In September-October 1925, there occurred in Panama a tenants' strike that helped define the development of the left and workers' movement in that nation. This article presents an overview of the strike—important because no synthetic English-language account exists—and then analyzes the role of black West Indians in the event. West Indians were prominent among the ranks of workers in Panama, and among the slums of Panama City and Colón. Nonetheless, they were not central to the rent strike. This absence reflects the historic relationship between West Indian and Hispanic workers in the isthmus, the effect of the recent defeat of strikes led by West Indians in the Panama Canal Zone, and the lack of attention paid to attracting West Indian support by the Hispanic leadership of the tenants' strike. This division between the West Indian population and the broader labor movement in Panama had lasting effects in the history of the Panamanian left, reinforcing divisions between the struggle for Panamanian self-determination and the struggle against racist oppression of West Indians and their descendants in Panama.

The history of the encomienda is an oft' told tale, although certain questions about the institution still provoke debate. Even the Paraguayan encomienda has received conscientious scholarly attention, most of which concentrates on the Habsburg period rather than the eighteenth century, when the institution had been eliminated in many areas.

But in eighteenth century Paraguay the encomienda was still an important institution. Members of the provincial elite placed great value on its possession. Since high position in the province was synonymous with encomendero status, membership in the encomendero class was exceedingly important. The crown's decision to abolish the system in the 1770s had important consequences for the future of Paraguay. In the short run it meant a gain for royal interests; in the long run it spelled disaster for the Spanish crown.

Turn-of-the century Argentine political leaders were deeply influenced by new ideas about the origin and treatment of criminality developed by the Italian positivist school of criminology. According to this school, crime was not the fruit of the criminal's wickedness, as classic penology had claimed, but was rather the result of a complex web of social and psycho-biological determinations of which the criminal had been a victim. This pathology called “crime” could be corrected if its origin was scientifically determined and if the new methods of rehabilitation prescribed for criminals and potential criminals were enforced. Although not all of the premises of the criminological school led by Lombroso, Ferri, and Garofalo were accepted uncritically in Argentina, the basic principles of the new science were widely adopted by jurists, doctors, hygienists and psychiatrists. These ideas were received in the context of massive European immigration, accelerated urbanization, and the emergence of a large working class.

Sometime after the summer of 1703, a strange traveler journeyed to several Zapotec-speaking communities nestled in the rugged geography of Villa Alta—an alcaldía mayor northeast of Oaxaca City in New Spain. He wore a pectoral ornament around his neck—a gift from the Benedictine friar Ángel Maldonado, a newly appointed bishop who had arrived in Oaxaca in July 1702—and was received throughout Villa Alta with “great noise and expressions of joy.” Upon his arrival in each locality, he would gather the townspeople and proclaim an offer of amnesty from the bishop: in exchange for registering a collective confession about traditional ritual practices at the administrative seat of San Ildefonso, and turning in their ritual implements—such as alphabetic ritual texts and wooden cylindrical drums—each Zapotec community would receive a general amnesty from ecclesiastical prosecution for idolatry.

I am deeply honored to be asked to address the Conference on Latin American History, especially on the topic of gay/lesbian studies. As a way of discussing gay studies in Latin America, let me reflect on my ethnographic research on gender and sexuality in Nicaragua. Because I am an anthropologist, I will focus on problems of ethnographic representation. But ultimately and, I think, logically, these problems open to historical questions as well. First, then, a brief reprise of my arguments about male same-sex relations, as developed in Life is Hard and elsewhere.

On April 18, 1773, in the town of Teziutlán in the eastern mountains of Mexico, Captain don Raphael Padres participated in the baptism of his godson in the local church. He stood watching as Father Francisco Flandes leaned over the baptismal font to daub oil on the head of Joseph Philipe. As the priest performed the sacrament, reciting the script of baptism, the boy's parents, don Cristóbal Hernández and doña Isabel Pérez, followed along. After anointing the child, Father Flandes turned to the militia captain to inform him of his responsibilities as godfather, explaining the spiritual kinship that Padres now had with the boy. After the rite was completed, the priest recorded his actions in the church's book of baptisms. He noted the boy's age and that he had been legitimately born the previous day. He also listed the names of the boy, his parents, the godfather, and the godfather's wife, doña Josepha Fernández. The priest also pointed out that all the adults were españoles (of pure Spanish ancestry).

