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Faith Misplaced, by Ussama Makdisi (2010)

Open a news website these days and there’s likely to be a story about violence in the Middle East. There’s a good chance that the article will refer to extremist Islamists, possibly even mentioning the rising tide of anti-Western sentiment in the Middle East more broadly. Among academics, pundits, and politicians there is no shortage of opinion on why this state of affairs exists. Explanations often attribute anti-Westernism (and more specifically, anti-Americanism) to a “clash of civilizations,” drawing on the assumption that Middle Easterners (and, more specifically, Arabs) refuse to accept a secular, peaceful, democratic global order. All too often, the history of the Arab-American relationship is subject to misunderstanding and misuse by both Arabs and Americans seeking to forward a particular political agenda.

Missing from the conversation is a critical examination of the decisions and forces that contributed to our current situation. The question of “Why?” has become a minefield of polemic, even for historians—what we need instead is to ask “How?” How did suicide bombings and invasions become the norm? How did refugee camps and political assassinations become routine? How did we get here?

Ussama Makdisi seeks to answer this question by using American and Arab voices to tell a nuanced story of events in the past century. He recounts a tale of mutual disenchantment, of reciprocal misunderstandings and an increasing—though not inevitable—opacity. He punctuates this broad narrative with moments often evoked in histories of the relationship: British colonialism, American support of Israel, the 1967 war, the oil embargo, etc. However, Makdisi is careful to dissect these events, delving into their complexity and texture. Moreover, he draws into his narrative less visible moments, giving new weight to often overlooked incidents, such as President Eisenhower’s intervention in Lebanon in 1958, which many Arabs saw as an infringement on Lebanese sovereignty to protect American interests. Unlike many other histories of America’s relationship to the Middle East, Makdisi reinforces the contingency of historical outcomes, underlining the missed opportunities and moments of apparent engagement that might have led to different paths.

*U.S. Marine sits in a foxhole and points a machine gun towards Beirut, Lebanon, in the distance. Source: Library of Congress*

Makidisi’s story begins not at the dawn of Islam or during the crusades as many “clash of civilizations” narratives do, but rather with the arrival of evangelical missionaries in the Holy Land in the late 19^th century. Though these men and women arrived in the Protestant spirit of conversion, they quickly found the Bible had lost some value as a reliable travel guide over the course of nearly 1,000 years. An ethnically and religiously heterogeneous region for millennia, the Levant was not a stable foothold from which the missionaries could launch their latter-day spiritual crusade. Makdisi skillfully tracks how, instead of leaving, most missionaries took the surprise in stride and the mission of conversion evolved into a mission of education with the establishment of institutions like the American University of Beirut based on Western educational ideas. Never losing the hope of long-term conversion, missionaries in the region adapted their fantasies to the realities of the region and encouraged a community of understanding and respect. Arab intellectuals saw in American ideals of democracy a parallel to their own struggle for freedom from the imperial yoke of Britain and France; the second generation of Western missionaries who grew up in the Middle East had a more nuanced appreciation for the diversity and dynamism that characterized the region. Not until the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire in the early 20^th century did this begin to fray. The failure of Wilsonian principles of self-determination at the 1919 Paris Peace coupled with Western concern about massacres of Armenians in Turkey were the first significant breaches in the relationship.

American university of Beirut in 1920 — *American University of Beirut, circa 1920. Source: Library of Congress*

Another important watershed moment for Makdisi occurs in 1948 with the declaration of the state of Israel, which was and remains the foundational event for much of the 20^thand 21^st century turmoil in the Middle East. Today, many Americans take support for Israel for granted as a natural state of affairs. Makdisi skillfully disassembles this assessment, describing President Truman’s decision to recognize Israel shortly after its creation as hotly contested by many prominent members of the Truman administration, including Secretary of State George Marshall and US diplomat par excellence George Kennan. These men and their supporters were reluctant to undermine America’s strategic relationship with Arab states and skeptical of the long-term benefits of an alliance with Israel. But, as Makdisi points out, even recognition of Israel was not initially antithetical to accord between Arabs and Americans: American support for Israel made Arabs suspicious of American interests, but not fundamentally hostile to American values of democracy and capitalism.

*President Truman with Israeli Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion and Ambassador H. E. Abba Eban, May 8, 1951. Credit: Abbie Rowe, National Park Service, Harry S. Truman Library & Museum.*

Makdisi’s book whips through the last half of the 20^th century, chronicling a series of moments in which entrenched incomprehensibility and bureaucratic inertia underpin an atmosphere of escalating rhetoric, and, eventually, violence. For Makdisi, this is a story as much about anti-Arabism in America as it is about anti-Americanism in the Middle East. He notes the acerbic racial stereotypes that proliferated in American popular culture during the 1970s. A cursory glance at political cartoons about the oil embargo or airplane hijackings provides cringe-worthy proof of casual xenophobia directed toward Middle Easterners. Here is where the narrative enters into all-too familiar grounds. As rhetoric on both sides has become more extremist, violent incidents have increased in scale and frequency. Terrorists and occupying armies are part of the same violence, Makdisi argues, and represent not the cause of Arab-American antipathy but its symptoms.

The book ends on a hopeful, if inconclusive note. Faith Misplaced does not answer the question of whether there is a place for the U.S. in a peaceful Middle East, nor does Makdisi offer concrete ideas about what solutions might look like. Yet, to his credit, he avoids the pessimism that plagues many scholars of the region. Politics, argues Makdisi, led us to our current circumstances, and politics—presumably with a more nuanced understanding of recent history—holds hope for the future.

Ussama Makdisi, Faith Misplaced: The Broken Promise of U.S.-Arab Relations (New York: PublicAffairs, 2010)

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The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

Notes from the Field: Northeast Japan after the Tsunami

I lived near the port city of Kesennuma, in northeastern Japan, from 2006 to 2008. That was several years before the event they call 3/11. That’s March 11, 2011, the day a record-setting earthquake and tsunami devastated the area and cost over 18,000 lives. Most of the victims were Japanese, but several foreigners died as well, including two Americans who were doing same the job I had done: teaching English in elementary and junior high schools.

Kesennuma Fishing Port in 2006. Via Wikimedia Commons. — Kesennuma Fishing Port in 2006.

I kept in touch with several friends in Japan after I returned to the United States to attend graduate school. When the tsunami hit and it became clear just how bad the damage was, there was a long, tense period as I waited to hear from them through email or Facebook or mutual acquaintances. Fortunately, nobody I knew died in the tragedy. But many of them did lose their homes, their cars, and their own family members, friends, students, and neighbors.

Shishiori-Karakuwa Station after the 2011 Tsunami. Via Wikimedia Commons. — Shishiori-Karakuwa Station after the 2011 Tsunami.

I couldn’t help but wonder how the place I used to live had changed. In the months following the disaster I heard about the shops and homes that had been washed away, about the temporary housing that cropped up, and about the giant beached ships (Kesennuma is a major commercial fishing port) that were left sitting inland after the waters receded.

The blue placard near the window of a Karakuwa shrine shop marks the tsunami's water line. Many businesses in the area feature similar placards. — The blue placard near the window of a Karakuwa shrine shop marks the tsunami’s water line. Many businesses in the area feature similar placards.

My dissertation involves Japan, though it is not related to the tsunami, and I received the opportunity to research there for the 2013-2014 academic year. I was thrilled to go back, and even more thrilled that through happenstance and the invaluable help of Japanese historians on both sides of the Pacific I was able to live in the same general part of the country I had lived in years before. This time I was three hours away from Kesennuma, close enough to visit relatively easily.

