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Not Even Past

Curating History: Dr Pepper, Preservation, and Public Trust

This article is part of the series: History beyond Academia

Ostrich egg models, Dr Pepper bottles, and toothbrushes preserved in soda. What do these artifacts have in common? At the Dr Pepper Museum, these objects collectively tell a story about the past that otherwise might go unnoticed. Located in the historic downtown of Waco, Texas, in the 1906 Artesian Manufacturing and Bottling Company building, known as the “Home of Dr Pepper,” the museum has welcomed over 3 million visitors since opening in 1991. Much more than a repository for soda memorabilia, it is an active site of historical practice, demonstrating that museums are not peripheral to the discipline of history, but spaces where historians produce knowledge through preservation, ethical decision-making, and public engagement.

Graduate training in history often centers on life inside the halls of academia—publishing, teaching, and archival research—but this can obscure other sites where history is actively produced and imparted to the public. At the Dr Pepper Museum, history is not only written but stewarded. Senior Collections Manager Rachael Nadeau Johnson reflects, “We are but a speed bump in the life of these artifacts,” underscoring a central principle of museum work: historians are temporary caretakers of objects that will outlast them. Museums remain among the most trusted public sources of information, placing a significant responsibility on curators and collections staff to ensure that what they present and display is accurate, well-sourced, and meaningful.

This responsibility is especially pressing in a moment shaped by digital misinformation. Nadeau Johnson highlights the challenges posed by AI-generated inaccuracies as well as enthusiast and collector communities that can circulate well-meaning but false information. Thus, today’s museum professionals increasingly act as teachers and correctives. They spend their time verifying claims, tracing sources, and presenting evidence-based narratives. The work of preservation is not only about maintaining objects but also safeguarding historical knowledge itself.

The Dr Pepper Museum in Waco, Texas, housed in the 1906 Artesian Manufacturing and Bottling Company building. Photograph by Carol M. Highsmith.

The Dr Pepper Museum in Waco, Texas, housed in the 1906 Artesian Manufacturing and Bottling Company building. Photograph by Carol M. Highsmith. Source: Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, Carol M. Highsmith Archive.

Much of this work begins behind the scenes, before the museum opens each day. The curatorial staff catalog and track new donations, maintain exhibits, and correspond with donors and executives to ensure the displays reflect the history of Dr Pepper in an engaging and accurate manner. Contrary to popular assumption, only a small fraction, between 5 and 10 percent, of a museum’s collection is on display at any given time. The rest of the objects require ongoing care: cataloging, condition tracking, and research. Central to this process is provenance, the documented history of an object from its creation or rediscovery to the present. Maintaining these provenances is both essential and resource-intensive, requiring time, funding, staffing, and institutional support that are often in short supply. Yet, the work of nonprofit staff like Nadeau Johnson and Assistant Registrar Zach Loflin transforms a curious artifact into a piece of historical evidence.

Selection for exhibition involves many layers of decision-making. Objects are not chosen simply because they are rare or visually striking, but because they can support meaningful interpretation. Provenance informs which stories can be told, while physical condition determines whether an item can be safely displayed. Light exposure, the artifact’s quality, and material fragility all shape curatorial choices, as does Dr Pepper’s broader commitment to “people-first” narratives that connect objects to visitors’ lived experiences. Loflin explains, “There are a lot of ethical considerations in museum work, from how we engage with the public, to how we preserve our artifacts, and how we tell these stories.” These decisions are guided by professional judgment and rigorous training, and also by institutional codes of ethics that inform how museums acquire, interpret, and present collections for public consumption.

If preservation and selection form the foundation of museum work, interpretation brings it into the public arena. One of the primary challenges of public history is translating information into formats that are both accessible and engaging. Exhibit text is written at a sixth grade reading level and must communicate meaning within a few seconds. Developing text that is approachable for a variety of visitors requires delicate layering and balance. At Dr Pepper, staff deal with the fact that language itself constrains ongoing efforts to include multiple language translations for exhibits. Idioms, humor, and wordplay that work well in a specific context do not always translate, and curators must balance clarity with nuance in every aspect of their work.

Ad in The Horned Frog (1906), Waco, TX

Ad in The Horned Frog (1906), Waco, TX, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Despite these constraints, the impact of public history is immediate and visible. Both Nadeau Johnson and Loflin describe the rewards of interacting with the public daily and seeing visitors engage with exhibits they created. Loflin notes, pointing to the sheer volume of visitors, “We get a very diverse spread of people coming to the museum, all ages, backgrounds, international visitors—seeing the sheer amount of interest in the history is rewarding in itself.” For Nadeau Johnson, some of the most meaningful moments come from walking through the galleries and speaking to visitors about the history she helped shape. Hearing someone have an “Aha!” moment when viewing an exhibit, “It does not get old. Being able to create those teachable moments and watching people learning in real time,” is at the core of the curatorial staff’s mission. These interactions underscore the unique and valuable position museums occupy, operating at a scale that academic work often struggles to reach: brief but meaningful moments of individual connection.

This scale also introduces challenges. Visitors often misunderstand how collections function or how donated and acquired materials are incorporated. In reality, acquisitions involve careful evaluation, and not all items can—or should—be accepted. At the same time, museums face persistent structural constraints. Funding—“everyone’s favorite F-word,” Loflin jokes—shapes how institutions can preserve, research, and display materials. Limited staffing and resources further complicate the work, particularly as collections and visits continue to grow.

While the work is complicated, challenging, and often behind the scenes, the practice of curation is both an art and a source of joy to those who undertake it. By selecting objects for display, Loflin and Nadeau Johnson shape the stories that are told and curate unique and exciting exhibits. One of the most interesting artifacts at the museum is an ostrich egg model of the Old Corner Drugstore where Dr Pepper was created in 1885 by pharmacist Charles Alderton. The egg sits on a brass pedestal and is textured and painted to look like a red brick wall. The top half has been cut and shingled to look like a roof, and the interior opens through double doors and windows to reveal a miniature drugstore fountain with a cash register, seating, and a drink dispenser made from a small bird egg. Decorated with the slogan “Drink DP the year round” and gold ric-rac trim, this artifact displays the love and care that Texans and Dr Pepper drinkers worldwide hold for this classic beverage.

Replica of Morrison’s Old Corner Drug Store at the Dr Pepper Museum in Waco, where Charles Alderton first created Dr Pepper in 1885. Photograph by Michael Barera. Source: Wikimedia Commons

Despite the challenges of curation, museums remain an essential site of historical practice, where history is tangible, ethical, and intellectually demanding. As both Nadeau Johnson and Loflin note, public historians are the temporary caretakers of the past. The artifacts they steward will endure beyond any single career, but their decisions regarding what to preserve, how to interpret, and what to share shape how that past is understood. Museums, in this sense, are not places where history is simply displayed, but continually made, maintained, and entrusted to the public.

Further viewing: Rachael Nadeau Johnson appears in two episodes of the History Channel’s The Food That Built America: “Soda Rising: The Birth of Pop” and “Citrus Soda Stars.”

Danielle Sanchez is a doctoral student in the Department of History at the University of Texas at Austin. She earned her B.A. in History with a minor in Religion from Baylor University in the spring of 2021, and started in the Ph.D. program at UT Austin in the fall of 2021. She earned her M.A. in History in December of 2023, and is currently writing her dissertation research on the Texas Rangers in the early 1900s. Her research interests include race and American politics, religious-based oppression and violence, Texas and Southern history, the Texas Rangers, and anti-Mexican and anti-Black violence.

Author of banner picture: Larry D. Moore Wikimedia Commons

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.

The Brands of Garrison Hall at its Centennial

Banner for The Brands of Garrison Hall by J. R. Campos

As the Roaring Twenties hummed on, a brand-new building was erected on the grassy slopes of central campus at The University of Texas at Austin. A crew of around 50 to 60 people, working with eight car loads of stone, six stone cutters, and ten lathers, pieced together what would become Garrison Hall at breakneck speed.[1] On December 9, 1925, the building’s ceremonial cornerstone, still visible today, was laid, at a time when faith in science and its capacity to uncover objective facts was in full bloom. It was to be, according to renowned economist and then-president Dr. Walter Splawn, a place “free and unhampered in the search of truth” for the social sciences. The building was named after George Pierce Garrison, the first chair of the History Department and one of the founders of the Texas State Historical Association. The faculty building committee, led by philosopher William J. Battle from 1920 to 1949, chose to feature thirty-two cattle brands on the frieze beneath the building’s cornices and upper-floor window frames. No one on the committee could claim sole credit for an idea that seemed to have emerged from the broader cultural atmosphere of the period.[2]

Garrison Hall as it looks today, one hundred years after its construction. Photograph by the author.

Garrison Hall as it looks today, one hundred years after its construction. Photograph by the author.

Those cattle-brand medallions are more than architectural flourishes of what became the History Department building. The building was to be a “permanent monument to immortalize the history of the Southwest” through one of the region’s defining economic activities and cultural symbols: cattle ranching.[3] They were meant to symbolize what had been the beating heart of Texas, just as that era gave way to barbed wire, industrial livestock, and iron horses. By the 1920s, industrial modernization, agricultural crisis, and the rise of the oil industry were reshaping Texas. Agricultural and animal product prices collapsed after Europe’s recovery following World War I, while oil extraction emerged as one of Texas’s defining economic forces. It was under these circumstances that, in 1922, the University of Texas, then just a handful of brick buildings with temporary wooden shacks, began planning an expansion. Those plans received an unexpected boost the following year, when an oil reserve was discovered on university lands in the Permian Basin of West Texas. Santa Rita Well No. 1, now memorialized on the southern edge of campus, began producing oil, generating revenue that helped propel the University’s ongoing expansion. The most significant example was the construction of Memorial Stadium in 1924, named in honor of World War I veterans.[4] That same year, renowned New York architect Cass Gilbert was ousted amid pressure from local firms to hire a Texas architect, and a new architectural team was brought in to redesign the 1922 expansion plan. Garrison Hall therefore began its construction under two Texas architects, Herbert M. Greene of Dallas and Robert Leon White of Austin, and the Illinoisan James White.[5]

The pressure to oust Gilbert was part of a broader, emerging regionalism and a growing confidence that Texas itself could and should shape the University’s development. The American Southwest, long viewed as a backward periphery of the United States, was beginning to assert itself. With growing pride in its identity, history, and culture, Texas began to recast itself less through its Southern and Civil War associations and more as a western frontier society defined by ranches, cowboys, longhorns, and open ranges.[6] While UT professors Garrison, Eugene Barker, and Walter Prescott Webb were laying the bricks of the now traditional, and rather Anglo-centric, history of the Lone Star State, western dime novels were pouring into the market. Zane Grey, a writer of western adventure novels, by far outsold the more prestigious modernist authors of the time, including James Joyce, William Faulkner, and Scott Fitzgerald.[7] “Westerns, westerns and more westerns,” read a Burlington Hawk Eye of Iowa in 1926, as “a western a day makes good movie paid” became the motto of the burgeoning Hollywood film industry.[8] These western stories helped make longhorns, ranching, and cattle brands recognizable and popular icons of Texas identity.