For a half-century, the historiography on Spanish Habsburg rule suggested that the crown envisioned Indies society as best divided into two segregated sociolegal groups: the republic of the Spaniards and the republic of the Indians. This model was popularized by the eminent mid twentieth century Swedish historian Magnus Mörner and has since become a foundational concept in the field. However, using extensive archival evidence, this article suggests that the Mörner Thesis of the Two Republics is flawed. Historicizing sixteenth-century uses of the concept of the republic, it finds that contemporaries conceived of a complex social order in which many political communities such as municipalities and groups of petitioners could overlap within larger meta-republics, such as the Indies republic and the Christian faith-republic. It then turns to subjects’ uses of the two republics, noting that this conceptual duality appeared rarely in the petitions of Spanish officials, commoners, Indians, Afro-descendants, and mestizos, and was also rare in royal and viceregal legislation. Moreover, this binary most often served to suggest Spaniards’ and Indians’ common ground. The article then reflects on other approaches to understanding the Indies’ Spanish-Indian binary, the place of non-Spanish, non-Indian vassals within republic-thinking, and the staggering complexity of Indies laws, categories, and social interactions.

In 1814, Alexander von Humboldt, the great traveller and explorer of the Americas, drew attention to an unusual feature of the movement for independence in the Viceroyalty of New Granada: the establishment of printing presses and newspapers followed rather than preceded the outbreak of war. Humboldt was struck by the contrast New Granada's war of independence offered with the two more famous political revolutions of the age. A great proliferation of printed pamphlets and periodicals had preceded the outbreak of revolution in both the Thirteen Colonies and France. How curious, Humboldt commented, to find the process reversed in Spanish America. Humboldt is not alone in viewing the newspaper as the expected harbinger of change in the age of Atlantic revolution. While the precise role played by the printed word in the French and American revolutions remains a subject of debate, many historians acknowledge the importance of print in creating a climate conducive to revolutionary challenge. Were newspapers and the press really latecomers to the revolution in the Viceroyalty of New Granada, as Humboldt suggests? What does this tell us about late colonial New Granada? How, in the absence of a developed press, did information, revolutionary or otherwise, circulate within the viceroyalty? Moreover, what means were available to either the Spanish crown or the American insurgents to create and manipulate news and opinion? What, indeed, does it mean to speak of the spread of news in a society such as late colonial New Granada? This article seeks to address these questions.

This essay uses court disputes over indigenous widows’ land rights to examine the impact of an expanding national state on indigenous peasant interpersonal relations in late nineteenth-century Ecuador. In doing so, it offers a response to historian Carmen Ramos Escandón's recent call for historical studies of changing family life in order “to know how this domestic web is related to social processes in a broader sense and how the organization of the family contradicts or reflects society's structures.” Specifically, the confrontations under scrutiny reveal the extent to which indigenous peasants’ notions of marriage and widowhood rights adhered to, diverged from, or were influenced by state views of gender relations. Most court cases from the central highland province of Chimborazo in this period uncover parallels between indigenous and state views of marriage and widowhood; yet the three focal cases here, in which widows’ privileges came under question, highlight differences between indigenous and state understandings of gender relations. In the first case, an Indian woman's father-in-law recognized her right as a widow to inherit a portion of her former mother-in-law's lands; court officials, however, decided to uphold patriarchal legal standards when they granted the land in question to the woman's second husband rather than to her. In two other cases, widows’ claims were undermined not by state authorities themselves, but by Indian men in their own communities. Calling upon patriarchal notions that were at the center of the state's marriage laws, these men wrested control of property from women whose customary claims to it were stronger than theirs. Though cases like these rarely appeared in the court data from Chimborazo, they are illuminating because they promote an exploration of the relevance of ethnically distinct gender ideologies.

