The European occupation of Mesoamerica, set in motion by Columbus' voyages now almost five centuries ago, proved both enduring and pervasive. Not content simply to trade with the indigenous peoples from distant coastal forts or entirely new towns, the Spanish conquerors of Mexico moved right into Indian cities and, increasingly over time, Indian towns, villages, and their hinterlands. The conquerors' intention behind living in such close proximity was to better extract the local peoples' services and tributes and to convert them more effectively to every aspect of Hispanic culture. From the moment of their arrival Hernando Cortés and his followers sought to introduce a new king, a new god, and a new way of life into the land they called New Spain.

Even a brief look into the historiography on Indian marriage in New Spain will reveal how infrequently scholars have devoted themselves to this topic. On the one hand, there are texts written from the perspective of canon law, such as those by Federico Aznar Gil, Paulino Castañeda, Daisy Rípodas Ardanaz, and Guillermo Floris Margadant, but these authors address canonical development in Spain as well as Spanish America and use mainly references from councils and synods, especially pastoral sources. On the other hand, there are anthropological studies, such as those of David Robichaux, Danièle Dehouve, Pierre Ragon, and Serge Gruzinski that compare pre-Hispanic marriage to Christian marriage.

When people speak of the Spanish conquest of America, they generally mention the outstanding figures, either heroic or odious, like Pizarro, Alvarado, Cortés, Benalcázar, Nuño de Guzmán, De Soto, Cabeza de Vaca, etc., but they forget those other figures, whose names in many cases have not even come down to us, who played just as important parts as the better-known leaders and who were the veritable “motors” of the conquest—and even more of the colonization: the royal scribes, the judges, the oidores, in a word, the letrados or men of the law. This statement is neither exaggerated nor one-sided. The letrados were the organizers of the Spanish empire, the empire that was able to sustain itself for three and a half centuries—or four up to the loss of the Antilles. There today in Santiago de Cuba a monument stands on San Juan Hill, near those of the mambi and of the American soldier, which is inscribed to the Spaniard as a ”homage to the defender of the last Spanish territory in America (1492-1898).“

In June of 1930, Dr. J. M. Puig Casauranc, who held the post of Jefe del Departamento del Distrito Federal (a post then somewhat akin to mayor) received a lengthy letter from the Confederación de Sociedades Mexicanas in Los Angeles, California. The letter asked Dr. Puig if a Committee for the Supervision of Film could be constituted in Los Angeles, a committee to be made up of members of the Confederation and the Mexican consulate in Los Angeles. In their letter members of the Confederation’s steering committee displayed a clear understanding of the history of Mexico’s struggle to exert some control over the content of Hollywood films.

After expelling their European rivals from the Amazon in the early–seventeenth century, the Portuguese set about exploiting the principal assets of the vast basin—the indigenous inhabitants. As allies, converts, and slaves the native population provided the labor and much of the social fabric of the developing colony. While a variety of canoe-borne expeditions ventured ever farther up the main river and its tributaries seeking elusive gold, harvesting forest products, and expanding the crown's domain, prosperity and power for the leaders and sponsors of those forays derived mainly from the human cargo brought downstream to missions, forts, and other settlements. As a result, crown and colonial authorities attempted to regulate and control the expeditions, and fierce competition developed among institutions and individuals involved in the process. Documents in Portuguese and Brazilian archives reveal the key role played by the Indians themselves in collaboration with the little-studied cross-cultural intermediaries, known as cunhamenas.

Countless judicial complaints ranging from malos tratos (domestic mistreatment) to assault to insults contain the phrase de obra y palabra (by deed and word). Mexicans of the period 1750 to 1856 understood that the two aspects of injury—verbal and physical—were equally important. While violent acts harmed the body, words attacked an individual's honor and reputation. Therefore harm was conceived of as both physical and verbal, and the connection between the two was inherent in judicial formulations and the expression itself.