The laying of the cornerstone of Garrison Hall, 1925. Source: The Cactus, University of Texas at Austin, 1926

The laying of the cornerstone of Garrison Hall, 1925. Source: The Cactus, University of Texas at Austin, 1926.

For these symbols to appear in westerns and popular fiction, however, they first had to exist in oral memory and the folklore movement. J. Frank Dobie led the Texas Folklore Society alongside his friend John Lomax. Together, they provided the raw material for the construction of an increasingly nostalgic vision of the Southwest. Dobie spent his childhood on a ranch near the Nueces River and grew up to become a Master of Literature at Columbia University. But he fell short of a Ph.D., since he never adapted to a New York culture he saw as snobbish for disdaining his cattle-ranching background. He came back to UT as an English instructor from 1914 to 1916, only to find himself marginalized again. After serving in World War I without seeing active combat, he returned to Texas and pursued folklorism, the study of local legends, stories, and oral traditions, which had long been his passion. By 1923, Texas folklorism had gained wider public recognition, with Dobie emerging as one of its leading figures. He was subsequently hired without a doctoral diploma as a full professor at the Oklahoma A&M College (now Oklahoma State University) and appointed chair of its English Department. In 1925, however, UT Austin successfully recruited him back.[9] He went on to build his career writing about the fading world of Texas ranching, producing works such as Vaquero of the Brush Country, Coronado’s Chickens, The Longhorns, and The Mustangs.

The Old Main Building at The University of Texas at Austin in 1903

The Old Main Building at The University of Texas at Austin in 1903. Source: Wikimedia Commons

Garrison Hall under construction, pictured in the 1926 Cactus yearbook. Source: The Cactus, University of Texas at Austin, 1926.

Garrison Hall under construction, pictured in the 1926 Cactus yearbook. Source: The Cactus, University of Texas at Austin, 1926.

As modernization advanced, nostalgia for the world left behind kept growing. This enabled figures like Dobie to become spokespeople for a bygone era, revaluing regional history and tradition as worthy of academic study. In a lecture to a large crowd in the summer of 1926, when the facade of Garrison Hall was just completed, he argued that folklore is the fabric through which literature and culture are made. He then pointed to the cattle brands at Garrison Hall as an example.[10] Viewed through Dobie’s career, we can see that Garrison Hall’s cattle brands were more than a casual decorative choice. They were part of a larger cultural moment when Texans made ranching folklore a central symbol of their identity, just as the old frontier that produced it faded away. It was only fitting that the university’s new history building would try to preserve that past by turning it into stone.

The building committee assigned UT’s librarian and Texas historian Ernest William Winkler, student of Garrison, Eugene Barker, and Frederick Jackson Turner, to survey and select the brands for Garrison Hall.[11] After an exhaustive six months of reviewing twenty thousand brands, he selected thirty-two. He balanced four criteria: historical periods, regional representation, visual appeal, and donors and benefactors. Readers can identify each one using the brand locator at the end of the article.

Newspaper coverage of Garrison Hall’s cattle brands in 1926: “Brands in Stone,” Brownwood Bulletin, May 13, 1926 (left)
“Saving the Longhorn,” Mt. Pleasant Pyramid, October 15, 1926 (right).

Newspaper coverage of Garrison Hall’s cattle brands in 1926: “Brands in Stone,” Brownwood Bulletin, May 13, 1926 (left), and “Saving the Longhorn,” Mt. Pleasant Pyramid, October 15, 1926 (right). Source: NewspaperArchive.

The first period was defined as the Spanish and Tejano “pioneers” who introduced ranching to Texas, such as the Pedro Ibarbo and Mariano Sanchez brands. Notable among this group is the oldest of the thirty-two brands, that of José Antonio de la Garza, known as el flaco (the skinny one), who lived through the tumult of Mexico’s independence wars of the 1810s. The rebellion against the Spanish Crown reached Texas in 1813, followed by the brutal pacification by royalist commander Joaquín de Arredondo. As a result, ranches were ravaged, and large numbers of cattle were dispersed. Many of the ranches that survived the mayhem also changed hands. But de la Garza did more than preserve his estate. He became one of the leaders who organized roundups to recover and redistribute cattle that had been scattered and intermingled for years, many of them completely unbranded.[12] His brand is the first one, from right to left, on the upper northern side of the Hall.

The second period was meant to represent the first American ranching brands, most notably Stephen Austin’s, which was placed on the west-side main entrance, below the right upper-floor window. His brand was also known as the “Spanish Austin Brand” since its shape follows the traditional Hispanic style, very similar to de la Garza’s. Stephen Austin inherited his father Moses’s contract from the Spanish Crown, and later from Mexico, to settle families in Texas in the 1820s. When Santa Anna’s army invaded Texas in 1836, the main body of the Mexican army reached the Brazos River and survived by eating scattered cattle it found along the way, some of which probably bore Austin’s brand. Many colonists fled toward Louisiana or Galveston Island in what became known as the Runaway Scrape. Austin, meanwhile, was in the United States advocating for Texas independence after his imprisonment in Mexico. He returned to Texas later in 1836 and died that December. Many cattle dispersed into the wild again, adding to the already substantial feral herds that would later become associated with Texas Longhorns.

Cattle brands of José Antonio de la Garza (left)
Brand of Stephen F. Austin (right)

Cattle brands of José Antonio de la Garza (left) and Stephen F. Austin (right) on Garrison Hall. Photographs by the author.

The third period highlighted the trail-driving era, which flourished after the Civil War, when cowboys drove herds hundreds of miles to northern markets. These trails became legendary because they required immense skill to control large Longhorn herds, many of which had been rounded up from a feral state. Cowboys also had to contend with all kinds of rustlers and raiders along the routes. Ike T. Pryor, who helped Winkler in his search, belonged to this group. He began driving Longhorns to Kansas as a young man and later built his career around the 77 brand, located on the north side of Garrison Hall.

Preston R. Rose, whose 7-A brand was placed on the south-side frieze, introduced methods such as fencing and breeding that became the norm by the time Garrison Hall was built. By 1926, with the arrival of barbed wire and the introduction of “improved” breeds, such as Angus, the once-abundant feral and semi-feral herds of Longhorns were on the edge of extinction. That same year, the Texas Folklore Society pushed for the preservation of “pure blood Longhorns”, which led to the first protected herd on the Wichita National Forest Wildlife Refuge.[13] Garrison Hall followed the same impulse to preserve that mythologized vanishing ranching world, as the widely reprinted press release about its construction put it: “The aim is to preserve records of the fast disappearing brands.”

Cattle brands of Ike T. Pryor (left)
Cattle brands of Preston R. Rose (right)

Cattle brands of Ike T. Pryor (left) and Preston R. Rose (right) on Garrison Hall. Photographs by the author.

According to Dobie, one “can look at the buildings on the campus and trace the development of culture in Texas”.[14] But how representative were these brands really? Most of the thirty-two are trail-driving brands or belong to the century after 1836. The sample overrepresents late-nineteenth-century Anglo-American Texas ranching, even though Franciscan friars introduced ranching in the first half of the eighteenth century. Garrison Hall was built when Texas history was still heavily skewed towards the post-1836 period. Hispanic roots were acknowledged but marginalized. Dobie himself wrote about the Spanish period mostly as the background context for what later became Texas. In 1936, Carlos Castañeda began publishing his multivolume Our Catholic Heritage in Texas, which gave greater historical weight to the Hispanic legacy, along with the classic Borderlands scholarship of Herbert Bolton, leading the way for later historians like Jack Jackson, Jesús “Frank” de la Teja, and Andrés Tijerina.

Nevertheless, despite the curatorial bias, those Hispanic roots still made it into the Hall through style and shape. Hispanic brands used circular shapes and more intricate designs than the Anglo style of straight lines, sharp angles, and numbers. Some brands even blend both styles, reflecting the deep entanglements among peoples that characterize Texas history. Notable groups are absent, including Indigenous peoples such as the Caddo, Karankawa, Jumano, Lipan Apache, and Comanche, as well as enslaved and free Black communities. But they too should be invoked and remembered when looking at Garrison Hall and its cattle brands, because they were also knotted to Texas’s larger social fabric through cattle and horses. While the selection was based on a biased idea of Texas history, it still represents a way of life in which many peoples were involved: cowboys, owners, workers, raiders, traders, captives, fugitives, and neighbors. Ranching, as it developed in Texas, was not only an economic system but also a cultural and social web connecting the many peoples of the region.

Brand locator. On each side of Garrison Hall, the brands are listed from right to left as you face the building. All photographs by the author.

West side
Below the roofline: José Antonio de la Garza, José Antonio Navarro, Pedro Ibarbo, Mariano Sánchez.
Upper-floor windows: Stephen Austin, Richard King.

West side brands. picture by the author

North side
Below the roofline: Herbert L. Kokernot, William T. Waggoner, Anna Martin and Sons, Al E. McFadden, George W. Saunders, Ike T. Pryor, Christopher C. Slaughter, John R. Blocker.
Upper-floor windows: George Littlefield, Swante M. Swenson.

North side brands 1. picture by the author

North side brands 2. picture by the author

East side
Below the roofline: Capitol Land Syndicate, Joe Hunter.

East Side brands. picture by the author

South side
Below the roofline: Dudley H. Snyder, E. B. Millett, Mark Withers, Dillard R. Fant, John T. Lytle, Martha Rabb (Cattle Queen of Texas), Ellison and Dewees, J. J. Myers, A. H. (Shanghai) Pierce, Oliver Loving and Sons, Charles Goodnight, Preston Rose, Samuel A. Maverick.
Upper-floor window: Samuel B. Burnett.