Political theory, consensus and participation have often had deeply religious motivations and inspirations driving them. And however peculiar to theology the concept of corpus mysticum may seem to us today, it has often been used in association with politics. In the late Middle Ages, the notions of political office as against personalism, continuity of sovereignty in spite of the unexpected and politically perilous deaths of monarchs, unity over factionalism, the relationship between authority and the law, and that between authority and the people, were persuasively addressed through this religious metaphor.

Late colonial Mexico possessed one of the largest free-colored populations in Spanish America, numbering around 370,000 in 1793. The colony's pardos, morenos, and mulattos were highly dispersed, being found throughout the major urban centers, coastal zones, rural areas, and in selected portions of the northern frontier. Studies conducted over the past two decades have assisted enormously in reconstructing the free-colored demographic profile, with particular emphasis on occupational and marriage patterns. Much of this research has resulted from sustained examinations of the caste vs. class debate, which has attempted to understand the manner in which the caste system worked in structuring colonial social relations. Broader, regional histories have added even more to our understanding by situating Blacks within the economic, cultural, and social context of important towns and their hinterlands. Institutional studies have also referenced the Afro-Mexican presence and contributions. However, numerous gaps still exist in our portrait of colonial Afro-Mexicans. Notably, the Pacific coastal regions have received proportionately little attention in comparison to the area of Veracruz. This is surprising since the Costa Chica, occupying portions of the modern states of Guerrero and Oaxaca, remains home to some of the more significant concentrations of Afro-Mexicans.

The Caste War that devastated Yucatán in the middle of the nineteenth century cast a long shadow across ethnic relations and politics in the state decades after its effective end. During the Mexican Revolution and the subsequent period of national reconstruction, revolutionary politicians invoked the Caste War as a precursor to the Revolution and as justification for post-Revolutionary projects, in particular indigenismo. The state’s indigenist policy advocated, in the words of Alan Knight, the “emancipation and integration of Mexico’s exploited Indian groups.” To this end, it offered indigenous people education, legal support, even land; however, these “modernizing” policies also destroyed or appropriated much of their culture and subordinated them to the state. The legacy of the Caste War shaped such indigenist projects in Yucatán from the Revolution to (at least) the 1930s, but its influence was strongest during Cardenas’ visit to Yucatán in August of 1937. The president not only reinterpreted the Caste War to justify land reform and a broad indigenist project; he attempted to mobilize the Yucatecan peasantry along class and ethnic lines and threatened recalcitrant landlords with another caste war should they oppose him. Once armed, however, peasant soldiers turned their rifles not against the landowners but against each other. This essays explores how the Caste War’s legacy shaped the development and deployment of indigenist projects in Yucatán from the Revolution to the late 1930s, focusing on Cárdenas’ aborted mobilization. Along the way, it will consider the impact and efficacy of state-sponsored indigenismo. Above all, it seeks to understand why state efforts to champion the cause of the Maya failed to unify the rural poor of Yucatán under the banner of Cardenismo.

There is perhaps no area of historical literature where women—other than monarchs and Mata Haris—have been less visible than in the literature of international relations. Yet women of the western world were active at the international level by the last half of the nineteenth century, and in numbers commensurate to those of their male counterparts. The record of their organization, deliberations, tactics, correspondence, public statements and delegations to designated representatives of their governments adds a new dimension to the history of international relations.

“A machine which does not serve the purpose of labor is useless. So a slave who becomes equated with a machine is useless when some component part no longer works.” (Karl Marx, Manuscripts, 459)

“Verás de abanzada edad
A muchos bozales negros
Que al público pensionando
Están después que sirvieron.”