Nothing I had heard could have prepared me for what I saw there. While many buildings I recognized were still standing, and some had already been rebuilt, large swaths of the town were simply gone. One of Kesennuma’s two rail stations had been destroyed, and I did not have a car, so I traveled there by bus. It dropped off in the middle of several cracked foundations. Only by memory could I tell that I was a stone’s throw from the site of a restaurant I used to frequent. A friend picked me up at the bus stop, and on our way to his home in my old neighborhood we passed a fishing vessel tipped on its side. The ocean was several meters away on the righthand side of the road, and the ship was on the left.

A bus stop in Kesennuma City. These foundations are that's left of buildings that once stood here. In some parts of this city there are acres of nothing but foundations. — A bus stop in Kesennuma City. These foundations are that’s left of buildings that once stood here. In some parts of this city there are acres of nothing but foundations.

In my old neighborhood we drove past the site of an elementary school I used to teach at. It had been a century-old wooden building, architecturally beautiful but with a permanent stench from bad plumbing. It had probably needed to be replaced, but not like this. In its place was a cluster of small, plasticky temporary houses that stood out among the modern homes and large, old wooden ones that survived the disaster. Many observers have argued, and I agree, that the Japanese government has been too slow to replace the tens of thousands of destroyed residences in the affected parts of the country.

Temporary houses in Karakuwa, the neighborhood of Kesennuma City where I used to live. Most people displaced by the tsunami stayed near their original homes, either with relatives or in temporary housing, but some moved to other cities in the area like Sendai City and Ichinoseki City. — Temporary houses in Karakuwa, a neighborhood in Kesennuma City. Most people displaced by the tsunami stayed near their original homes, either with relatives or in temporary housing, but some moved to other cities in the area like Sendai City and Ichinoseki City.

While there was ample physical evidence of the disaster, the attitudes of the people I met and renewed friendships with were almost universally “genki”—a Japanese word meaning healthy, happy, and lively. One friend who lost her home and her business on 3/11 treated me to her memories of that day, and concluded by insisting “This [loss of property] is not sad. Because there were many people who lost their lives.”

However, the nuclear aspect of the disaster is still a source of concern for many. The troubled and leaking Fukushima reactor is just a few hours south of Kesennuma. I visited one shop in nearby Sendai City that advertised “Fukushima-free” foods, made without any agricultural or sea-based products from the area around the plant. Every scientific study I know of has determined that food from most of Fukushima is safe to eat, but farmers there are having a hard time convincing the public to buy their goods. Almost every day’s television news broadcast leads with an update on the damaged plant. On the other hand, at one sushi party I attended another foreigner asked whether any of the fish was from waters off Fukushima. A Japanese patron responded, “Maybe, but we can’t worry about it.” Not to eat fish is too great a sacrifice.

A bowl of raw seafood. Some of this may have come from water near the damaged Fukushima reactor, but when it's right in front you, you just "can't worry about it." — A bowl of raw seafood. Some of this may have come from water near the damaged Fukushima reactor, but when it’s right in front you, you just “can’t worry about it.”

While in Japan I hosted several visitors from America (and two from Australia), and they all reported having a wonderful time. Disaster-affected areas are working to increase tourism to help their ongoing recovery. It is safe to visit the northeast of Japan, and the area is home to several unique, ancient sites that are off the usual tourist path but every bit as rewarding as locations in Tokyo and Kyoto. If you get a chance to go, let me know, and I’ll give you a list. I miss Japan greatly and look forward to going back again someday.

Few foreign tourists visit this breathtaking gorge in northeast Japan, even at peak fall leaf viewing seasons. It is not far from Sendai City.

David Conrad at Takkoku no Iwa, a shrine built into a rock face near Ichinoseki City.

First two images via Wikimedia Commons.

All remaining photos courtesy of David Conrad.

Age of Fracture, by Daniel T. Rodgers (2011)

By Chris Babits

Have you recently found yourself wondering, “How did we get here?” Turning on the news — or jumping on social media — reveals a host of dramatic events and controversial issues: protests about the death of young black men at the hands of police; economic policies that benefit the wealthiest Americans at the expense of the middle- and lower-classes; and debates over the meaning of “feminism,” with Time Magazine even suggesting that we expunge that word from our vocabulary. Daniel T. Rodgers, a historian at Princeton, offers an interpretation that helps us understand the concerns currently dominating political, intellectual, and cultural life.

In Age of Fracture, the 2012 winner of the Bancroft Prize, Rodgers argues that, between 1970 and 2001, a key intellectual and cultural shift took place. The dominant tendency of the age, Rodgers contends, was toward disaggregation. In the realm of ideas, conservatives and liberals wrote and talked less about society as a whole and more about individuals, contingency, and choice. Structural macroeconomics gave way to notions of a flexible and instantly emerging market. After the Civil Rights Movement and second wave feminism, racialized and gendered identities became fluid, intersectional, and elective. And power itself thinned, receded, and sometimes appeared to be simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. Rodgers persuasively shows how these ideas weren’t restricted to academic and political circles. They shaped the mental frameworks and social experiences of everyday Americans.

Rodgers makes complex political, economic, intellectual, and cultural changes easy to understand. Beginning with presidential rhetoric and the rediscovery of classical economics, he demonstrates that Ronald Reagan and his speechwriters used the terms “freedom” and “market” as vague concepts that inspired hope and optimism. This shift in rhetoric led Americans to see freedom and individualism linked to tax cuts. However, Reagan was only one proponent of the new economic ideas that gained prominence after the financially tumultuous 1970s. These new theories, with Milton Friedman as their foremost champion, shifted concerns from macroeconomics to the microeconomics of individual actors. Reagan proposed supply-side economics, which included massive tax cuts for corporations and the wealthiest Americans, promising that wealth would “trickle down” to the middle- and lower-classes. These trends endured through George W. Bush’s presidency and were apparent in bestsellers like Freakanomics (2005) and The World is Flat (2005). Protest movements like Occupy Wall Street and the increased political role of Senator Elizabeth Warren highlight the ways some Americans are rejecting the effects of Friedman’s ideas and Reagan’s policies based on linking freedom with the marketplace.

The Occupy Movement began on September 17, 2011, in Zuccotti Park, New York.

Rodgers’ chapters on power, race, and gender provide additional insight into how American society got to where it is today. On the issue of power, Rodgers demonstrates how this term became an all-consuming concern of academics. Political scientists, sociologists, historians, and anthropologists engaged with power in ways that highlighted the significance of language, symbols, and consciousness. For historians, Rodgers argues, the search for power led to the virtual abandonment of class-based interpretations of the past in favor of cultural history. And Rodgers does something that many graduate students and general readers thought impossible — he makes Michel Foucault’s ideas accessible. Foucault, one of the most influential and controversial intellectuals of the past fifty years, emphasizes “capillaries of power” at work in the smallest of daily transactions. His notions of power were built from the ground up, showing how political hierarchies were reproduced and normalized – making them almost invisible – in everyday life. Foucault’s Discipline and Punish and A History of Sexuality, Volume I: An Introduction remain required reading for advanced undergraduates and graduate students in America’s colleges and universities.

Like Foucauldian power, ideas about gender and race became fractured between 1970 and 2001. During the Civil Rights Movement, there developed a popular belief in the need for unified black protest and action. A similar thing happened early in second wave feminism. But, Rodgers provides thought-provoking examples and analyses of the disaggregation of the unified black voice and of a unified female experience. By referencing scholars like sociologist William Julius Wilson, who wrote about the intersection of race and class, Rodgers traces the disappearance of racial and feminist solidarity. As a result, America has seen less collective black protest as economic and other differences divide African Americans and women in the United States. By the late-1980s, historian Joan Scott’s influential works about the construction of gender and philosopher Judith Butler’s concept of gender performativity, challenged the vision of a common and united womanhood. In the late-1960s, gender was determined by one’s biological sex. Over the past four decades, though, historians, cultural theorists, and others recognize that society helps construct what we view as masculine and feminine. As intellectuals complicated ideas about gender and class and other differences became more visible, Rodgers argues, movements based on gender equality, fractured, and multiplied.