South side brands 1. picture by the author

South side brands 2. picture by the author

South side brands 3. picture by the author

[1] Austin Daily Texan, October 28, 1925, p. 3, Austin, Texas, US https://newspaperarchive.com/austin-daily-texan-oct-28-1925-p-3/

[2] Austin Daily Texan, December 09, 1925, p. 5, Austin, Texas, US https://newspaperarchive.com/austin-daily-texan-dec-09-1925-p-5/

[3] Austin Daily Texan, March 14, 1926, Pg. 7, Austin, Texas, US https://access.newspaperarchive.com/austin-daily-texan/1926-03-14/page-7/

[4] Jim Nicar, “The Big Enormous Building,” The UT History Corner, February 10, 2017, accessed August 14, 2026, https://jimnicar.com/2017/02/10/the-big-enormous-building/

[5] Henry Wiencek, “An Architectural History of Garrison Hall,” Not Even Past, October 12, 2012, https://notevenpast.org/architectural-history-garrison-hall/

[6] Cummins, Light Townsend. “History, Memory, and Rebranding Texas as Western for the 1936 Centennial.” This Corner of Canaan: Essays on Texas in Honor of Randolph B. Campbell, vol. 9781574415179, 2013, pp. 37–57.

[7] Steven L. Davis, J. Frank Dobie, A Liberated Mind, Austin, UT Austin Press, 2009, pp. 75-78.

[8] Burlington Hawk Eye, May 09, 1926, Pg. 26, Burlington, Iowa, US

https://access.newspaperarchive.com/burlington-hawk-eye/1926-05-09/page-26

[9] Steven L. Davis, J. Frank Dobie, A Liberated Mind, Austin, UT Austin Press, 2009, pp. 63-81.

[10] Austin Daily Texan, June 20, 1926, Pg. 1, Austin, Texas, US https://newspaperarchive.com/austin-daily-texan-jun-20-1926-p-1/

[11] Llerena Friend, “Winkler, Ernest William,” Handbook of Texas Online, accessed August 14, 2026, https://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/entries/winkler-ernest-william.

[12] Jack Jackson, Los Mesteños, College Station, Texas A&M Press, 2006, pp. 540-542 and 562-565.

[13] Mt Pleasant Pyramid, October 15, 1926, Pg. 5, Mount Pleasant, Utah, US https://newspaperarchive.com/mt-pleasant-pyramid-oct-15-1926-p-5/

[14] Austin Daily Texan, June 20, 1926 Pg. 2, Austin, Texas, US https://newspaperarchive.com/austin-daily-texan-jun-20-1926-p-2/

José Roberto Campos Cordero is a Ph.D. student in History at The University of Texas at Austin. He holds an M.A. in Modern and Contemporary History from the Instituto de Investigaciones Dr. José María Luis Mora and a B.A. in International Relations from El Colegio de México. His research focuses on the U.S.-Mexico borderlands and Texas, drawing on environmental, global, and cultural approaches. He is currently writing an environmental history of Texas centered on cattle and horses.

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.

The Battles of the Alamo and the Myth of Southern Exceptionalism

Banner for The Battles of the Alamo and tthe myth of Southern Exceptionalism by Nina Gilden Seavey

This is an essay about country music. While the narrative may not initially seem like it’s headed in that direction, trust me, it gets there; after passing through Texas, the story eventually arrives at the hallowed doorstep of contemporary country music: Music Row, Nashville, TN. There, I was welcomed by a clarifying insight not just about the world of country music, but about the Southern storytelling traditions at its core. It goes like this. . .

Over two decades ago, I produced and co-directed a documentary film about the Alamo. It was, not surprisingly, named “The Battle of the Alamo.” My partner, Paul Wagner, and I made the film for the Discovery Channel. It was a noteworthy piece for several reasons—not least of which is that we were (and still are) the only film crew ever allowed to shoot inside the shrine itself. I don’t know what led Paul and me to believe that we would ever be granted such access, but it was part of our grand plan, and we had such utter confidence in our own self-worth that we simply would not be denied.

To garner this permission, we were required to appear in front of a board of inquisitors—the “Daughters of the Republic of Texas”— the organization tasked with managing the shrine. We pled our case to this august, intimidating panel of women—all stolidly built, most north of 60 years old, and each one well-weathered by the Texas sun. They sat rigidly guarded in front of us, as if embodying the ghost of William Travis himself, taking the last stand in defense of the shrine’s legacy.

We were very persuasive. Paul and I spoke about the importance of authenticity in documentaries and how television would connect with audiences around the world, reaffirming the importance of the Alamo as the cornerstone of Texas history and a testament to the principles upon which it is still revered. We had top credentials: Paul had won an Oscar. I was a college professor with joint appointments in the departments of both history and media. We both had many film and television credits to our names. We were well-financed by the people at Discovery, as this was to be their first large, commissioned documentary ever. The Daughters had many questions, and we had many confident answers. Timing in life is everything, and they approved our request, despite having denied the same petition from scores of filmmakers who had previously appeared before them.  

Photo of theThe Cradle - Birthplace of The Daughters of the Republic of Texas.

The Cradle – Birthplace of The Daughters of the Republic of Texas. Source: Wikimedia Commons

From the Daughters’ perspective, we had been given the keys to the kingdom, and they expected us to deliver an honorific pean to the moment of Texas’s birth. And quite honestly, for the most part, we did just that. It wasn’t all that hard, actually. The Alamo itself is so filled with the awe that visitors and docents alike breathe into its walls that all we had to do was inhale. We shot the film’s intimate scenes inside the shrine itself. The stories so often repeated there gave us inspiration, both in the style and content of our work. We filmed the larger battle scenes on the set of John Wayne’s 1959 Alamo film constructed in Brackettville, TX, near the Texas-Mexican border. The house rule for the location was “if you build it, you can blow it up”—a credo that we had a good bit of fun executing upon. But it was the site of the Alamo itself in San Antonio that gave the film its heart. Authentic places have a way of imbuing a special aura that can drive documentary storytelling forward.

Everything was going extraordinarily well. The Daughters were satisfied with the care we took to preserve the sanctity of the Alamo as a production location (except for one young production assistant who unwittingly spread dirt on an uncovered floor). We were on time, on budget, and in those early years of documentary that employed reenactors, we had the benefit of working with people who fully believed they were the modern-day incarnations of Jim Bowie, Davey Crockett, and William Travis. Indeed, it was uncanny how closely they resembled their characters – in looks, thought, and action – and we learned a lot from them. They had studied far more deeply into the intricate details of the Alamo narrative than we ever could. So, without hesitation, we pretty much gave them free rein to help us plan the action playing out in front of our cameras.  The Discovery Channel was so pleased with the film we made that they rented the IMAX Theater adjacent to the Alamo and hosted a premiere screening with a gala reception attended by hundreds of Texas dignitaries, including the Lieutenant Governor, Bob Bullock. Everything was great. Until it wasn’t.

Something occurred that has become an object lesson to me about Southern culture that I have never since forgotten. In introducing the film, Paul commented that the Alamo is the “creation myth of Texas.” The narrator of the film, Hal Holbrook, convincingly read the script that had uttered those same words as the summative statement at the end of the film. For us, those words were both poetic and true. In many ways, the fact of the Alamo’s mythology is what had made it so easy for us to make the film—it is a simple story, with well-defined characters who have a lot at stake, and the narrative is emboldened with such strong emotional thematic undercurrents that all we had to do was follow its lead. The fact of its mythic importance in Texas history was as incontrovertible to us as it has been to others for generations.

Cenotaph of the Alamo defenders, San Antonio, Texas.

Cenotaph of the Alamo defenders, San Antonio, Texas. Source: Wikimedia Commons

So, there we were standing, cocktails in hand, basking in our success when one of the most stolid of those Daughters came flying across the room—green chiffon flapping and blue bouffant hair trailing in the windstorm she created with her speed. She stopped short in front of us and said, “What do you mean the Alamo is the created myth of Texas?!?!”  Paul and I paused. We didn’t know what she was talking about. As we were planted in the middle of a beehive of Discovery executives, neither of us wanted to make a misstep. I gently said, “I’m sorry. We’re not sure what you’re referring to. Can you help us out here?” And again, she repeated, “He” (pointing accusingly at Paul), “said that the Alamo is the created myth of Texas.” And then it clicked with us that what she was referring to were Paul’s opening remarks and the conclusion in Holbrook’s narration. Paul looked relieved when he could report to her, “Oh no, you must have misheard. I said, ‘the creation myth of Texas, not the created myth of Texas.’” Her fury mounted. “You mean you think the story isn’t true?!?!?” she charged. Neither Paul nor I said anything. She continued her attack, “You called it a “myth,” which means you don’t think it’s true!” She wasn’t focused on the creation or created part of the sentence; she was focused on the word myth.  

Neither Paul nor I had ever considered that portraying the Alamo story as myth would be a problem. We didn’t think for a moment that the story was factually true. There were but a few survivors of the siege, and their accounts had long been considered suspect. But the “emotional truth” of the story was absolute, and we felt it merited the heraldic treatment we had given it on screen. But for the Daughters, to portray the story as “myth” was tantamount to calling it a “lie.”

The evening devolved from there as the realization of our lack of belief in the Alamo story as historical fact quickly made its way through the grapevine of chiffoned, high-haired ladies in attendance—each one of whom now felt she had been studiously duped by us and by the sleek network executives who had very quickly and unceremoniously fled the room.

Mind you, this wasn’t just a simple Yankee/Southerner cultural misunderstanding. Paul has a lilting accent that betrays his Kentucky roots, and I am a long-time border state girl, born and bred in Missouri. We understood—and have even culturally embraced—the passions that Southerners have with many of their histories, which—like the Alamo— frequently feel so outsized that they can defy credulity. In this case, however, we had never even considered making a film that portrayed the story as true. They had never queried us about our belief (or faith, as they would call it), and we would never have contemplated rendering the story as fact; our innate, unspoken assumptions were simply entirely different from theirs.

Our impulse for using the Alamo itself for production was a search for inspiration conveyed by authenticity, not a commitment to factual depiction. Indeed, the visual style of the film intentionally veered away from reality towards dream-like, ephemeral moments of collective memory. For our part, we found the “truth” of the story in the Alamo as a rich parable depicting tenacity in the face of adversity. Since we never even considered its truth as an option, what we presented on screen was our visual representation of that intention: that it be experienced as myth. Our perceived high-minded stylistic approach notwithstanding, in the view of the Daughters—and to the men who believed themselves to be contemporary incarnations of Bowie, Crockett, and Travis—we were traitors. They had been hoodwinked in plain sight. Of course, that had never been our intention, but there we were—on opposite sides of a cultural belief system as gaping as the Rio Grande itself.