An earlier version of this essay was presented at the Symposium “Bolivia: Formation and Development of a Labor Force, 1600 to the Present,” organized by Ann Zulawski and Lesley Gill for the 45th International Congress of Americanists, Bogotá, Colombia, 1985. The author wishes to thank Robert H. Jackson, Brooke Larson, and Nils Jacobsen for their comments on the paper. Research funds were provided by the Social Science Research Council, Fulbright-Hays Doctoral Research Program, and the Inter-American Foundation.

On April 8,1626, a violent confrontation took place between the president and one of the oidores of the audiencia of Santo Domingo. According to a letter from oidor Alonso de Cereceda, President Diego de Acuña had called three of the magistrates and the fiscal of the audiencia to his residence in order to question them in private about their response to a message from Acuña's wife, doña Ana de Acuña, instructing them to release a prisoner. When Cereceda suggested that doña Ana's involvement in official business was undermining the tribunal's authority, Acuña flew into a rage and physically assaulted the oidor, punching him in the body and face and knocking his chair to the ground. After the other two oidores and the fiscal pulled the two men apart, Acuña called some of the presidio soldiers into the chamber to guard the letrado officials with drawn swords. Cereceda claimed that while these other witnesses were present, Acuña “attacked me two or three more times, throwing punches at me and putting his hand to my beard for greater injury.” He was then escorted home by the sargento mayor of the presidio, while the other officials remained to calm the president. Following this altercation, Cereceda stopped attending the court's audiencia publica and acuerdo sessions in person, sending his votes with the audiencia scribes instead, until Acuña finally had him placed under arrest.

In 1479 (the year 13-Reed), some men from the towns of Chalco-Amaquemecan and Tlamanalco went for the first time to sing in Mexico-Tenochtitlan: the Mexica (Aztecs) held hegemony in the area, including Chalco. The song they sang was a war song called the “Song of the Woman Warrior.” They played it for the tlatoani, or ruler, Lord Axayacatl (ca 1469-1481), performing it in the patio outside his house of women. Unfortunately, the performance got off to a rather slow start. A man from the area of Tlamanalco in Chalco, one who had never played the drums before or directed a song, made a very bad showing.

The 1936 Hull-Alfaro treaty, which fulfilled New Deal pledges to Panama, represented also the impact of Panamanian nationalism. For thirty years following the 1903 isthmian revolution, Panama remained a subject of American Canal policy. In 1921, for instance, the Panamanian government hurried troops to the Costa Rican boundary in order to compel a favorable decision in a long-standing border dispute. The Department of State, however, had decided that Panamanian military action against Costa Rica was unjustifiable. Arguing that hostilities between Panama and Costa Rica endangered Canal security, a warning was sent to Panama City, followed by the cruiser Sacramento. This act of “gunboat diplomacy” was castigated throughout Panama, but the Panamanian government withdrew its troops. Similarly, Panamanians voiced charges of economic domination, even exploitation, by arguing that the Canal failed to satisfy the republic's commercial aspirations. In 1903, Panamanians had welcomed military intervention by the United States on the grounds that it would be followed by technological intrusion capable of building the canal. By the late 1920's, however, it was obvious to many Panamanian critics that the profits of the isthmian waterway were returned to the United States. The American government strictly limited the operation of Panamanian merchants inside the Canal Zone. Moreover, the more desirable positions in Zone employment, the so-called “gold roll” jobs, were invariably meted out to Americans. Those Panamanians who found employment in the Zone were usually grouped with imported West Indian Negroes on the “silver roll,” a term referring to unskilled positions. Racial antagonism between West Indians and Panamanians resulted from economic competition.