For years after the 1687 earthquake had devastated much of Lima, various published sermons pondered the significance of the inauspicious event. One specific panegyric written in 1694 detailed the structural damage to the Hospital of San Bartolomé, founded in 1661 for “freed, disabled, ill or elderly blacks.” In the baroque literary style characteristic of the period, the author, Francisco de Vargas Machuca, described how the heroic viceroy Laso de Portocarrero, the Count of Monclova, “born like the sun for the remedy of all,” exercised his “divine charity” toward the poor of the Royal hospital, and “bore the weight of its ruins upon his own majestic shoulders to attend to the poor slaves and their hospital at his own expense.” According to the author, only Christ himself could have predicted that in 1694 the viceroy would refurbish the vestibule with exquisitely adorned doors, place “costly stones of the court” in the portal and replace the damaged cornices with more ornate ones in order to replicate a “hospital of heaven where the poor would enter.” After four months of intensive labor, the wards, in the shape of a Greek cross, were restored and the roofing and masonry work completed. Ample food, bedding and medicine once again provided adequate sustenance for the poor, infirm and elderly slaves and free castas in the hospital.

Vincent Ogé jeune (the younger) was one of the wealthiest free men of color in Saint-Domingue, but his behavior in the year before the Haitian revolution (1791-1804) was a puzzling anomaly. Returning to the colony from Paris in October 1790, Ogé quickly emerged at the head of a group of free colored militiamen demanding voting rights. Colonists labeled this a “revolt” and four months later they executed Ogé and three of his colleagues, breaking their bodies bone by bone in a public square and mounting their severed heads on posts.

“Not a pastor, but a wolf who gains sustenance from the blood of his sheep” is the way in which a parish priest was described in a petition written on behalf of the town council of Jonacatepec, an important indigenous community in what is now the state of Morelos. Addressing the ecclesiastical authorities in 1818, the petitioners sought to discredit the priest who like a wolf, they claimed, “gains sustenance from the blood of his sheep” by charging too much for his services, for refusing to perform those services in the first place if it was inconvenient, and by keeping a mistress.

Those who defend America's entry into the First World War often call attention to the ultimate German threat to the security of the Western Hemisphere. Through his political and economic activities in the years before the War, Kaiser Wilhelm II allegedly endangered the independence of Latin American states, and especially, the dominant position America enjoyed in the Caribbean. Hard evidence to support this position, however, is rarely presented, and with good reason, for after the celebrated Venezuelan incident of 1902-03, German-American relations in Latin America decline in saliency. Yet, during the crucial decade before the onset of World War One, Germans and Americans met one another in the hemisphere in a variety of places and under a variety of circumstances. An analysis of these relatively obscure contacts will help answer two questions: Did Germany menace American interests in the area, and, more importantly, did Americans believe that she did?

The purpose of this article is to examine some aspects of the evangelization of New Spain in the sixteenth century and the natives’ responses to it. This is a subject of tortuous complexity and one that cannot be adequately treated in a brief essay. Rather, this will be an attempt to highlight some of the more important and interesting aspects of this phenomenon. In doing so I will use some of my own researches into the Virgin of Guadalupe of Mexico to illustrate it and to show some of the pitfalls inherent in the topic.

“The womb of the Province” is how one eighteenth-century resident described Querétaro, for within that city the Franciscans of the Province of San Pedro y San Pablo de Michoacán supported not only the friary of Santiago el Grande with its Spanish and Indian parishes, but also the pioneering College of Santa Cruz, the convents of Santa Clara and Santa Rosa de Viterbo for women, the seminary of the Province, the mission church of San Sebastián, and the friary and shrine of Nuestra Señora de Pueblito. The city additionally served as the seat of the Provincial chapter. Friars and nuns at these various foundations directed over twenty associations of laity organized into confraternities, or cofradíos. Poised delicately between those who were professed Franciscans (male and female, of the First and Second Orders, respectively), and the lay confraternities affiliated with the monasteries, was the Third Order, an institute which has defied classification.