Obviously, we never did cross that divide. They wanted us to believe the story that legions of history lovers and visitors to the shrine have held as true, and we simply didn’t. We felt no remorse about that, and they felt nothing but anger from our dismissal. The film aired, and it was a huge hit for Discovery because it captured, in all its authentic glory, the spirit of the Alamo. At its heart, the film asked the audience to ponder what it would be like to live under siege, when death for your beliefs was all but inevitable. We wanted the audience to posit what that circumstance would be like, and to consider whether there would ever be a cause for which they would make such a sacrifice. That approach seemed sufficient for most general viewers who were less concerned (or, in the case of Southern audiences, didn’t know) about our allegiances; our commitment to the story having been proven by our attentiveness to historical detail and to the genuine spirit of the story. But the controversy taught me something about making films in the South that I have carried forward with me into other projects – and into the world of country music.

The Ballad of Bering Strait promotional.

The Ballad of Bering Strait promotional. © Nina Gilden Seavey, 2003.

Some number of years later, I made another film, “The Ballad of Bering Strait.” This time it wasn’t a historical story, but rather one that unfolded in front of the camera (what we call cinéma-vérité). The story explored the musical and emotional journey of seven Russian teenagers who came to America to become country music stars. My experience nearly a decade prior gave me a hook upon which to hang my filmmaker’s hat: could a group of young musicians walk onto Music Row, indeed, perform on the sacred stage of the Grand Ole Opry, and be considered “true country” even if their twang had a Russian accent? Was this only a novelty, almost circus-like endeavor, or was it possible that country music could be exported across the continents, reimagined under the tutelage of the sons and daughters of the Russian intelligentsia, and reimported back to America, particularly Southern country music fans?

Mind you, this wasn’t just any country music group. Each member of the ensemble was a conservatory-educated, classically trained musician who had been brought under the wing of a music teacher who, in the 1990s, had fallen under the spell of American bluegrass and country music. The band’s teacher had found a few cassette tapes in the band’s hometown of Obninsk, a small city about 100 kilometers south of Moscow. Obninsk was a “closed city” in the post-Soviet era, so the tapes were manna from a far-off, inaccessible land. Over several years, the young players learned to imitate every note and its particular tone to perfection.

I found out about the group just as they had been discovered by an American art dealer who finagled a record deal for them with Arista Records in Nashville. As preposterous as the whole set-up sounds, the group’s musical ability was authentic even if their country music roots were decidedly not. The president of Arista Nashville bet on that talent. But the hard-won lesson learned from my battles at the Alamo suggested to me that the question of what was true about the band might become more important than the spirit that they carried with them upon their arrival on Music Row. Within that cultural divide, I bet that an interesting documentary film would emerge.

Picture of Bering Strait at the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville

Bering Strait at the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville. © Nina Gilden Seavey, 2003.

I followed the band for three years, from 1999-2001. Their story, like most country music sagas, was full of unanticipated twists and turns and emotional sturm and drang. But that’s no different than the paths of nearly all musical artists. As they say in Nashville, “it takes 10 years to create an overnight sensation.” But this group’s challenges were unique.

In a world where “believing the story of the storyteller” was as important to Southern audiences as its technical delivery, that cultural chasm as large as the Rio Grande that I had met at the Alamo reappeared. In Being Strait’s songs of “lyin’ and ‘cheatin’ and fast cars, and beer” the truth (or the perception of truth) became paramount, specifically to the critical arbiters of success—audiences listening to country music radio. DJ Dan Hollinger of WLX Radio in Lawrenceburg, TN, summed it up best: “I don’t think music by a Russian artist would go in the United States. It’s not so much their vocals, nor the music, nor the lyrics, but the fact that they would be accepted as being from Russia.” This wasn’t a case of xenophobia. This was a question of authenticity, of belief, of faith, and of true stories told by true storytellers. Forget that most musicians don’t necessarily fall into that social or cultural box either. But in the case of Bering Strait, the challenge to the myth of Southern exceptionalism was simply too brazen to ignore.

Granted, some artists have crossed the cultural divide across oceans; most notably Australian phenom Keith Urban. But the outback of Australia shares a pioneer spirit that makes Urban a potentially acceptable stand-in for his small-town country-born musical contemporaries. But Bering Strait? Even their name suggests a bridge to America too far.

Picture of Bering Strait in front of St. Basil’s Basilica in Moscow.

Bering Strait in front of St. Basil’s Basilica in Moscow. © Nina Gilden Seavey, 2003.

When the band dissolved in 2006, only one band member went back to Russia. Their musical acumen was undeniable. They became, in the parlance of the music industry, “session players and sidemen,” musicians who play in recording sessions and appear on stages backing up the more home-grown artists who don’t challenge the “creation myth” of Southern audiences and country radio. These ancillary players are considered Nashville’s best musicians, so the band members have fared well as consistent contributors to the country music sound. Some of them have won major awards for producing and instrumental work. You can regularly see the names Ilya Toshinski, Lydia Salnikova, and Sasha Ostrovsky on the liner notes and in the programs of the biggest acts in country music. But, as a band, the truth of their origin stories was too great a challenge to the stolid belief in the mythology of Southern exceptionalism.

What I hadn’t known was that ours was a losing battle from the outset. Bering Strait’s very existence and Paul’s and my interpretation of the siege of the Alamo were essentially one and the same: a challenge to a traditionalist view of Southern culture and history. Not surprisingly, we encountered the same immutable mountain of core belief in Southern exceptionalism held by a powerful faithful that seek no interference, no revisioning, nor any reinterpretation. It is hard to move civilization forward with such an obstacle so firmly standing at the gate.

Nina Gilden Seavey is an Emmy Award-winning documentary filmmaker, writer, and educator. She is Research Professor Emerita of History and Media and Public Affairs at George Washington University, where she founded and directed The Documentary Center from 1990 to 2020. She is the president of Seavey Media, LLC, and the author of The Documentary Filmmaker’s Workbook.

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.

Our New History Ph.D.s

For so many students this year, the cancellation of commencement meant the lack of an important milestone. And in this unsettling time, with it many demands on our attention, it’s possible to overlook the extraordinary accomplishment involved in completing a PhD in History.  So we decided to take this opportunity to celebrate the 2019-2020 class of new UT Austin History PhDs and tell you a little about them and their work.

Each of these students completed at least two years of course work. They read hundreds of books and wrote dozens of papers to prepare for their comprehensive examinations. After that, they developed original research projects to answer questions no one had asked before. Then they did a year or so of research in libraries and archives, before sitting down to write their dissertations. They did all this while working, teaching, caring for their families, having at least a little fun, and, in some cases, writing for Not Even Past!

Here they are, with their dissertation titles (and abstracts, if we have them). CONGRATULATIONS DOCTORS!

Sandy Chang, Assistant Professor, Dept. of History, University of Florida
“Across the South Seas: Gender, Intimacy, and Chinese Migrants in British Malaya, 1870s-1930s”

Across the South Seas explores the migration of Chinese women who embarked on border-crossing journeys, arriving in British Malaya as wives, domestic servants, and prostitutes. Between the 1870s and 1930s, hundreds of thousands of women traveled to the Peninsula at a time when modern migration control first emerged as a system of racial exclusion, curtailing Asian mobility into white settler colonies and nation-states. In colonial Malaya, however, Chinese women encountered a different set of racial, gender, and sexual politics at the border and beyond. Based on facilitation rather than exclusion, colonial immigration policies selectively encouraged Chinese female settlement across the Peninsula. Weaving together histories of colonial sexual economy, Chinese migration, and the globalization of border control, this study foregrounds the role of itinerant women during Asia’s mobility revolution. It argues that Chinese women’s intimate labor ultimately served as a crucial linchpin that sustained the Chinese overseas community in colonial Southeast Asia.

Sandy Chang on Not Even Past:
Podcasting Migration: Wives, Servants, and Prostitutes
A Historian’s Gaze: Women, Law, and the Colonial Archives of Singapore

Chinese Lady-in-Waiting Attending to Her Chinese Mistress’ Hair

Chinese Lady-in-Waiting Attending to Her Chinese Mistress’ Hair, c.1880s (Courtesy of the National Archives of Singapore).

Itay Eisinger
“The Dystopian Turn In Hebrew Literature”

From its inception in Europe during the final decades of the nineteenth century, the Zionist movement promoted, leveraged and drove forward a utopian plan for a Jewish national revival, in the biblical Land of Israel, and in essence framed these plans as a pseudo divine right of the Jewish people. Numerous intellectual, cultural and literary historians therefore have focused on the role of utopian thinking in the shaping of Zionist ideology and Hebrew literature. By way of contrast, this dissertation focuses on the transformation, or evolution, of dystopian poetics within the realm of modern Hebrew literature. … Recent scholarship argues that while early “totalitarian” dystopias tended to focus on the dangers of the all-powerful state, tyranny, and global isolation as the main sources of collective danger to a prosperous and peaceful future, more recently published dystopias – both in the West and in Israel – have moved their focus to other topics and hazards, such as catastrophic ecological or climate disasters, patriarchy, sexism and misogyny, and the rise of surveillance and the integration of the  intelligence community into the all-powerful well-oiled capitalist machine. While I do not disavow such arguments completely, I argue that most Israeli dystopias are still driven primarily by the traditional depiction of an authoritarian-fascist regime run amok – in alignment with the Huxley-Orwell model – while at the same time, explore creatively a vision of Yeshayahu Leibowitz’s prediction in 1967 that the Israeli Occupation of the Palestinians would inevitably force Israel to become a “police state.” … I examine the common themes found in these novels, including the dystopian depiction of an instrumentalization of the Shoah and manipulative abuse of the memory of the Holocaust in order to promote political agendas, allusions to the nakba, the over-militarism and nationalism of the state, the effects of the Occupation on Israeli society, and Israel’s neoliberal revolution…. By examining these novels from this perspective, and creating a dialogue between these works and different critical scholars, this dissertation aims to contribute to the study of Israel by rethinking its history – through the prism of dystopia.

