaced women in the plants. In developed nations, women still dominate the textile work force, especially when products compete on a world market. Few studies have attempted to analyze the difference historically as the labor force divides into sexual roles, either in advanced or underdeveloped nations. Although Ester Boserup's study of third world women indicates that this transition occurs (in one direction) when mechanization advances to replace manual or simple tasks, lately her conclusions have been questioned as technologically advanced industries such as computers have hired women rather than men to assemble instruments. The textile industry has often been viewed as a force in the beginning of industrialization and can illustrate how women are used as a transition element as they first move from private home activities into public roles in the factories and then as plants become more capitalintensive, they are again returned to their private space. At first their willingness to accept low wages in the mills left the men performing agricultural labor. As promotion of industrialization brought an urban labor force into existence, a variety of social and economic pressures removed them from participation in production of goods. Their reserve labor remained available for other functions as the need arose.

With the Spanish conquest came racial miscegenation, depopulation, forced relocation, and migration, which resulted in the implosion of many ethnic (as well as linguistic) distinctions among the Indian peoples. Facilitating this implosion was a European-invented label “indio,” which eliminated—philosophically, juridically, and legally—virtually all ethnic differences. Yet it bestowed upon the Indian peoples a separate existence. In the Peruvian Andes, Indians themselves during rebellious episodes contributed to this ethnic leveling when they called for pan-Andean unity or the return of the pax incaica. To be sure, numerous Indian groups did not entirely loose their distinct identities, and the ethnic implosion itself varied in time and space. Ethnic differences could be maintained through the upkeep of cultural and racial traits, such as in dress, language, marital patterns, or territorial and social boundaries. In large measure, the leveling or disappearance of precontact ethnicities occurred at a faster rate in the urban environments where Indians from rural areas took up residence, or in any region where Spanish culture or non-Indian peoples predominated. There, the invented “indio” or new ethnicity was the viable alternative and thus stronger, while the autochthonous base and ethnic distinctions remained weaker. This weakness differentiated urbanized Indians from their rural counterparts who sustained their links to the past far longer.

Students of late nineteenth century history have long dismissed the world industrial expositions as glittering, but not highly significant reflections of the gilded age. What emerges from the literature of the period, however, is a sense of the overriding commercial importance of these exhibitions. Nineteenth-century observers consistently linked the fairs to the general growth of world trade and to the expanding commercial hegemony of the United States. More specifically, contemporaries agreed that the expositions served to develop trade and investment ties with Latin America. Among the Latin American countries represented in the expositions, Mexico was the most important and consistent participant.

This discussion takes its historical cue from a piece of recent urban folk wisdom in Brazil, one claiming that children born outside wedlock historically have enjoyed equal inheritance rights with their legitimate half-siblings. This notion attained wide circulation in the final years of the great debate over divorce that ended in 1976. As the defenders of the status quo, opponents of divorce usually failed to point out that Brazilian succession law had historically distinguished not just between individuals of legitimate and illegitimate birth but also among those of illegitimate birth. Of course, most Brazilians, like most North Americans, remained unaware of the vast differences prevailing between their two legal systems of inheritance. They usually assumed that the legal precept contained in the Statute of Merton (1235) still served as a rule of thumb for the Anglo-American experience: “Once a bastard, always a bastard.” On the other hand, what appealed to Brazilians' sense of fairness was the flexibility their national system of succession offered. The notion that inheritance rights should be restricted to those of legitimate birth was one they proudly rejected. In leaving the door open to the possibility that civil law could equip those born to unmarried parents with the potential for equal inheritance rights with legitimate heirs, Brazil's system of succession provided that so-called bastardy could be converted into legitimacy.