Rodgers’ Age of Fracture is well-written, cogently argued, and timely. It includes additional discussions about school and university curricula, multiculturalism, and the impact of the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001. Readers might not agree with all of the connections Rodgers makes, but Age of Fracture will help readers think not only about the recent past but also the world they currently live in.

Daniel T. Rodgers, Age of Fracture (Harvard University Press, 2011)

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All images via Wikimedia Commons.

The First Texans: An Exhibit in Jester Hall

By Nakia Parker

Tucked away in a corner on the second floor of Jester Residence Hall at UT Austin stands a thought provoking exhibit that pays tribute to Native Americans, the “First Texans.” Many times I have hurriedly passed by this area and only given it a casual look. In fact, the day I went to visit the exhibit,, students were standing directly across from it, laughing, doing dance routines, and hanging out with friends. No one even glanced in the corner. However, I strongly encourage taking the time to explore this well-constructed and respectful gallery honoring the first inhabitants of Texas.

Clovis point (replica) from Domebo mammoth kill site in Oklahoma.

Artist Rendition of Leander Indian Woman

The idea for the exhibit was hatched by Floyd Hoelting, Executive Director of the Division of Housing and Food Service. With the help of his staff members, student leaders, the Institute of Texan Cultures, and other experts in the field of archaeology, sociology, and anthropology, the commemoration became a reality. In six panels, the gallery traces the history of Native Americans in the region, commencing around 13,000 BCE, to the arrival of the Spanish in the early 16th century. But the displays do much more than simply chronicle the experiences of indigenous people who lived thousands of years ago. It also seeks to dispel common stereotypes surrounding these cultures and to demonstrate that Texas history does not begin and end with the Alamo. For example, the second plaque discusses the populating of the Texas region by the Clovis peoples. Archeologists and anthropologists had previously described the Clovis as a nomadic band of hunters, but they were actually were a sedentary people who participated in farming and created complex architectural structures to protect themselves from the elements. In addition, artifacts such as bowls, hunting instruments, and drinking utensils aid the visitor in reconstructing what life was like for indigenous people in centuries past. Visitors should also make sure to pay attention to what is under them as well as around them, because complementing the panels and artifacts nicely is the beautiful design found on the floor of the exhibit, which features a map of Native American archeological sites located in every section of the state.

Clovis Artifacts from Gault Site, Central TX.

The First Texans exhibit is a part of Jester Hall’s Gallery of Texas Cultures that showcases over thirty different ethnic groups of the state, highlighting the specific role each played in molding and influencing the politics, education, and culture of Texas. According to its website, “as a visual resource, the gallery is intended to increase the knowledge of the history and contributions of ethnic groups among students, faculty, staff and visitors while as a physical resource, the gallery is intended to provide the venue to inspire conversation, learning and a greater understanding of others.” Visitors who take the time to see The First Texans display will surely agree that it achieves its intended purpose.

Wall Paintings at Seminole Canyon State Park — Wall Paintings estimated to be 4,000 years old at Seminole Canyon State Park

You can see some of the exhibit at The Gallery of Texas Cultures website.

From Virile Woman to Woman Christ: Studies in Medieval Religion and Literature, by Barbara Newman (1995)

By Jacob Doss

What do virility, erotic passion, and child abandonment have to do with the history of Christianity? In her collection of essays entitled From Virile Woman to WomanChrist: Studies in Medieval Religion and Literature, Barbara Newman addresses these subjects in relation to a shift in gender ideologies in the medieval Church between the twelfth and sixteenth centuries. Newman’s essays explore ways women expressed holiness within an oppressive medieval religious culture. Newman is particularly interested in a gradual shift in gendered models of behavior from, what she terms the virago, or virile woman, to the “womanChrist.”. According to the virago model, women were measured against a normative male expression of righteousness. They could be equal to men inasmuch as they became like men. Women’s holiness entailed conquering their innate weakness and becoming virile. Conversely, the womanChrist model represented an emerging ideology of gender complementarity. According to this budding, though not universally accepted model, women could achieve holiness through devotional practices that drew upon their innate “femininity.”

Newman begins in the twelfth century by comparing pastoral writings by men for religious women with those meant strictly for men. Using the letters of Heloise and Abelard as a ground for her analysis, Newman, echoing Heloise, asks a basic, but significant question, “is the nun’s life gendered or gender-neutral?” Abelard responds to Heloise by suggesting the basics of religious life are fit for both sexes, echoing the long-standing virago tradition; however, he then explains the inherent virtue and potential superiority of religious women. For Abelard, God’s power was more evident in holy women than holy men because of women’s inherent weakness. Furthermore, holy women enjoyed a closer relationship to God by virtue of their being “brides of Christ.” Exalted bridal status, however, was contingent on the strict maintenance of virginity. Women were thought particularly prone to lasciviousness, therefore imperiling their exalted but precarious status. In order to protect women (and men) from their lascivious, passionate, and impulsive nature, the church advised strict enclosure for religious women behind the monastery walls.

Abaelardus and Héloïse in the manuscript Roman de la Rose (14th century)

Newman finds the transition from virago to womanChrist in those supposed female shortcomings. Heloise, whose “chief claim to fame was…erotic passion,” did not aspire to spiritual virility, nor was she concerned with maintaining chastity. Through Heloise’s letters to Abelard, Newman finds the geneses of a “feminine” spiritual discourse of desire. Within this understanding a particularly female spirituality grew out of women’s innate passion and their propensity for intense love. This discourse championed passion, loyalty, and absolute self-surrender to the beloved. Newman reads Heloise as a “mystic manquée” whose language and impulses would later re-emerge in the mystical writings of the beguines, an urban, lay religious movement, consisting primarily of women, focused on works of charity and adherence to voluntary poverty.

A particular feature of the womanChrist model is that of vicarious suffering. Drawing on the Passion and the Virgin Mary’s life as models, cultivation of this suffering, along with a loving desire for and fearless obedience to Christ was often the goal of devotional literature for women. Though Heloise’s desire was for Abelard, three famous beguines, Hadewijch, Mechthild of Magdeburg, and Marguerite Porete, used similar language to express their desire for and dedication to Christ. These beguine writers preferred to suffer in Hell if that were God’s will and might vicariously save others from the fire. For some mothers, the suffering that followed abandoning their child or allowing its death came to be praised. By merging the story of Abraham and Isaac with the Virgin Mary’s willing, but excruciating, personal sacrifice of her child on the cross, mothers had an innovative model of suffering to imitate. Children were sacrificed or abandoned to free their mothers to take monastic vows.

Medieval manuscript page of a Hadewijch poem from the 14th century.

Another way women imitated Christ through their femininity was their “apostolate to the dead.” Women, now clearly exhibiting Newman’s womanChrist model, could reduce the deceased’s time in purgatory through their own suffering, thus mirroring Christ’s passion and descent into Hell to rescue the souls held captive there. A late thirteenth-century heterodox sect, the Guglielmites, further illustrate emerging notions of gender complementarity and the redemptive potential of women. They claimed their leader, Guglielma, was the Holy Spirit incarnate. Her promoters preached that the feminine Holy Spirit and a female leadership would restore the wayward Church to its true glory. Newman ends with a work lauding femininity, Cornelius Agrippa’s early sixteenth-century treatise On the Nobility and Superiority of the Female Sex. Newman argues that Agrippa’s work, though potentially satirical, illustrated a time of convergence where both female gender models, the virago and the womanChrist, could be employed as an intellectual challenge to patriarchy.

Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa (1486-1535/1538)

Newman’s essays illustrate a significant shift from an ancient Christian gender model to a gender complementarity model still prevalent today. Women’s roles in Christianity are still a cause of debate, illustrated by Jimmy Carter’s recent resignation from the Southern Baptist Convention over women’s unequal roles in leadership and the Vatican’s controversial investigation of American nuns. Similarly, in the context of the Vatican’s “Humanum: An International Interreligious Colloquium on The Complementarity of Man and Woman,” Newman’s study remains relevant to understanding current Christian gender ideologies. Newman illuminates Christianity’s longstanding subordination of women and how women undermined patriarchy, while revealing the origins of current models. The stories Newman relates are often shocking, interesting, and counterintuitive. Rather than anachronistically seeing her subjects’ actions as illustrating personal commitments to self-empowerment or conscious subversion, Newman rightfully understands her subjects’ stories to be based in expressions of their religion, thus seeing their self-understanding as products of the texts and traditions of Christianity.

Barbara Newman, From Virile Woman to Woman Christ: Studies in Medieval Religion and Literature (University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995)

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All images via Wikimedia Commons.

Boomtown, USA: An Historical Look at Fracking

By Henry Wiencek

Over the past five years or so, the United States has been experiencing an enormous oil boom. Hydraulic fracturing, known as “fracking,” has made it possible—and profitable—to drill through thick rock formations, opening up vast pockets of domestic oil and gas across the country. But nowhere has this process had more of an impact than in the Eagle Ford Shale and Permian Basin of Texas and in the Bakken formation of western North Dakota. New jobs, new workers, and new money have transformed remote prairies into humming boomtowns. Wood cabins in Midland, Texas typically rent for $1,500 a month; Karnes City in south Texas plans to build a $30 million high school; and Williston, North Dakota has absorbed 15,000 workers alone.

An oil derrick operated by Raven Drilling drills for oil in the Bakken shale formation on July 23, 2013 outside Watford City, North Dakota. (Photo by Andrew Burton/Getty Images)

But the party may soon be over. Largely due to high American production, the international price of Brent crude has fallen below $50/barrel, a six year low.

This is not the first time America has experienced the intoxicating highs and dispiriting lows of the oil patch. Between 1901 and 1930, Louisiana, one of the first major centers of domestic oil and gas production, encountered the same dilemma at various moments. Over the course of two decades, areas of the state went from isolated swamp to tent cities of 20,000 people…and then back to isolated swamp again. As demand fell or wells just dried up, boomtowns like Homer, Ida, Vivian, and Oil City—yes, Oil City—suddenly lost their raison d’être. Their stories may augur what comes next for present day boom communities like Karnes City or Williston—and perhaps impart some lessons on how to survive the bust.

Oil City, 1912

Although a great deal has changed in the oil industry over the past century, certain “boomtown” traits seem to be timeless. As production has increased in North Dakota and Texas, sprawling “man camps” of hastily built trailers quickly proliferated to house all the new workers. The migration has created a boon for local business, but also spikes in violent crime and drug addiction. When journalist Laura Gottesdiener visited Williston, ND, she found “an abundance of meth, crack, and liquor; freezing winters; rents higher than Manhattan; and far, far too many men.” The oil industry’s encroachment into rural parts of Texas and North Dakota has also dramatically changed their natural landscape. Meandering hills of prairie grass now compete with truck convoys, pipeline construction crews and perpetually dipping pumpjacks. In Williston, toxic gas flares illuminate the sky all night.

A trailer park occupied mostly by oil workers is seen in an aerial view in the early morning hours of July 30, 2013 near Watford City, North Dakota. Photo by Andrew Burton/Getty Images

The oil boomtowns of early twentieth-century Caddo Parish, Louisiana bore a striking resemblance to those of today. Located atop the highly productive Sabine Uplift, Caddo transformed from a desolate stretch of swamp to a boisterous collection of boomtowns after oil was found around 1905. Between 1907 and 1908, land prices spiked from $25-50/acre to $500-1,000. 25,000 people descended on Oil City alone. Much like in present day Williston, oil production dominated Caddo’s natural landscape. Driller Carl M. Jones remembered that so many oil wells were flaring off natural gas you could “read a newspaper at night several miles away.”

Drilling for oil on Caddo Lake

Given the enormous worker populations, housing was cheap and improvised. Driller Claude McFarland recalled that newcomers “had to live where they worked,” generally settling “all over the woods in tents.” “Main Streets” in Caddo were generally unpaved roads lined with ramshackle saloons, banks and general stores housed in shabby buildings ready to disassemble whenever the bust came. The tent cities of Caddo also became notoriously riotous. With virtually no law enforcement or civic institutions, gambling, drinking and violence prevailed. Oil City’s Reno Hill was infamous for its saloons and “hotels” of ill repute. Madams with aliases like Diamond, Oklahoma Mamie, Big Alice, and Old Mooch became experts at selling liquor and sex to the huge market of wage earning men who were either unmarried or far from their families.

Downtown Trees City c. 1915

Eventually, the drinking and violence became so extreme that Mike Benedum and Joe Trees, prominent oilmen with considerable interests in Caddo, decided to build Trees City, an enclave of comfortable, brick homes that would encourage more wholesome family-oriented lives among the workers. Drinking, gambling, and “loose women” were strictly forbidden. But Benedum and Trees’s efforts to control their workforce had only mixed results. When they hired a former Texas Ranger to shut down Caddo’s whiskey and prostitution rings, the bootleggers simply bribed him to look the other way.

Law enforcement tied drunks to tree in the center of Oil City until they were sober, September 15, 1912.

So how did these communities respond when the bust came? In many cases, the loss of oil revenue was devastating. When demand for commodities fell across America during the Great Depression, Caddo’s boomtowns had little to cushion the fall. Most of the new infrastructure built over the past two decades specifically related to oil and gas—pipelines, storage tanks, refineries—and had only limited applications in other fields. Most of the investors, lease hounds and oil workers left town, many in search of the next boom in Texas or Oklahoma. As Longtime Jennings, Louisiana resident J.M. Hoag recalled it, once “the oil started to slow down…the money mongers left with it.”

Fire at Mooringsport, Louisiana, 1913

Businesses reliant on those wages left as well. After revenues in Jennings—the site of Louisiana’s first oil well—declined, a country club and opera house catering to oilmen promptly shut. Hotels housing all the newcomers to the oil patch could no longer fill their rooms. Even the women of Reno Hill moved on once the market changed. Just as oilmen crisscrossed from boomtown to boomtown along the Sabine Uplift, female sex workers migrated along their own parallel network, an “interrelated community of vice” as one author called it.

This isn’t to say that there aren’t positive lessons to glean from Louisiana’s early boom days. The most obvious advice is for local governments to save while the oil is profitable—Norway is a great example of this virtue. Having a diverse local economy is another. In 1901, Jennings became the first zone of modern oil production in Louisiana, only to peak just five years later. But local jobs in rice production and transportation pre-existed the oil boom—and continued to keep many families afloat after the bust. Today, Jennings is a handsome, small town of 10,000. In contrast, Trees City, once a testament to the sturdy prosperity that oil created, gradually reverted back to a remote patch of bayou. Some privately owned pumpjacks still dot the landscape today, but only produce a fraction of the heady boom days. By remaining an oil-centered economy, Trees City had no way of coping when the bust came.