Itay Eisinger on Not Even Past:
Rabin’s Assassination Twenty Years Later

Carl Forsberg, 2019-2020 Ernest May Postdoctoral Fellow in History and Policy at the Harvard Kennedy School’s Belfer Center, 2020-2021 Postdoctoral Fellow with Yale’s International Security Studies Program and the Johnson Center for the Study of American Diplomacy. 
“A Diplomatic Counterrevolution: The Transformation Of The US-Middle East Alliance System In The 1970s”

This dissertation charts the agency of Arab, Iranian, and US elites in transforming the structure of Middle Eastern regional politics and constructing a coalition that persists to the present.  In the decade after the 1967 Arab-Israeli War, the regimes of Anwar Sadat in Egypt, King Faisal in Saudi Arabia, and Shah Mohamad Reza Pahlavi in Iran set out to overturn the legacy of Nasserism and Arab socialism.  Animated by a common fear that their internal opposition gained strength from a nexus of Soviet subversion and the transnational left, these regimes collaboratively forged a new regional order built around the primacy of state interests and the security of authoritarian rule.  They instrumentally manipulated a range of US-led peace processes, including Arab-Israeli negotiations, US-Soviet détente, and conciliation between Iran and its Arab neighbors to advance their diplomatic counter-revolution.  US administrations at times resisted these efforts because they read the region through the polarities of the Arab-Israeli conflict.  After the 1973 War, however, the opportunity to marginalize Soviet influence in the region proved too enticing for US officials to ignore.  My project deploys multi-lingual research conducted in Egypt, Israel, Lebanon, the UK, and the US.  To overcome the lack of open state archives in Arab countries, the dissertation examines US, British, Iranian, and Israeli records of discussions with Arab leaders, as well as memoirs, periodicals, and speeches in Farsi and Arabic, to triangulate the strategies and covert negotiations of Arab regimes.

Celeste Ward Gventer, Post-doc, The Albritton Center for Grand Strategy at the Bush School of Government and Public Service, Texas A&M University.
“Defense Reorganization For Unity: The Unified Combatant Command System, The 1958 Defense Reorganization Act And The Sixty-Year Drive For Unity In Grand Strategy And Military Doctrine”

Pres. Dwight D. Eisenhower and John Foster Dulles at the White House in 1956

This dissertation seeks to answer a deceptively simple question: why, in 1958 and as part of the Defense Reorganization Act (DRA) passed that year, did U.S. President Dwight D. Eisenhower remove the chiefs of the military services from the chain of operational command and instead empower the so-called “unified combatant commands” to lead American military forces in war? The answer, this dissertation will argue, is that Eisenhower had found himself competing with his military service chiefs for his entire first administration and the first half of his second over national (grand) strategy and military doctrine. Taking those service chiefs out of the chain of operational command would, in effect, diminish the role of those officers. Eisenhower had found that simply getting rid of refractory officers was insufficient to quiet their rebellion: only by suppressing their role permanently in the bureaucracy did he hope to unify American strategy- and policy-making. This interpretation is at odds with the few accounts of the 1958 DRA that do exist, which tend to take Eisenhower’s stated purposes—to enhance “unity of command”—at face value. The circumstances that led Eisenhower to take this step were decades, if not longer, in the making. … The situation resulted from the inherent pluralism in American military policy making … it was also a product of the decades that preceded Eisenhower’s administration during which the American military was consistently forced to “fill in the blanks” of national strategy. What drove matters to a head in the 1950s was the steady growth of American power after the 1898 Spanish-American War and, especially, after the Second World War. It is necessary to also appreciate several legacies Eisenhower confronted and that colored his own views: the history of American military thinking about command and about civilian control; the creation of military staffs and the process of reform and professionalization inside the military services during the twentieth century; and the development of independent service doctrines. … This work will trace these conceptual threads over the sixty-year rise of the United States to a global power, culminating in Eisenhower’s standoff with his service chiefs in the 1950s.

Lauren Henley, Assistant Professor, University of Richmond
“Constructing Clementine: Murder, Terror, and the (Un)Making of Community in the Rural South, 1900-1930”

Deirdre Lannon, Senior Lecturer, Department of History, Texas State University
“Ruth Mary Reynolds And The Fight For Puerto Rico’s Independence”

Ruth Mary Reynolds (Women in Peace)

This dissertation is a biography of Ruth Mary Reynolds, a pacifist from the Black Hills of South Dakota who after moving to New York City became involved in the movement for Puerto Rico’s independence…. She bucked the social norms of her conservative hometown to join the Harlem Ashram…. Her work within the Ashram connected her to the web of leftist coalition activism launched by the Popular Front era of the 1930s and 1940s, and to A. Philip Randolph’s March on Washington Movement for black equality. She became involved with organized pacifism, most notably through her membership in the Fellowship of Reconciliation, and her close friendship with its U.S. leader, Dutch-born theologian A.J. Muste. In 1944, Ruth decided to make the issue of Puerto Rico’s independence her own. She helped form a short-lived organization, the American League for Puerto Rico’s Independence, which was supported by Nobel Laureate Pearl S. Buck among others. She became close friends with Pedro Albizu Campos and his family, as well as other Puerto Rican independence activists. She traveled to Puerto Rico, and in 1950 found herself swept into the violence that erupted between the government and Albizu Campos’s followers. Her experiences in New York and Puerto Rico offer a unique lens into the ways in which the Puerto Rican independence movement functioned, and how it was quashed through governmental repressions. Her friendship with Pedro Albizu Campos, the fiery independentista who remains a figurehead of Puerto Rican identity and pride, helps to humanize the man behind the mission. Ruth never abandoned her friend, or their shared cause. She fought for Albizu Campos to be freed, bucking the climate of repression during McCarthyism. This dissertation traces her efforts until 1965, when Albizu Campos died. She remained an active part of the Puerto Rican independence movement until her own death in 1989.

Holly McCarthy
“The Iraq Petroleum Company In Revolutionary Times”

Signe Fourmy, Visiting Research Affiliate, Institute for Historical Studies and Education Consultant, Humanities Texas.
“They Chose Death Over Slavery: Enslaved Women and Infanticide in the Antebellum South”

“They Chose Death Over Slavery,” … examines enslaved women’s acts of infanticide as maternal resistance. Enslaved women occupied a unique position within the slaveholding household. As re/productive laborers, enslavers profited from work women performed in the fields and house, but also from the children they birthed and raised. I argue that enslaved women’s acts of maternal violence bear particular meaning as a rejection of enslavers’ authority over their reproduction and a reflection of the trauma of enslavement. This dissertation identifies and analyzes incidents of infanticide, in Virginia, North Carolina, and Missouri. Using a comparative approach to consider geographic location and household size—factors that shaped the lived experiences of the enslaved—I ask what, if any, patterns existed? What social, economic, and political considerations influenced pivotal legal determinations—including decisions to prosecute, punish, or pardon these women? Expanding on the work of Laura Edwards and Paul Finkelman, I argue that public prosecution and legal outcomes balanced community socio-legal interests in enforcing the law while simultaneously protecting slaveowners profiting from their (re)productive labor. The existing scholarship on slavery, resistance, and reproduction shows that enslaved women were prosecuted for infanticide, yet the only book-length studies of enslaved women and infanticide center on one sensationalized case involving Margaret Garner. Infanticide was more prevalent than the secondary literature suggests. Building upon the work of historians Darlene Clark Hine and Jennifer L. Morgan, I explore how enslaved women re-appropriated their reproductive capacity as a means of resistance. In conversation with Nikki M. Taylor, Sasha Turner, and Marisa Fuentes, I ask what this particular type of violence reveals about the interiority of enslaved women’s lives. Additionally, I explore what these acts of maternal violence reveal about enslaved motherhood—or more specifically an enslaved woman’s decision not to mother her child.

Signe Fourmy on Not Even Past:
Driven Toward Madness: The Fugitive Slave Margaret Garner and Tragedy on the Ohio by Nikki M. Taylor

Sean Killen
“South Asians and the Creation of International Legal Order, c. 1850-c. 1920: Global Political Thought and Imperial Legal Politics”

This dissertation argues that South Asians used international legal discourse both for ideological disputation and to mount political challenges to the domination and subjugation that accompanied British imperial rule between roughly 1850 and 1920. South Asians instigated political and legal disputes in India and Britain, throughout the empire, and overseas, and gained promises and partial concessions to Indian opinions and demands that limited British options in imperial and international relations. In so doing, they compelled the British state to alter the ideology, the policies, and the practices of the state, in India and in its relations with other states both within and outside the empire. Britain’s power, ultimately, meant that South Asians’ argumentation and actions shaped the contours of global order after the First World War….Traditional histories of international law argue that international law originated in Europe and regulated European states’ relations until colonized states were granted international legal recognition at the time of decolonization. Recent revisionist scholarship argues that the existence and experience of empire and colonial rule shaped the development of international law and global order throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. This dissertation approaches empire in a way that emphasizes the global exchange of ideas and the active connections between colonizers and the colonized. Elite, English-speaking South Asians acted as cultural translators or intermediaries. They engaged in debates as public intellectuals, and they carved out spaces for themselves in the social and political communities that created public opinion. Consequently, South Asians’ ideas about relations among different peoples and between states, and South Asians’ mobilization of these ideas throughout the empire and overseas to make political claims about the obligations of the imperial state and the rights of imperial subjects shaped ideas about global order and the structure of international legal relations.

Jimena Perry, Teaching Instructor, East Carolina University
“Trying to Remember: Museums, Exhibitions, and Memories of Violence in Colombia, 2000-2014”

The Center for Memory, Peace, and Reconciliation, Bogotá, Colombia.

Since the turn of the century, not only museum professionals but grassroots community leaders have undertaken the challenge of memorializing the Colombian armed conflict of the 1980s to the early 2000s. In an attempt to confront the horrors of the massacres, forced displacement, bombings, and disappearances, museums and exhibitions have become one of the tools used to represent and remember the brutalities endured. To demonstrate how historical memories are informed by cultural diversity, my dissertation examines how Colombians remember the brutalities committed by the Army, guerrillas, and paramilitaries during the countryʼs internal war.  The chapters of this work delve into four case studies. The first highlights the selections of what not to remember and represent at the National Museum of the country.  The second focuses on the well-received memories at the same institution by examining a display made to commemorate the assassination of a demobilized guerrilla fighter. The third discusses how a rural marginal community decided to vividly remember the attacks they experienced by creating a display hall to aid in their collective and individual healing. Lastly, the fourth, also about a rural peripheric community, discusses their particular way of remembering, which emphasizes their peasant oral traditions through a traveling venue. Bringing violence, memory, and museum studies together, my work contributes to our understanding of how social groups severely impacted by atrocities recreate and remember their violent experiences. In addition, my case studies exemplify why it is necessary to hear the multiple voices of conflict survivors, especially in a country with a long history of violence like Colombia. Drawing on displays, newspapers, interviews, catalogs, and oral histories, I study how museums and exhibitions in Colombia become politically active subjects in the acts of reflection and mourning, and how they foster new relationships between the state and society. My work also analyzes museums and displays as arbiters of social memory. It asks how representations of violence serve in processes of transitional justice and promotion of human rights for societies that have been racked by decades of violence.