The methodological problems involved in studying the political role of corruption and inefficiency have long baffled historians of seventeenth-century Spanish America. Complaints by contemporaries about various forms of corruption (fraudes), abuses (abusos), bribery (cohecho), and other forms of corruption (mala administratión), abound in the extant archivai documents of the period. In addition, successive viceroys and royal inspectors (visitadores) frequently charged that colonial officials were too stupid, lazy, or inexperienced to carry out their duties efficiently. One visitador in 1683, for example, described the administrative practices of high-ranking treasury officials in the viceregal capital of Lima as “la más ciega y descuidada que se ha visto en muchos siglos,” and went on to recommend that such officials be “despoblados de sus plazas, poniendo in su lugar personas capazes y inteligentes.”

Historical evaluation of the Morrow mission to Mexico, October, 1927 to September, 1930, has been ill-served by polemicists, adulators, and critics who have misrepresented the state of relations between the United States and Mexico in 1927, misinterpreted the nature of Morrow’s accomplishments, and overemphasized the persistence of the problems with which he had to deal. It is the purpose of this paper to clarify the circumstances attendant on Morrow’s appointment, to describe the character of his mission, and to evaluate the consequences of his efforts in Mexico.

In 1964, at what was surely the acme of her career, Violeta Parra became the first Latin American to have a solo show at the Louvre. During the five-odd weeks that her artwork was on display, Parra was at the museum every day. She chatted with visitors, put finishing touches on her tapestries, sang songs, played her guitar, served empanadas, and turned the exposition hall into a veritable Chilean ramada. The exhibit received favorable reviews in the press, and was visited by important dignitaries and a who's who of the Parisian and expatriate Latin American artistic community. Parra sold several of her tapestries, including one to the Baroness Rothschild. By all accounts, the show was a great success.

The first general strike in Uruguayan history, which completely paralyzed Montevideo for three days in May 1911, provides a useful vantage point from which to view the transformation of the third largest capital in South America from a sleepy “Belle Epoque” horse town into a modern, cosmopolitan city. Coming many years after general strikes in Buenos Aires, São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro, the 1911 Montevideo conflict appeared to erupt virtually overnight, at a moment when the labor movement itself was in some disarray, and caught the city by surprise. Merchants closed their doors, transport ground to a halt, and theaters and cinemas remained dark as the city became strangely quiet. An estimated 50,000-60,000 workers in 37 unions left their jobs in factories, breweries, frigoríficos, stores, and newspapers. In the words of a journalist for a conservative daily paper, “every sign of activity vanished from the city as completely as if it had been stricken by a pestilence—as in truth it was.” The anarchist labor confederation, which organized the mass strike, took over control of the streets and the food supply, and vehicles were only allowed to run with its authorization, thus inverting the city's power structure, at least temporarily.

Tourists who visit a Mexican market to observe a butcher at work will readily notice the difference between the material cultures of meat in Mexico and the United States. Instead of thick, neatly cut steaks, wrapped in clear plastic, they will find butterflied strips of meat, corresponding to no known part of a cow, sawed with ragged edges but remarkable thinness, and hung on hooks and rods. Thick slabs called suadero might be steak except for the checkerboards carved across the front, and seemingly random chunks of retazo complete the baroque display of craftsmanship. Although of little use in making Anglo-American roasts or steaks, these cuts are ideal for such delicacies as carne asada (grilled meat) and mole de olla (chili pepper stew). Indeed, fajitas—skirt steak pounded thin and marinated, then seared quickly on a hot fire, and served with salsa and fresh tortillas— are nothing more than a Tex-Mex version of the standard method of cooking and eating beef in Mexico. Moreover, the differences between U.S. supermarket meat counters and Mexican artisanal market displays extend beyond national culinary preferences to reflect the historical growth of industrial supply chains. Indeed, meat provides a case study demonstrating the significance of consumer culture in shaping the development of Mexican capitalism during the dictatorship of Porfirio Díaz (1876-1911).