Trees City Bank, c. 1910

Many present day boomtowns have applied such lessons. Karnes City, Texas has actively prohibited bars and “man camps” from its city limits, instead channeling oil revenues into local schools, a new city hall, and a convention center that will hopefully pay long term dividends. Even the wild and rowdy Williston has begun investing in sewer improvements, a new recreation center and limiting permits for the construction of new “man camps.” Nonetheless, these boomtowns will still feel the pinch of fewer jobs, smaller government coffers and higher unemployment. That much is probably unavoidable.

Welcome sign to Karnes City, Texas. Via Wikimedia Commons.

And when the bust does come, perhaps Williston, Karnes City, and other oil patch communities will direct their energies towards reinvesting in their natural landscape. Years of breakneck growth in oil production have severely impacted local environments: farmland made fallow from contaminated wastewater; toxic oil spills; higher prevalence of earthquakes. And this is to say nothing of the global issues that accompany pumping yet more carbon into the atmosphere. I don’t want to be naïve—restoring grasslands and watersheds won’t sustain the 2.8% unemployment that North Dakota has been enjoying (the lowest in America). But it might provide a well-needed respite from the excesses—both social and environmental—that tend to follow in the wake of America’s oil boomtowns.

Bull Bayou Field, 1920

An oil drilling rig is seen in an aerial view in the early morning hours of July 30, 2013, North Dakota. (Photo by Andrew Burton/Getty Images)

You may also like:

Henry Wiencek’s piece on the history of Standard Oil in Louisiana and his discussion of John D. Rockefeller and the Standard Oil Company on 15 Minute History.

All historic Images of oil towns in Louisiana courtesy of Caddo History

All Images of North Dakota courtesy of Andrew Burton/Getty Images, via Denver Post

Personal Memoirs, by Ulysses S. Grant (2003)

April 2015 marks the sesquicentennial of the end of the U.S. Civil War. As we look back on that momentous event in U.S. history, we should take time to reconsider one of the war’s most important figures, Ulysses S. Grant. Most famous as a general, Grant’s life spans an important part of U.S. history. Moreover, Grant’s prose is clear and evocative, proving him to be a great writer,and the author of one of the finest examples of the military memoir.

Grant had resolved not to write his memoirs. However, nearing the end of his life, and with his family’s financial security in doubt, Grant put forth a tremendous effort to tell the story of his military service. The writing does not suffer from Grant’s apparent haste. Instead, the words spill forth from the page and propel the reader through a brief description of his early life, his education at West Point, and his service in the war with Mexico. Grant then embarks on a gripping account of the Civil War from his own perspective.

The Battle of Jackson, fought on May 14, 1863, was part of the Vicksburg Campaign. Via Wikimedia Commons. — The Battle of Jackson, fought on May 14, 1863, was part of the Vicksburg Campaign.

It is a perspective that differs from many military histories of the war. Grant served in the West during the early years of the conflict. There are no Bull Runs or Antietams here. Instead, Grant gives the reader an inside account of the siege of Vicksburg, a battle of tremendous importance to the Union’s ultimate victory, which is often obscured because it ended on the same day as that more famous battle in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

Grant’s account also showcases his genius for war. Like his illustrious predecessor as war-hero-turned-president, George Washington, some military historians deride Grant as a poor tactical general, especially in comparison to his contemporary, Robert E. Lee. While this critique is accurate, insofar as Grant lost many battles, it ignores the far more important object of the general, which is to win the war. On this point, Grant has few equals. And how Grant won the war is most obvious in his description of what he calls the “Grand Campaign” of 1864-1865.

Grant recognized that between 1861 and 1863 the Union had not used its superior strength well, allowing the Confederate armies to survive. To correct this, Grant devised a coordinated series of movements and battles by the Union armies to defeat the Confederacy and end the war. The inclusion of the letters and telegrams that Grant sent to his commanders in the field.makes his description of the campaign and its planning evocative and revealing. These are brilliant: they are concise and precisely convey Grant’s intent for each action.

Grant’s memoirs also offer insights into the war beyond its military conduct. Throughout, he presents glimpses of the hardships imposed on the population of the Confederate states by the war that raged on their soil. He is aware of his culpability for this suffering, and, at times, made an effort to alleviate it. He also gives the reader his impressions of other figures, such as Lee, General William T. Sherman, and Abraham Lincoln. These are no doubt colored by the passage of years, but they are also blunt, yet nuanced.

The Peacemakers depicts Sherman, Grant, Lincoln, and Porter aboard the River Queen on March 27th & March 28th, 1865. White House copy of the lost 1868 painting. — The Peacemakers by George P.A. Healey depicts Sherman, Grant, Lincoln, and Porter aboard the River Queen on March 27th & March 28th, 1865. This is the White House copy of the lost 1868 painting.

Grant’s discussion of his relationship with Lincoln is fascinating. Much has been written decrying the interference of presidents in military operations, especially with regard to Vietnam. Grant’s memoirs offer a completely different viewpoint. He describes the many instances when he received direct communications from Lincoln about fighting the war, most of which were unsolicited. Rather than condemning these as interference, Grant shows that he understood his subordinate relationship to the president, and thus he vigorously obeyed the president’s orders.

Finally, Grant embodies the complicated feelings that the conflict aroused. He poignantly expresses the conflicting emotions he experienced during the negotiations with Lee for the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia. He relates that, when the two commanders met near Appomattox Courthouse in April 1865, he was unsure of Lee’s feelings, but his own had passed from jubilation about the pending end of the war to sadness and depression. Grant did not want to rejoice over the surrender of his valiant foe, who had battled for his cause, “though that cause was, I believe, one of the worst for which a people ever fought, and one for which there was the least excuse.”

Glimpsed in the Archive and Known no More: One Indian Slave’s Tale

By Sumit Guha

Slavery is an old and tenacious institution in human society. It is not unknown at present. Nor was it confined in the past to the plantations in the Americas that fed world trade after Europe’s overseas expansion in the 1500s. The practice was widespread in India and accepted and regulated by every regime extant in the region. The English East India Company was well acquainted with slavery and the slave-trade. In 1685 it directed its agents at the port of Karwar to buy 20 to 40 slaves at about £ 2 per head, adding that since the area was overrun by rival armies, it might even be possible to get them for a quarter of that price. Most high-status households owned slave-women and often gifted them to each other or their superiors. Slaves not only did unpaid work for their owners, they were themselves commodities, bought, sold, and gifted. This is the story of one vulnerable young woman who successfully fought her way out of such a transaction.

Painting of the East India Company’s settlement in Bombay and ships in Bombay Harbour 1732-33. Via Wikimedia Commons.

The young woman whose petition came before the Mayor’s Court on April 24, 1726, in the small British colony in the former Portuguese territory of Bombay (today’s Mumbai), had already led a life full of travail and adventure. By her account, she was born to Hindu (she used the Portuguese term ‘Jentue’) parents in Versova, a fishing settlement that the King of Portugal had bestowed on an unnamed lord. The death of her parents threw her into the hands of the said lord, who immediately had her baptized a Christian and then after some time, married her to a tenant farmer named Manuel.

View of Bombay from colaba island in 1773 by James Medium Forbes. Engraving Date, 1813

View of Bombay from Colaba island in 1773 by James Forbes. Engraving Date, 1813. Courtesy of Old Photos Bombay.

This practice of taking charge of orphans was a part of the European heritage of both feudal and Roman law. The great digest of Justinian (c.600 CE) directed that pagan minors be placed under Christian tutelage in the hope of saving their souls from hell. Feudal law also stipulated that a minor heir became a ward of his or her lord (up to the King). The logic was that he or she might otherwise be controlled by the lord’s enemies – or worse, marry one of them. The right to manage the lands or marry off an heir was also a profitable one and a source of revenue to the lord.