Jimena Perry on Not Even Past:
When Answers Are Not Enough: The U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum
More Than Archives: Dealing with Unfinished History
Too Much Inclusion? Museo Casa de la Memoria, Medellin, Colombia
Time to Remember: Violence in Museums and Memory, 2000-2014
My Cocaine Museum by Michael Taussig
History Museums: The Center for Memory, Peace, and Reconciliation, Bogatá, Colombia
History Museums: The Hall of Never Again

Christina Villareal, Assistant Professor, Dept. of History, The University of Texas at El Paso
“Resisting Colonial Subjugation: The Search for Refuge in the Texas-Louisiana Borderlands, 1714-1803”

This dissertation is a history of the Spanish borderlands from the perspectives of subjugated people in the Gulf Coast. Based on colonial, military, and civil manuscript sources from archives in the United States, Mexico, Spain, and France, it traces the physical movement of Native Americans, soldiers, and African and indigenous slaves who fled conscription, reduction to Catholic missions, or enslavement in the Texas-Louisiana borderlands of the eighteenth century. It reconstructs geographies of resistance to understand how challenges to colonial oppression shaped imperial territory and created alternative spaces for asylum. While the overarching focus of the dissertation is political space-making at the ground-level, the pivotal change occasioned by the Treaty of Paris (1763) serves as the central arc of the dissertation. The treaty, in which Spain acquired Louisiana from France, signified a major imperial transformation of the Gulf Coast. Initiated “from above,” this geopolitical transition expanded the Spanish borderlands over former French territory and altered the locations where Native Americans, soldiers, and enslaved people could find or avoid colonial oppression.

Christina Villareal on Not Even Past
The War on Drugs: How the US and Mexico Jointly Created the Mexican Drug War by Carmen Boullusa and Mike Wallace

Andrew Weiss
“The Virgin and The Pri: Guadalupanismo And Political Governance In Mexico, 1945-1979”

This dissertation explores the dynamic relationship between Catholicism and political governance in Mexico from 1945 until 1979 through the lens of Guadalupanismo. Guadalupanismo (devotion to the Virgin of Guadalupe) is a unifying nationalistic force in Mexico. After 1940, Church and state collaborated to promote the Virgin of Guadalupe as a nationalist emblem following decades of divisive state-led religious persecution. Mexico, however, remained officially anticlerical sociopolitical territory. I analyze flashpoints of Guadalupan nationalism to reveal the history of Mexican Church-state relations and Catholic religiosity. These episodes are: the 1945 fiftieth anniversary of the 1895 coronation of the Virgin of Guadalupe; U.S. President John F. Kennedy’s 1962 visit to the Basilica of Guadalupe; the construction of the New Basilica in the 1970s (inaugurated in 1976); and Pope John Paul II’s trip to Mexico and the Basilica in 1979. Each of these occasions elicited great popular enthusiasm and participation in public ritual. And each brought politicians in contact with the third rail in Mexican politics: religion. The essential value of the Virgin of Guadalupe, as I show, is that as both a Catholic and a nationalistic icon, she represented an ideal symbolic terrain for the renegotiation and calibration of Church-state relations under PRI rule. I follow these Guadalupan episodes to track the history of Guadalupanismo and interpret the changing Church-state relationship at different junctures in the course of the single-party priísta regime. These junctures (1945, 1962, 1976, and 1979) are relevant because they are representative of classical and degenerative phases of priísmo (the ideology of the ruling party [PRI] that governed Mexico from 1929 until 2000) and cover the episcopates of three major figures who ran the Archdiocese of Mexico for over sixty years. The Church-state covenant was renegotiated over time as seen by the Guadalupan episodes I analyze.

Andrew Weiss on Not Even Past
Plaza of Sacrifices: Gender, Power, and Terror in 1968 Mexico by Elaine Carey

Pictured above (Clockwise from top center): Sandy Chang, Andrew Weiss, Deirdre Lannon, Jimena Perry, Celeste Ward Gventer, Christina Villareal, Itay Eisinger.
Not pictured: Signe Fourmy, Lauren Henley, Sean Killen, Holly McCarthy, Carl Forsberg,

Audio Archive: Spanish Flu in the Texas Oil Fields

This article was originally posted in the Briscoe Center for American History’s Newsletter. 

By Benjamin Wright

In 1918, Spanish influenza ravaged a war-weary world, killing as many as 40 million people across the globe and over half a million in America. In the oil fields of Texas, the flu was particularly vindictive due to poor working conditions and a lack of health care. The Oral History of the Texas Oil Industry Records include interviews with roughnecks, rig managers, mule skinners, and Red Cross workers who witnessed the flu firsthand. Below are four excerpts from the collection.

Black and white image of the main street of Desdemona, Texas crowned with cars and horse-drawn wagons

Walter Cline, Red Cross worker in Burkburnett, Texas

“And we had what you and I now know to be the worst flu epidemic we’ve ever had in the United States. I was serving as field director for the Red Cross at the time in charge of Red Cross field operations at Call Field near Wichita Falls. . . . We got the government to assign some doctors and nurses to try and relieve the situation. . . . We asked the people of Wichita Falls to contribute in order that we might find shelter and food and warm clothing and medicine for the people, many of whom were suffering from flu and exposed in covered wagons and under these tarpaulins. . . . In one place, you’d find a mother dead, with a little six or eight months old baby crawling around over her breast, trying to open her dress. And you gather her up and look around and her husband is sick over there and a little boy. I think on our first trip west of Burkburnett, we gathered up some six or eight dead men, women, and children, and they continued to die until we found temporary shelter for them.

The people in Wichita Falls were most generous and helpful. They shipped lumber and bedding and food and clothing by carloads. As I recall it, the railroad hauled it to Burkburnett free of any freight charge, and the teamsters, the oil field haulers, hauled it out to where it was needed without any charge. And it was possibly one of the saddest sights I’ve ever had to experience . . . it was rather saddening to see thousands of people, and there were thousands of them, suffering and dying and little we could do about it. We finally stopped it . . . we had a reputation for taking care of the folks that couldn’t take care of themselves. They parked along the riverfronts and pitched camp and we tried to feed and shelter them and give them medicine and take care of them through the winter. And it was rather a severe winter.”

Burkburnett lies close to Wichita Falls in northeast Texas. In 1912 oil was discovered west of Burkburnett, but a much larger find was made in 1918, drawing approximately 20,000 people to the area. “Of course, there was a tremendous influx of people,” recalled Cline. “Crop conditions had been very poor over most of southern Oklahoma and western Texas, and there were thousands of families who were suffering for enough food and clothing and shelter to carry them through the winter months.” Many of these families found work in Burkburnett. But they also found the flu. By the end of 1918, the oil field was producing 7,500 barrels per day, and twenty trains ran daily between Burkburnett and Wichita Falls. These figures suggest managers prioritized profit over public health. Due to the transient nature of the working population, it is not clear how many people died. The oil boom died out by 1930.

Black and white image of a wagon loaded with oil equipment and a car stuck in a muddy road in a small Texas town

G. Lawson, oil rig worker in Ranger, Texas.

“I was in Ranger when they had this flu epidemic, and that was about the most pitiful thing that I have ever seen. I have seen parents carrying children down the street on their shoulders unable to raise their heads, taking them to the doctor’s office. Seen caskets just piled up—bodies in them I suppose—ready to be shipped out. That was one of the hardest things to see.”

Born in West Virginia, Lawson worked in oil fields across the United States and Mexico wherever he could find work. In 1917, he came to Ranger, Texas. Ranger, between Fort Worth and Abilene, was an agricultural town. Hard hit by drought, locals initiated a successful search for oil. By mid-1917, McClesky No. 1 reached a daily production of 1,700 barrels. The discovery kicked off an oil boom that radically transformed both Ranger and the surrounding Eastland County. Unsanitary conditions caused by makeshift housing and torrential rain led to outbreaks of typhoid. In 1918, when Spanish flu began to spread, the town was ill-prepared. However, work in the oil fields never abated, no doubt one of the reasons the flu hit so hard. By 1919 there were 22 oil wells in the area. By 1921, most of the wells were spent.

Black and white image of five men standing underneath an oil rig

Fred Jennings, rig manager in Goose Creek, Texas

“The people died [in Goose Creek, Texas, east of Houston] and they just died so fast here till they didn’t have no undertakers. You’d just have to put them in pickup trucks and haul them to Houston. Just put them in a pine box and bury them any way you could. That went on—well, that was 1918. That was through the winter months of 1918, when the flu epidemic was so bad . . . and men—I saw one man working and walk home and was dead in thirty minutes after he came home with that flu.”

Born Gonzales County, Fred Jennings settled in Goose Creek in 1916, eventually working his way up from roughneck to rig superintendent. In 1917 Ross S. Sterling, president of Humble Oil and future governor of Texas, pioneered a railroad connection to the Southern Pacific line at Dayton, leading to a boom—“30,000 people into the area overnight,” according to Jennings. In his interview, Jennings discusses the conditions in the town before and after the flu epidemic. Topics covered include strike action, the declaration of martial law, fist fights, gunfights, the poor treatment of women, and the arrival of the Ku Klux Klan.

Black and white image of a mule train moving through a small town in the South Texas Oil Fields

Plummer Barfield, mule train operator in Jefferson County, Texas

“Even as late as ’19 and ’20, well, we were pretty short-handed during the flu epidemic around the cemetery because—especially in the fall and the early spring of ’19 and the early spring of ’20, when the epidemic was at its worst, why, people was just afraid to get out. And I’ve had— conducted several funerals that there wouldn’t be nobody there but maybe a brother, or maybe a son or the father of one, or a gravedigger and myself in any number of cases. And the preachers, at one time here, all of our local preachers were sick, and everybody worked to death in this neck of the woods, and you just couldn’t get nobody. Lots of times we wouldn’t have enough for pallbearers. . . . But those things couldn’t be helped and they understood, . . . people that had been sick didn’t have any business out. . . . And most of them was afraid they were gonna be sick and they wouldn’t get out unless they had to. So it was pretty severe in this neck of the woods for about six months.”

Plummer Barfield grew up in Jefferson County. He worked in livery stables for much of his life and ran mule trains that carried supplies to a variety of oil fields between Beaumont and Houston during the 1910s and 1920s. 

About the Oral History of the Texas Oil Industry Records

Created in the 1950s, the Oil Industry Records project was commissioned by Estelle Sharp. Her husband, Walter Sharp, was one of the early Spindletop drillers. Mrs. Sharp saw the need to gather the recollections of those who worked during the early Texas oil boom. The collection includes 218 taped interviews that have since been transcribed. The Briscoe Center is in the process of digitizing the entire collection and making it available online.