Historians have long been interested in shedding light on the numerous, habitual transactions that constitute economic life at its basic level. Yet, questions about how men transact business as individuals, and how they feel about it are largely unanswered by traditional political and bureaucratic records, perhaps because these activities were so commonplace to the society, so well-known and unremarkable to contemporaries as to obviate remark in the records. A study of the extensive records of the Roman Catholic Church, however, can shed light on this, and many other aspects of Spanish colonial society in Mexico.

Conflict between revolution and academia, between the activist and the scholar, is probably inevitable. At times when urgent demands for radical change threaten the very fabric of a society, when popular violence and ideological bitterness question all traditions, a university becomes especially vulnerable. As an institution dedicated to preserving the cultural inheritance of the past, a haven for the calm, deliberate pursuit of truth, the university in the midst of revolution must choose whether to adhere to its traditional role, or to become an active partner of social change, promulgating new ideologies and providing practical training for revolutionary leaders. During the Mexican Revolution of 1910, the popular image of a university as a refuge for the privileged and wealthy added to a long history of the conscious use of education to promote a prescribed set of values to make the National University particularly controversial. Dedicated only two months before the Revolution erupted, the new institution found itself under immediate pressure to become “revolutionary” in a society that had little patience for scholarly aloofness.

In a 1924 essay, the botanist Henri Pittier worried that many of Latin America's tropical products—particularly its plants—lacked a ‘civil status.’ By this, Pittier meant that they had not yet been identified and named scientifically. He likened the plants’ lack of a botanical ‘civil status’ to a person's lacking a passport or credentials that proved their citizenship. This was more than a casual analogy. Over the previous half-century, many states in Latin America had begun to take inventories of their plants, just as they had begun taking censuses of their citizens, and surveying and mapping their national territories. These botanical inventories helped states establish control over the natural world, just as censuses helped the state establish control over civil society. Between 1885 and 1935, governments throughout Latin America began to fund botanical research institutions and to finance the publication of national floras. Pittier had been actively involved in this process: he had helped establish national natural history museums in Costa Rica and Venezuela, and wrote or edited three national flora: the Primitiae Florae Costaricensis (1891-1901), the Ensayo sobre las plantas usuales de Costa Rica (1908), and the Manual de las plantas usuales de Venezuela (1926). National floras such as these were not simply ‘entertainment for intellectuals’ but also part of broader programs by Latin American governments to incorporate the natural world into the national political and economic order.

The land tenure arrangements of missions in Latin America have received insufficient attention. Given the vast extent of land the missions controlled on the Latin American frontier and the effect that land tenure arrangements had on the functioning of the missions, this is a serious oversight. Rather than focus on land tenure, most studies of the missions have examined primarily issues such as evangelization, the labor regime, and demographic patterns. While these topics are also important, indeed vital, to an understanding of missions, an analysis of land tenure arrangements is a useful way for understanding the economic and even the political dimensions of mission systems. For example, the control that the missionaries imposed on their charges should have been reflected in a majority of the land controlled directly by the missionaries rather than holdings controlled by individual Indian families. In this sense, the land tenure system reflected the missionary regime in important ways and helps test hypotheses about economic resources as well as power within this controversial institution. In addition, the changes in ownership and use of land became a key ingredient in determining the survival of indigenous groups once the government secularized the missions.

Luiz da França Pinto Garcez, a representative nineteenth-century Brazilian general, was born in Lisbon in 1799, the son of General Luiz Paulino de Oliveira Pinto da França. His family migrated to Brazil in 1808 with João VI and in September, 1811 at the age of twelve, young Luiz joined the Bahia light infantry legion as a cadet, a position open to him because of his father's military rank. After obtaining a transfer to the First Cavalry Regiment in Rio de Janeiro in 1813, he received permission to enroll at the Royal Military Academy. His studies were interrupted four years later when he joined the government force sent to crush the 1817 Pernambuco revolt. For his services in that campaign, he was awarded the rank of lieutenant and, upon return to the imperial capital in 1819, he learned of his appointment as adjutant to the Inspector General of Cavalry and light Infantry in Bahia with the rank of captain.