Manuel, our young woman’s new husband, treated her “very ill,” though no details were recorded. Versova was not far from the growing city of Bombay. It is today a suburb of high rises but the fishermen and fishwives there still retain a tenacious hold on their original settlement. Salted fish hang out to dry and boats still return with their catch at dawn.

Fishing boats in Versova. Via Wikimedia Commons.

We do not know how the woman, now named Anna D’Souza, got to Bombay, but once there she began living with an immigrant from Portugal named Joseph D’Coasta (probably a corruption of the Portuguese Da Costa). D’Coasta enlisted in a company of soldiers commanded by a Captain Douglas, stationed in Tellichery (Thalassery today), a trading port where the Portuguese had built a fort to control the pepper trade of the region. By this time it had passed into Dutch hands and then to the English East India Company. D’Coasta was shot through the heart while on duty at this outpost. And at that point his commander claimed that Anna was actually D’Coasta’s slave-concubine, not his wife, and that as the deceased owed his captain money Anna was now the captain’s. Douglas thereupon seized Anna and shipped her to Bombay for sale. She was sold to a Captain Button and then to a whole series of other men, the last of whom, Mr Garland, “pretended to give her away” to a Captain Baynton, who was now insisting that she was rightfully his slave. Anna managed to petition the Court saying that if she had not been falsely cast into slavery she “might be well married.” It could be that her suitor helped her reach the court despite the obvious interest of a whole series of English army officers in denying her freedom.

The court examined evidence and witnesses and declared that she had not been a slave “at least since she came upon this Island.” Therefore her first sale by Captain Douglas was illegal and unwarrantable and so he was liable to pay damages to the last “owner” Garland, whose lawyers claimed the sum of 170 rupees or about £20, a considerable sum at that time. Anna D’Coasta finally secured her freedom and may even have married well as she had anticipated.

Slaves lacking kinship ties would need to find protectors if they were to survive in the predatory world of the day. Anna may have found one. An 18^th century document in the archives of the Maratha kingdom contains a complaint from one Dattaji Thorat that his slave-woman had fled to the royal capital of Satara and was being sheltered by a powerful person there. The latter threatened Thorat with violence when he sought to recapture her. Maybe Anna had found a similar protector? We do not know the rest of her story, one of the many obscure lives briefly glimpsed in the archive and then known no more.

For more on slavery in colonial and pre-colonial India

Indrani Chatterjee, Gender, Slavery and Law in Colonial India (Oxford University Press, 1999)

Indrani Chatterjee and Richard M. Eaton eds. Slavery and South Asian History (Indiana University Press, 2006)

You may also like:

Sumit Guha’s Giving a life, winning a patrimony

Sumit Guha Beyond Caste: Power and Identity in South Asia, Past and Present (2013)

The Disappearing Mestizo, by Joanne Rappaport (2014)

By Adrian Masters

From Mexico to Chile, Latin American intellectuals, artists, and activists proudly proclaim that they, their nations, and their cultures were born from a mix of Spanish and Indian heritage. The adjective for this mix is “mestizo;” individuals of Spanish-Indian descent are “mestizos.” These terms, along with the general word for mixing (mestizaje), have become increasingly prominent in North American scholarship in recent years, especially since the 1960s Civil Rights Movement, when many U.S American activists with Latin American heritage sought to explore and embrace their Indian roots.

The category of mestizo first arose in the 16^th century Spanish Empire. In The Disappearing Mestizo, Joanne Rappaport takes readers to 16^th, 17^th, and 18^th-century Colombia, where she questions whether mestizos constituted a real social group. Many scholars have treated colonial mestizos as a sort of ethnicity or collective, a concept frequently influenced by the era’s spectacular paintings of genealogical mixes between Africans, Indians, and Spaniards. These colonial Mexican paintings create the appearance of a hierarchical society, a “caste system,” where a colonist would fall into one of dozens of categories and would live his or her life according to the privileges and limitations of that group. The idea of the caste system has recently come under the scrutiny of contemporary scholars, who argue that the rigid idealized world of caste paintings never materialized in day-to-day life.

Casta painting by Luis de Mena

Rappaport’s book builds on this growing suspicion towards the caste system and colonial-era terms like the mestizo. Whereas Africans, Indians, and Spaniards often had languages, histories, and legal statuses that brought them together, Rappaport argues that mestizos were adrift between colonial ethnicities. This meant that they appeared and disappeared from colonial documents with ease, “becoming” Indians or Spaniards at times and becoming mestizos at other times. If there were no mestizo sociological or ethnic group, Rappaport reasons, we must set out to determine not “Who is a mestizo?” or “What is a mestizo?” but “When and how is someone a mestizo?”

Casta Painting from the end of the 18th century or beginning of 19th century. Author unknown. The caption reads “From a Spanish man and an Amerindian woman, a Mestizo is produced”

This book seeks to answer why colonists called others mestizos, through a handful of fine-grained “ethnographic” vignettes that appear in the archives of Spain and Colombia. The author begins by exploring the importance of markers of difference that go beyond 19^th and 20^th century markers of “race:” religion, appearance, dress, blood, honor, reputation, occupation, and even ideas regarding breast-milk (ideas that colonists summarized as calidad, or “quality”). Readers meet a moreno (dark-skinned man) who seduces a high-born Spanish woman with love letters but shames and threatens the reputation of her family when he reveals his physical appearance to her. A half-Spanish, half-Indian girl brings dishonor upon her father by dressing as an Indian. A distinguished conquistador’s enemies accuse him of being a Moorish slave from Oran, throwing his Christian genealogy and virtue into question. These cases force us to think beyond “race” as a simple category of genetic difference and to focus instead on the cultural reasons why colonists did or did not use so-called caste categories when describing themselves and others.

Casta painting by Miguel Cabrera

Rappaport then turns her attention directly toward mestizos (and occasionally mulattos), presenting various stories in which Crown officials struggled with caste terms. There is Juan de Medina, the self-proclaimed Indian whose enemy, an Indian, insults him as a mestizo after a bloody brawl involving a severed nose. When a tax collector confused Juana Galván for a tribute-paying indigenous woman, she complained that she had a Spanish father and was in reality a mestiza (colonial Iberians and their mestizo children did not normally pay taxes). Rappaport also notes the cases of mulattos Lázaro, who lived and paid taxes as an Indian, and Manuel Rodríguez, who lived among Spaniards and Indians, even as he terrorized them with robberies and rape. There was Ana de Mendoza, an elite mestiza who became “hispanized” by her marriage, and Juan Birvez, a man who witnesses outed as a mestizo as he lay in bed with the daughter of a powerful landowner. Birvez, in turn, revealed that the daughter was a mestiza herself. Rappaport concludes from these episodes that the matter of who was and was not a mestizo was highly contingent on the time, the place, and who was doing the naming. She argues that mestizos and mulatos did not live in a caste system; they moved in and out of their categories with ease.

A painting of a Spanish man and a Peruvian indigenous woman with Mestizo child, 1770

Some mestizos, however, experienced very tangible discrimination at the hands of Crown officials and clergymen. One was the famous Gonzalo García Zorro, who became a cathedral canon in spite of stiff resistance from members of the Church. His brother Diego was less fortunate. He had close ties to Indians and found that townspeople disdained him and his pretensions to public offices due to his mixed lineage. A similar case, well known among historians of colonial Colombia, was the struggle of two mestizo “caciques” – Indian chiefs – to win the recognition of the Crown for their position. Both Alonso de Silva and Diego de Torres were sons of conquistadors and Indian women, and both lost their rights to act as caciques when their enemies raised questions about their eligibility. Mestizos in colonial Colombia were often either too Spanish or not Spanish enough, depending on the position they sought to achieve.