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Making History: Houston’s “Spirit of the Confederacy”
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Remembering the Tex-Son Strike: Legacies of Latina-led Labor Activism in San Antonio, Texas

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.

Oil and Money: Texas Politics, 1929-1932

by Rachel Ozanne

The late Professor Norman D. Brown was a fixture of the UT Austin History Department for nearly four decades, and his classes on Texas history were popular favorites among undergraduates and graduate students. In 1984, Texas A&M University Press published Brown’s Hood, Bonnet, and Little Brown Jug: Texas Politics, 1921-1928, which is still considered the main source for the state-level political history of that era. In the ensuing decades, Brown worked steadily on a sequel, which he never published before his retirement from UT Austin in 2015.

That sequel, Biscuits, the Dole, and Nodding Donkeys: Texas Politics, 1929-1932, unveils little known stories of the high drama of the Texas political scene at the beginning of the Great Depression. Yet these stories might never have seen the light of day if it weren’t for the efforts of some of Brown’s devoted former students and colleagues.

Brown donated his personal papers and research files to the Briscoe Center for American History when he retired. Unknown to many, this donation included his unfinished book manuscript. A former Master’s student of Brown, Josiah Daniel, learned of the manuscript’s existence, and, with the support of the Briscoe Center, contracted with the UT History Department to find an editor for the manuscript. In 2017, I was hired to update the scholarly references in the manuscript’s footnotes and to write an introduction for the manuscript, summing up its main ideas and themes. I was quickly delighted with the rich details of the highs and lows of Texas gubernatorial, legislative, and party politics that Brown portrayed. The manuscript came to me without a title, but I settled on Biscuits, the Dole, and Nodding Donkeys as key images that encapsulated the major ideas and issues of this critical era in Texas history.

“Biscuits” refers to the on-going role that personality and populism played in Texas politics. Throughout most of the twentieth century, the Democratic Party dominated the state of Texas. The Republican Party was too closely associated with Abraham Lincoln and the defeat in the Civil War to appeal to most white Texans, and most black Texans were prevented from voting due to Jim Crow laws that in effect disfranchised them. In the 1920s and 30s the Texas Democratic Party was divided between two factions that fought for control of the party: business progressives, who sought to reform certain aspects of government to provide improved social services, and populists, who sought to prevent the expansion of the size and scope of government and claimed to appeal to the people, mostly poor, rural white Texans.

Ma Ferguson sitting at her desk.

Ma Ferguson, 1933 (Paralta Studios, Austin. Briscoe Center for American History)

In Brown’s narrative, Jim “Pa” and Miriam “Ma” Ferguson best represented the populist wing of the Democratic Party. Pa Ferguson was governor in the 1910s, but was barred from holding public office after being convicted of misappropriation of public funds and other charges in his 1917 impeachment trial. Ma Ferguson ran for reelection to the governorship in 1932, promising “two governors for the price of one.” In explaining his political philosophy, Pa asserted that you’ve got to keep the people happy, or “give them a biscuit.” As long as you kept giving them people biscuits, they would be “for you,” but as soon as the biscuits ran out, “they [would] not be for you any longer.” The Fergusons’ populist appeal was successful in 1932, but they soon found themselves falling from public favor, as new rumors of abuses of public funds and power surfaced again.

Texans also argued among themselves about “the dole” and the extent to which they were comfortable with government intervention. The Great Depression presented Texans with a social crisis of poverty and unemployment the likes of which they had never seen, making them more receptive to the possibility of federal and state programs than ever before. Brown notes that every successful gubernatorial candidate in Texas in the 1930s ran for office promising  to provide a pension program for elderly Texans, but efforts to implement these plans were always prevented by the state legislature.

East Texas Oil Fields, Derricks and Buildings (Briscoe Center for American History)

Texans also flirted with stricter regulations on production for the oil industry—the “nodding donkeys” of the era—particularly regulations that would limit the number of barrels produced per day. Brown documents what happened when a massive oil field was discovered in east Texas near Kilgore in late 1930. Wildcat, individual producers rushed to the area to drill wells to capture as much oil as possible, hoping to make a quick profit, before large producers came in to dominate the area. Their efforts led to massive decreases in prices and to environmental waste, as much of the oil evaporated or flooded nearby fields, when it could not be contained. These smalltime producers opposed efforts by Governor Ross Sterling to regulate production, arguing that limiting production in order to stabilize and increase prices violated the law (it did). Governor Sterling eventually declared martial law in east Texas to try to enforce production quotas, but one-by-one oil companies filed court injunctions that made the attempt to enforce production quotas impossible. In the long-term the legislature did pass new laws allowing for better restriction of the oil industry, but too late to affect the situation in Kilgore.

Vice President John N. Garner –“Cactus Jack– and President Franklin D. Roosevelt, c. 1930-35 (Briscoe Center for American History)

Brown’s book concludes with a dramatic recounting of the Democratic Party’s Primary Convention in Chicago in 1932, as Texans considered whether to throw their support behind native son John Nance “Cactus Jack” Garner or New Yorker Franklin D. Roosevelt—revealing the critical role that Texans ultimately played in securing the nomination for Roosevelt.

These stories and others make Brown’s work highly recommended for lovers of Texas history or political history in general.

Norman D. Brown with Rachel Ozanne, ed., Biscuits, The Dole, and Nodding Donkeys: Texas Politics, 1929-1932

Want to know more? You can listen to Rachel Ozanne talk about Brown’s book on the Texas Standard’s website.

George Norris Green’s The Establishment in Texas Politics: the Primitive Years, 1938-1957 picks up the story of Texas political history about where Brown’s Biscuits leaves off.

Walter L. Buenger’s The Path to a Modern South emphasizes the economic developments of Texas history as well as Texans’ shifting understandings of their state identity in the years leading up to and through the era of Brown’s work.

Darlene Hine Clark’s Black Victory: The Rise and Fall of the White Primary in Texas highlights the political history of African Americans in Texas in the first part of the twentieth century.

Neil Foley’s The White Scourge provides important insight into the racial history of Texas during the era of Jim Crow, by examining not just the issue of white and black racial conflict, but the complexities of racial tension in a state with a substantial Mexican American population in the early twentieth century as well.

Remembering the Tex-Son Strike: Legacies of Latina-led Labor Activism in San Antonio, Texas

Banner image for the post Remembering the Tex-Son Strike: Legacies of Latina-Led Labor Activism in San Antonio, Texas

The year 2019 marks the 60th anniversary of the Tex-Son strike, a major labor battle waged in San Antonio, Texas from 1959 to 1963 by mostly Mexican, Mexican-American, and some Anglo women all of whom were active members of the International Ladies Garment Workers Union (ILGWU) Local 180. This strike is important for the history of Mexican Americans, women, and labor organization because it bridged the two other major moments for Mexican and Mexican American labor activism: the Pecan Shellers strike in San Antonio during the 1930s and the other Farah strike of the 1970s in El Paso. Little is known about labor activism strategies of marginalized women in the Southwest during the period in between these two infamous labor organizing efforts. The Tex-Son strike unveils what working women did to advocate for their needs on the garment factory floor during the Cold War period, especially in a historically anti-labor, anti-union state.

Black and white image of two women carrying picket signs, Tex-Son "On Strike" for Local 180, ILGWU, San Antonio, 1963
International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union, Local 180 (San Antonio, TX) Records, University of Texas at Arlington Libraries. Two women on strike for Tex-Son Local 180, San Antonio, Texas, International Ladies Garment Workers Union (I. L. G. W. U.). 1963. UTA Libraries Digital Gallery, https://library.uta.edu/digitalgallery/img/10007779.

The Tex-Son strike was organized by the ILGWU, affiliated for most of its existence with the American Federation of Labor (AFL) and then the AFL-CIO when the AFL merged with the Congress of Industrial Organizations (CIO) in 1955. By the mid-1930s, most of the garment industry moved to the Southwest as the region offered a low-cost labor pool of Black and Latinx workers. This industry transition proved to be complicated for the ILGWU as the union sent Anglo men with little experience in Spanish-speaking communities to represent workers in the Southwest. Eventually, the ILGWU maintained a presence in large cities in Texas, including San Antonio.

San Antonio was home to one of the largest populations of ethnically Mexican people in the United States, which the garment industry exploited for some of the lowest wages in the country. Many working-class ethnically Mexican women in San Antonio were able to obtain positions in the defense industry during WWII, but afterwards were left with slim options besides factory jobs. Tex-Son, owned by brothers Harold and Emanuel Franzel, employed both Anglo and Mexican American women, but were actively outsourcing work to Tupelo, Mississippi where Black women made up a lucrative labor force. In response to an uptick in union membership among Tex-Son workers by the ILGWU, the Franzels produced anti-union literature and warned their workers against signing any union agreements in the fall of 1958, before the strike began. In response, the ILGWU Negotiating Committee sent demands to the Franzels which included better wages and benefits among others.

The work of Gregoria Montalbo was essential to building momentum for the strike. An organizer from Chicago, her main job was to explain to hopeful recruits about the benefits and necessity of a strike against Tex-Son. Montalbo’s role as the president of Local 180 was focused on recruitment prior to the strike as well as working to gain support from San Antonio’s clergy during the strike, appealing to the many workers who were members of Catholic congregations in the city. One of the most committed clergy supporters was Father Sherrill Smith who agreed with Local 180 that San Antonio needed unions in order to create a more equitable work environment for everyone. He played a key role on the picket line and going door to door to recruit more people to join the strike.

The Tex-Son strike was the first to use an ILGWU Chicana lead organizer, Sophie Gonzalez, who became the face of the Tex-Son strike. Gonzalez began union organizing in 1949 after her brother, a union organizer for the Amalgamated Meatcutters and Butchers of America Union, encouraged her to accept a position in the ILGWU. Her presence in local newspapers and on the picket line was an integral piece of the ILGWU’s strategy. She maintained a certain physical appearance that portrayed her respectability as a woman but remained fierce in her communication of worker’s demands to the media and locals.

The very first week of the strike was the most tumultuous in terms of physical altercations between the women and allies on strike, the women who continued to work throughout the strike, and the police. On February 26th and 27th, the women on strike, angered by scab workers being escorted in and out of the factory, began throwing eggs and rocks at strike breakers and getting in physical altercations. The police charged the strikers with rioting and drunkenness, however there was not sufficient evidence to prove that any of the strikers were inebriated while on the picket lines.

Black and white image of Helen Martinez and her four children in San Antonio, Texas
Helen Martinez and her four children with picket signs, San Antonio, Texas. 1959, George and Latane Lambert Papers, University of Texas at Arlington Libraries, UTA Libraries Digital Gallery, https://library.uta.edu/digitalgallery/img/10002671. 

