In 1917, California's Supreme Court upheld the Eastern Pomo man Ethan Anderson's right to vote. The court recognized that Anderson lived and worked like his white neighbors and, most importantly, did not live in “tribal relations” and was subject to local jurisdiction. But Anderson, his lawyers, the opposing counsel, and the court never denied that he was a member of an Indian community. In fact, local authorities and the federal government had long acknowledged that Indian communities existed in Lake County, and they had both legitimized small Indian community landholdings as the homes of self-sufficient Indian laborers. Now, as Indian citizenship seemed to signal to local and federal authorities more claims on the state, both denied responsibility for those communities. Although citizenship seemed to stand as the categorical opposite of “Indians, not taxed,” Anderson's vindicated voting rights was not an end point of a successful program of assimilation, but one aspect of Indians’ ongoing pursuit of community security through their engagements with local and federal authorities.

This essay directs attention to the original attraction of those amusements outside the city proper: natural landscapes at the edge of cities in which popular amusements were constructed. Here, the heart of subversive possibility was located where the immutable, uncontrollable natural elements interacted with constructed ones. In the case of Coney Island and similar coastal landscapes, this meant the seashore. The beach broke down manufactured limitations, exposing all beachgoers—particularly women—as the same under the sun. I examine the impact that Coney's seashore had on defining class-bound womanhood. I argue that within the island's liminal confines, the beach's natural elements exposed the fallacy that well-off women were naturally cleaner, both physically and morally, than not just men, but also working-class women. Nature trumped the manufactured to sully both the bodies and, metaphorically, the respectability of the women who flocked to Coney. The farther that women ventured toward the ocean, the more the seascape nullified their differences and democratized its allegedly hygienic visitors. This concept normalized in the early twentieth century as city borderlands, primarily the seashore and mountains, introduced possibilities for more porous gender and class identities in urban areas.

This essay analyzes white settler formations in the Southern Philippines during the early decades of the twentieth century. Occupied by the United States in the wake of the Spanish-American War, the Muslim-majority regions of Mindanao and the Sulu Archipelago became sites of colonial experimentation and reconfiguration. This led to a brief-but-concerted push by Euro-American fortune seekers to settle the “Muslim South.” Supported by U.S. policy makers and colonial officials, white colonists were drawn to Mindanao-Sulu by visions of permanent settlement and limitless economic opportunity. This analysis contends that settler attempts to build a “white man's country” in the Southern Philippines were shaped by vernaculars and modes of conquest developed on the continental frontier. It interrogates the creation of transoceanic frontier spaces in Mindanao-Sulu and the practical attempts to exploit them, which drew inspiration from diverse sources in the American West and across the colonized globe. In its study of settler fortunes and failures, the essay blurs distinctions between national and imperial peripheries, and contributes to a growing scholarly interest in reassessing the importance of U.S. extraterritorial possessions in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

This article, the first detailed scholarly assessment of northern responses to the death of former Confederate President Jefferson Davis in December 1889, contributes to ongoing academic debates over the troubled process of sectional reconciliation after the Civil War. Southern whites used their leader's funeral obsequies to assert not only their affection for the deceased but also their devotion to the Lost Cause that he had championed and embodied. Based on an analysis of northern newspapers and mass-circulation magazines in the two weeks after Davis's death, the essay demonstrates that many northerners, principally Republican politicians and editors, Union veterans, and African Americans, were outraged by southerners’ flagrant willingness to laud a man whom they regarded as the arch-traitor and that they remained opposed to reconciliation on southern terms. However, despite continuing concerns about public displays of affection for the Confederacy evident at the time of Davis's reinterment in Richmond in May 1893, northern opposition to the Lost Cause waned rapidly in the last decade of the nineteenth century. Full-blown sectional reconciliation occurred after the Republicans gave up on their efforts to enforce black voting rights in the South and President William McKinley's imperialist foreign policy necessitated, and to some degree garnered, support from southern whites. The death of Jefferson Davis, therefore, can be seen as an important event in the difficult transition from a heavily sectionalized postwar polity to a North-South rapprochement based heavily on political pragmatism, sentiment, nationalism, and white supremacism.

Since 2015, America has witnessed a profound shift in aggregate public sentiments toward Confederate statues and symbols. That shift was keenly felt on the campus of the University of Texas at Austin (UT), culminating in the removal of four such statues in 2015 and 2017. However, an inquiry into their creation points to an equally significant shift in sentiments during the 1920s. UT's statues were commissioned in 1919 by George Littlefield, a Confederate veteran and university regent, as part of a larger war memorial. The ostensible purpose of that memorial was to commemorate veterans of both the Civil War and World War I. However, during the 1920s, a new generation of university leaders rejected Littlefield's design—and with it the assertion that the services of Civil and World War veterans were morally congruent and united in a common historical trajectory. This article tracks the ways in which they quietly and yet profoundly undermined the project, causing it to be significantly delayed and then extensively altered. Meanwhile, students and veterans improvised their own commemorative practices that were in stark contrast to the Confederate generation—the latter wanted to remember, while the former wanted to forget.