Casta Painting from Peru, 1770.

Rappaport’s book does admirable work at dismantling the myth of the caste system, showing that colonists hardly ordered themselves into clean-cut categories. This observation brings up a mystery that the author does not answer, however. Why did Crown officials and clergymen frequently describe individuals as mestizos to begin with?

Rappaport all but ignores the problem of mestizo laws – the Crown decrees that insisted that mestizos not enter the priesthood, not live in Indian towns, not act as caciques, and so forth. This is a critical weakness in a work that pivots around the reasons colonists categorized one another.

Mestizo laws are difficult to understand at first glance. My research into the sixteenth-century creation of the term reveals more chaos than clarity. For every law forbidding mestizos’ entry into the priesthood, for example, there are two allowing it. The same follows for many similar decrees regarding mestizos’ rights to carry arms, inherit land, and so forth.

also known as the New Laws of the Indies for the Good Treatment and Preservation of the Indians, were issued on November 20, 1542, by King Charles I of Spain and regard the Spanish colonization of the Americas.

Front cover of the New Laws of the Indies for the Good Treatment and Preservation of the Indians. The New Laws were issued on November 20, 1542, by King Charles I of Spain and regard the Spanish colonization of the Americas.

The solution to this mystery lies in the nature of Spanish imperial law, and has important consequences for the practices of naming mestizos. The King desired close contact with his colonists – from the humblest Indian to the richest Spaniard. He also desired to resolve conflicts and avoid bloodshed. The Monarch and his Council thus oversaw all sorts of legal disputes, simultaneously providing colonists with mediation and collecting hordes of information on the New World all at once. It was in this flurry of colonial petitions to the Crown that the meaning of the term mestizo arose. Countless petitioners thus created different meanings for the term mestizo from below, in the process sowing legal chaos on a grand scale.

Emblem of the Council of the Indies from the frontispiece of the ‘Recopilacion de leyes de los Reynos de Las Indias’, Madrid, 1681.

The archives reveal that the true question baffling colonists and officials alike was how to deal with the petitioner-driven, ever-evolving world of mestizo law. The true “disappearing” or ‘”floating” aspect of mestizos was their shifting and contradictory legal status. Thus to understand why mestizos seem to disappear, we must open a new inquiry into the nature of Spanish imperial law. We need a case-by-case account into each specific petition and counter-petition that shaped this category.

The Disappearing Mestizo suffers from this inattention to legislation on mestizos. For one, it often sinks into an “ethnographic present” – the illusion among many anthropological writings that cultures remain stable over time – because it does not recognize how decrees on mestizos could abruptly reshape ideas about mixture. A second problem is Rappaport’s overstatement of Crown officials’ difficulty in properly identifying mestizos. In reality, most Crown functionaries could determine a person’s part-Indian, part-Spanish genealogy simply by requesting an individual provide it. Mestizo laws had little to say about more extreme cases, where a colonist was an orphan, illiterate, or too marginal in Spanish society to merit official interest. This is not a reflection of difficulty so much as indifference on the part of bureaucrats and secretaries.

Many of the concepts about race that emerged during European colonialism remain with us (in different ways) in the 21^st century. Virtually all Latin American countries point to the contributions of both Spanish and indigenous peoples in shaping what they call their “mestizo nations.” Some scholars today go so far as to argue that immigration and intermarriage are returning North America to colonial times, back to the era of the mestizo. Rappaport’s book will therefore be valuable not only to historians of colonial Colombia and scholars of race, but also to a reading public from Chile to Canada that is increasingly interested in the “mixing” of peoples who created their countries. As more and more authors assert that the future itself is mestizo, the next step for scholars – a step already taken by Rappaport – will be to think deeply about that category, its history, and its hidden baggage and complexities.

Joanne Rappaport, The Disappearing Mestizo: Configuring Difference in the Colonial New Kingdom of Granada (Duke University Press, 2014)

You may also like:

Ann Twinam discusses her work on Purchasing Whiteness in Colonial Latin America

Naming and Picturing New World Nature, by Maria Jose Afanador LLach

Kristie Flannery’s review of Imperial Subjects: Race and Identity in Colonial Latin America, edited by Andrew B. Fisher and Matthew D. O’Hara (2009)

Susan Deans-Smith on the Casta Paintings

For more on casta paintings:

Magali M. Carrera, Imagining identity in New Spain: Race, Lineage, and the Colonial Body in Portraiture and Casta Paintings (2003)

María Concepción García Saiz, Las castas mexicanas: un género pictórico americano (1989)

Ilona Katzew, Casta Painting: Images of Race in Eighteenth-Century Mexico (2004)

All images via Wikimedia Commons.

A Father’s Love: Francois LaBorde’s Letters

By Lizeth Elizondo

The French entrepreneur Francois LaBorde was born April 16, 1867 in Arudy, France. He arrived at Rio Grande City, Texas by steamboat up the Rio Grande in 1878. Soon after settling there, he met Eva Marks, the daughter of a French immigrant father and a mother who was born in Mexico but raised in Texas. The French connection must have been part of their initial attraction. They married on March 2, 1896 and their first daughter, Blanche, was born a year later. Francois fostered his love for French architecture in the LaBorde House, the opulent hotel he built and filled with exquisite European fixtures. His hotel still operates, and is one of the most elegant hotels in south Texas.

In the course of my research on the LaBorde House, I came across a hidden gem. Deep within the Chapa Family papers housed at The University of Texas at San Antonio, one box filled with an assortment of archival items, including legal documents, personal correspondence and photographs offer a glimpse into the LaBorde family. Among these items are four handwritten letters, exchanged between François LaBorde and his daughter Blanche. These letters reveal intimate details about their lavish lives and the unconditional love they had for each other.

Francois LaBorde died at the age of 50, of a possible suicide. Blanche was only twenty years old when tragedy struck their family, but she was fortunate to know how much her father loved her. These letters are a portal into their close father-daughter relationship as well as many social customs of the period. They reveal a warm-hearted man who is only remembered in history as the visionary of a grandiose hotel. Here’s a quick peek at the LaBordes’ exceptional life.

From: 118 W. Cypress St.

To: Miss Blanche LaBorde

Rio Grande City, Starr County Texas

July 10, 1912

My Dearest Blanche,

I received your postcard and I am glad that you all are doing well and in good health. I am still waiting for that letter you said you will send me. Greetings to your mom and little sister.

Dad who loves you, F.L.*

The letters were written in Spanish and are my own translation. All of the letters and images are from: Francisco A. Chapa Family Papers, MS 405, University of Texas at San Antonio Libraries Special Collections.

Fifteen-year-old Blanche, the oldest daughter of Francois LaBorde received this post card from her father with a scribble on the front image that reads “Be Happy.” The letters were written in perfect Spanish by her dashing father, a French merchant who had immigrated to Rio Grande City, Starr County Texas, around thirty years earlier. The LaBordes were an atypical family in South Texas thanks to their wealth and social status, but were, like many other families, representative of the region’s common intermarriage and multiculturalism.

Young Eva Marks, no date, Corpus Christi, TX

LaBorde had a keen eye for business and he quickly integrated himself to the community. Around 1890, he opened a general merchandise store in Rio Grande City and also maintained a strong economic connection to his homeland. He knew the popularity of leather gloves in the European market and made a successful business of shipping primary materials (tanned goods) to French glove makers. His family also had a strong connection with San Antonio. In fact, his wife and their five children spent most of their time at 118 W. Cypress St., their San Antonio home, while LaBorde lived in a palatial Parisian style home he built for the family in 1899 in Starr County. LaBorde’s businesses kept him busy in Rio Grande City, but the family traveled back and forth between the two homes.

Young Blanche in her school uniform, n.d., n.p.

Blanche attended the College and Academy of the Incarnate Word in San Antonio run by the Sisters of Charity. “No pains are spared by the Sisters to mold the character of the young ladies,” explained the college’s handbook. Blanche and her classmates were instilled with “the great guiding principles of honor, rectitude, and piety.” In 1914, Blanche graduated, and from what the letters reveal, she moved to the family home in Rio Grande City soon after.

Blanche LaBorde, first one on left, middle row.

In December 1914, eighteen-year old Blanche was staying in their Rio Grande City home, while her father was in San Antonio. The letters exchanged between the two, reveal health problems as the likely reason why he was staying with his wife and other children away from Rio Grande City. His anguish over his business matters comes through as he makes requests to Blanche to deal with some urgent business. As usual, Francois wrote his letters entirely in Spanish.

From: F. LaBorde 118 W. Cypress St. San Antonio TX

To: Miss Blanche LaBorde, Rio Grande Starr County, TX

San Antonio, Dec. 10, 1914

My Dearest Daughter,

We have received all of your nice letters, and just now the last one, where you complain that I have not replied? But I am doing it now, letting you know that I am glad that you are doing well, but it upsets me to read that you are losing weight so fast, you tell me you weigh less and that is not right. Take care of yourself, so that upon your return, you are just as healthy as when you left.

I hope you have a nice, fun time there, and that when it is no longer convenient for you to be there, you come up. Tonight I will write you a long letter. You know that I have your Christmas present ready, and as soon as you arrive I will give it to you.

Would you do me a favor and tell Tina that I am doing well, that I no longer have health issues. Your father, who loves you, wishes you stay healthy.

LaBorde

P.S. I am sleeping really comfortable during my nap (siesta) there is no more telephone noise to bother me. L.

Another letter however, also includes her mother’s script, which reveals that as a Texan, she was much more comfortable communicating in a mix of both English and Spanish.

From: F. LaBorde 118 W. Cypress St. San Antonio TX

To; Miss Blanche LaBorde, Rio Grande Starr County, TX

San Antonio, Dec 16, 1914

Miss Blanche LaBorde,

Rio Grande Texas

[Scribbled in Spanglish on top margin]:

The baby went by to see the portraits of Chiffonier and said aunty is sure pretty here, her feelings are hurt because Caterina told her last night that her aunty had said that she didn’t love her. She did not come outside all day, poor baby. Last night we went to see the window displays. It is really cold, but we are all wrapped up, greetings to everyone. Mamma

My dearest daughter,

I received your sweet letter of last Friday and we were so glad to read that you are doing well healthwise and that you had fun at the last Saturday’s dance. Let me know how soon you will come back, since you can come back as soon as you wish.

Please find out how much I have to pay for the county taxes and when I have to pay them. Also, ask Mr. Monroe when Don Jose M. Longoria will pay me what he owes me.

Without further ado, lots of greetings to all of you, and “good luck,”

Your father who loves you,

LaBorde

[Scribbled postscript by Eva in Spanish:]:

And I did not write because I do not have enough room, but it is already 9, and I am just having breakfast, the boys are off to school, your dad is getting up and I think the express is coming. Kisses to everyone.

Things changed for the LaBorde family after Blanche’s graduation. Although there is a one-year gap in correspondence, it can be assumed that sometime in that year (or perhaps earlier) Blanche met her dashing soul mate. On Friday, July 2, 1915, nineteen-year-old Blanche eloped with Frank Chapa, a descendant of the Canary Islanders who settled San Antonio, where he was born and raised. They informed her parents via telegram and the news baffled them. The telegram written in broken English reads,

Blanche LaBorde

In care of Frank Chapa,

Your telegram received very sorry the way you do it. Mother and Father suffering from the shock but god help you be happy. Your loving mother and father.

LaBorde

It is likely that Eva wrote the telegram, since Francois typically communicated in Spanish. Or perhaps out of anger and shock, he managed to piece together this succinct message in English. The frustration over this rash decision could not have lasted long, since the LaBorde’s officially announced their daughter’s marriage soon after.

Blanche LaBorde Chapa & Col. Frank Chapa, n.d., n.p.

It is important to note that in this official wedding announcement, Francois refers to himself as Frank. He was a man who adapted his name to every occasion. In the 1910 census of Starr County, he is listed as Francisco, his business cards had the name Francois, his daughter’s wedding announcement, Frank, and people in the community of Rio Grande City knew him as “Don Pancho” (the typical Spanish nickname for Francisco). His social and business ties forced him to interact with the Spanish, English, and French speaking worlds so often, that he was comfortable transforming his personality as he saw fit. He wrote his letters to Blanche in Spanish but all of his children spoke French. In fact, Rio Grande City neighbors remembered hearing the family speak French often. In a 1982 interview, LaBorde’s youngest daughter Ernestine (only 7 years old when her father died), said she remembered her father as “a warm vital man of good spirits with a stylish mustache, a bon vivant who enjoyed luxury and travel. I always addressed him in French, the minute he walked in the house, I would say: ‘Je vous aime beaucoup’ and he loved it.” LaBorde was most comfortable communicating in either French or Spanish, his son-in-law, Frank Chapa, recalled that he spoke little English.

A letter written a year after their elopement reveals that whatever pain was caused by Blanche and Frank’s sudden marriage became a thing of the past for the family.

From: F. LaBorde Rio Grande Texas To: Mrs. F. L. Chapa 315 Pecos St San Antonio Texas Sep 21, 1916

My Dearest Daughter Blanche,

I have received your lovely letters, one with the date of the 17^th and the other last Sunday and I thank you for your affection, and I am glad that you are all in good health.

The business matters that brought me down here seem to be ok, but I will soon find out.

I am working on drafting plans and budgets for the hotel. Constantino was here studying them, but we have to see the architect for certifications. There is great possibility that it will be approved.

Take good care of your mother, give my best regards to her and your little siblings and Frank and all of the Chapa family in general.

Your dad who loves you, F. LaBorde

The hotel that Francois is referring to in this letter is actually the additions made to his family’s home to create the LaBorde House. He transformed the palatial home of the LaBorde family into an exquisite hotel that still stands today. The celebration of his accomplishment was unfortunately short lived. A few months after the official opening of the hotel, on the morning of August 11, 1917, Francois was found dead. The official death certificate reveals the cause of death was a gunshot wound in the head. It is still a mystery to this day, weather it was an accident, a business feud gone horribly wrong, or a suicide.

What is a fact is that these letters reveal the immense love LaBorde had for his daughter. One can only imagine the void left in Blanche’s life when her father died and the incredible loss and heartache over the sudden end to their correspondence.

Just as Francois was a visionary in his business endeavors, Blanche also proved to have had a keen eye for choosing a husband. They were married for 45 years and had two girls, Marie Ernestine and Beatrice. In 1960, Blanche died of pneumonia but Frank lived to be 90 years old, until his death in 1985. The name Blanche lived on in the LaBorde family. Blanche’s younger brother Leonard, named his daughter after her in 1927. The memory of Francois LaBorde also lives on in Rio Grande City. His majestic French-style hotel still draws visitors to the area thanks to his exquisite taste and French heritage, which reminds tourists and locals alike of the conglomeration of cultures that met along the Rio Grande.

*The letters were written in Spanish and are Lizeth Elizondo’s translation. All of the letters and images are from: Francisco A. Chapa Family Papers, MS 405, University of Texas at San Antonio Libraries Special Collections.

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