The ILGWU also engaged in a propaganda campaign to accompany the strike and boycott of Tex-Son goods. This campaign exploited the dominant ideology of the time about motherhood instead of on the women’s role as economic providers. In doing so, they produced materials such as reproducing checks given to Tex-Son employees next to pictures of their children, effectively communicating the inability to care for a family on such dismal paychecks. Even children participated by handing out balloons to other children entering surrounding department stores with “Don’t Buy Tex-Son Children’s Clothes,” imprinted on them. These tactics, however, were detrimental to the image of strikers as workers, not just mothers.

In the first year of the strike, the ILGWU women gained support from other local unions, such as the International Union of Brewery Workers, and other male supporters who assisted in picket line activities. However, the daily hardships that came along with picketing wore down many of the women who originally joined the strike. Many were forced to seek out other kinds of employment, especially after being blacklisted by Tex-Son, barring them from working at other garment factories. By September 1960, ILGWU strikers began to fear that their leadership was giving up on them, which eventually came to fruition when two months later, the small benefit checks from ILGWU stopped entirely and Gonzalez and other union leaders pulled out of the strike entirely.  After appeals from people like County Commissioner Albert Peña Jr., the AFL-CIO office in Washington, D.C. agreed to continue to fund the remaining 80 women on the picket line. However, morale was already low and a few women complained that Gonzalez’s absence hurt the propaganda strategy. Others, however, complained that her leadership style and charges of opportunism hurt the strike from the very beginning. Ultimately, the strike lost its fervor due to continued violence perpetrated on the women and general distrust and lack of enthusiasm and financial support. By the end of 1962 the ILGWU pulled out of San Antonio altogether. On January 24, 1963, only eleven women were left on the last day at the picket line.

Black and white image of brewer workers supporting Tex-Son strikes
International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union, Local 180 (San Antonio, TX) Records, University of Texas at Arlington Libraries. Tex-Son strike, Local 180, San Antonio, Texas. 1963. UTA Libraries Digital Gallery, https://library.uta.edu/digitalgallery/img/10007781. 

The consequences of an unsuccessful strike were clearly visible;  after the ILGWU pulled out of San Antonio, unionism in the city remained practically absent. Many factories began to mock Tex-Son’s strategy of outsourcing work to the Deep South and across the U.S.-Mexico border. However, the Tex-Son strike is an important episode in the history of ethnically Mexican women’s Cold War era strategies to gaining labor rights for themselves. Blending public and private spheres by challenging the public to support their fight as mothers making ends meet for their families, the women presented locals with a new idea of women’s roles in the realm of labor. The Tex-Son strike also served as a primer of sorts for Texas Chicano Movement activism in the late 60s and early 70s that began to appeal to Chicanas’ racial and ethnic identity and oppression, rather than solely on gender identity and motherhood.

In addition to the historical importance, the strike also connects with current issues such as the recent Mississippi ICE raids at a poultry processing plant. Many observers suggest that the workers were targeted specifically because they successfully unionized and won a law suit against Koch Foods for $3.75 million over sexual harassment, national origin and race discrimination, and retaliation against Latinx workers. Although there are obvious differences between these two events, there are some salient congruencies. Both involved gendered discrimination and discrimination based on race and ethnicity. More obvious though, is the constant threats of violence that Latinx workers face then and today and their vulnerable position in exploitative labor relations. The Tex-Son strike and the unionization of the Mississippi poultry plant both ended in victory and defeat causing families to be uprooted and the loss of important sources of income. The immigrants detained by ICE are facing some of the most horrid conditions in detention and the women of the Tex-Son strike were beaten and chastised on the picket line. As different as the consequences of each are, the women involved share unsatisfactory and even dangerous work conditions alongside gender, ethnic, and national origin discrimination.

Sixty years after the beginning of the Tex-Son strike, Latinx people in the U.S. are still a major source of cheap labor and a punching bag for anti-union and anti-immigrant sentiments. Fortunately, strong labor activist roots for Latinx peoples of all nationalities and races still remain at the core of obtaining equitable working conditions. The Tex-Son strike of 1959, among others throughout the hemisphere, should be remembered as a foundation and lesson for labor activists today as anti-immigrant rhetoric is spewed from the highest bodies of government here and abroad.

This article draws on the following sources:

Lori Flores, “An Unladylike Strike Fashionably Clothed: Mexicana and Anglo Women Garment Workers Against Tex-Son, 1959-1963. Pacific Historical Review. 78, no. 3 (August 2009), 367-402.

Irene Ledesma, “Texas Newspapers and Chicana Workers’ Activism, 1919-1974. Western Historical Quarterly, 27, no. 3 (1995), 309-331

Vicki Ruiz, From Out of the Shadows: Mexican Women in Twentieth-Century America. 10th Anniversary Edition. New York: Oxford University Press, 2008.

More from Micaela Valadez:

City in a Garden: Environmental Transformations and Racial Justice in Twentieth-Century Austin, Texas by Andrew M. Busch (2017)
Dreaming with the Ancestors: Black Seminole Women in Texas and Mexico by Shirley Boteler Mock (2010)

Related Articles:

Goddess of Anarchy: Lucy Parsons, American Radical
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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.

City in a Garden: Environmental Transformations and Racial Justice in Twentieth-Century Austin, Texas by Andrew M. Busch (2017)

Austin is a global city, home to some of the most technologically advanced and successful corporations in the world as well as a renowned university system that provides highly trained and educated employees to those same top companies. All the while, Austin’s constant obsession with building a sustainable and environmentally friendly city contributes to the growth of a largely white upper-middle class demographic who can afford living in proximity to Austin’s finest and natural recreational spaces. A look at Austin’s past reveals a pattern of racial discrimination as the city constantly places the needs of white residents, boosters, developers, and investors above those of Black and Latino residents.

the book's front cover

Andrew M. Busch’s new book, City in a Garden traces one hundred years of Austin’s urban, environmental, political, and social history. Busch explains that Austin’s investment in big business and innovative environmental development projects was and still is an investment in the social construction of whiteness that has paid off beautifully for upper-middle class white people. Busch argues that no matter how sustainable Austin is, or remains, there is a troubling “shadow” constantly growing behind the “garden” that combines the urban and the natural. The shadow is a century of racial discrimination in the form of federal, state, and local urban development policies that built an environmentally sustainable and desirable playground for white upper-middle class people.  Simultaneously these policies and city planning projects kept Black and Latinx people out of any real decision making processes, leaving them with the least desirable spaces in the city, spaces that remain underfunded and subject their residents to constant threat of removal and displacement.

Busch’s main purpose is to expose the complexities that arise when space is racialized through the process of urbanization. He foregrounds Austin as an exceptional case that further complicates the relationships between city leaders and developers, environmentalists, and the Black and Latinx communities as they all make claims for their ideas of how Austin’s space should be utilized. Furthermore, Busch suggests that the “history of human-environment interaction in Austin has revolved around managing water as well as enhancing access to and preserving unique environmental characteristics that have high use and exchange value” (14). This is apparent from the beginning of Austin’s city planning history.

From the late 1890s to the 1930s, city leaders focused on subduing the water system in and around Austin and successfully dammed the Colorado River. The project signified the capability of harnessing nature to provide residents, farmers, and especially companies with cheap power and flood control. In the 1930s, as the population grew, and new land became available to build on and to accommodate new types of labor, suburbanization and the Federal Housing Association (FHA) continued to place white communities’ needs above all others. While the FHA demarcated Black and Latinx spaces as “dilapidated” and ripe for redevelopment, the Home Owners Loan Corporation made sure that white neighborhoods remained white through restrictive covenants and other illegal methods that kept most people of color in south and east Austin. By the 1950s, rampant deindustrialization in Austin made working-class industrial jobs harder to get in the city. The process of ridding Austin’s inner city of heavy industry incentivized middle and upper-class labor and the companies that would employ them with new recreational spaces, the convenience of suburban life, and tax breaks for oil and high-tech companies. For Black and Latinx communities, the removal and redevelopment projects that resulted from mid-century urban renewal  only served to exacerbate racial segregation as new housing was built on the east side of Austin.

Downtown from Austin's Famous Zilker Park
Downtown from Austin’s Famous Zilker Park. Source: Wikimedia.

As the book enters the 1960s, Busch strengthens his argument. Austin’s environmentalists started to challenge urban and environmental projects that posed a threat to the natural environment and recreational spaces. The best example here is their fight to ban motorized vehicles from the west side of Town Lake while the east side had to contend with massive motorboat races that drew thousands of people throughout the year and posed a threat to Latinx communities. Destroying the east Town Lake community’s park to build a stadium for the races sparked the organization of people in the community as well as organizations active in the Chicano and Civil Rights Movements. After six years of protest, the city finally moved the boat races without the aid of white environmentalists who never considered the negative effects that their efforts had on Latinx communities. Overall, the 60s and 70s proved that liberalism fell short for marginalized communities and white environmentalists only considered natural spaces as an environment in need of protection from city development projects.

In the 1980s, Austin leaders began to aggressively diversify the local economy as defense, oil, and high-tech industries effectively sparked the process of globalization. The University of Texas was integral in this economic transformation and supplied these new industries with skilled labor and state-of-the-art research capabilities funded mostly by federal defense contracts. This massive shift caused the city’s white population to expand residential areas in the north and the west. While these residential areas began to threaten physical spaces that environmentalists considered pristine and worthy of protecting, Black and Latinx residents living to the east and south saw production facilities move in to their neighborhoods making life more hazardous.

In examining the 1990s, Busch focuses on the bifurcation of the environmental movement in the fight against aggressive private and federally funded urban expansion. Traditional white environmentalists took on the encroachment of private development in pristine and untouched natural space. For this group, unchecked development threatened the Edwards Aquifer, an essential source of water and important part of Austin’s ecosystem. East Austin environmentalists agreed that the aquifer needed protection but added that their communities needed just as much protection from both old and new environmental hazards facing Black and Latinx people.  For eastsiders, environmental injustice was a civil rights issue. They constructed “the environment as a hybrid landscape, one where natural and built reinforced one another and combined to undermine minorities health and access to jobs, education, and recreation…” (226). But, as Busch argues in the epilogue, eastside environmentalists lost to their white counterparts as the 2000s saw an increased development in east Austin because building east would not disturb any protected environments, eased the increasingly expensive housing crisis, and proved to be extremely profitable. Using the epilogue as a kind of policy proposal, Busch argues for a more equitable city planning and economic structure by way of creating jobs that do not just serve a certain sector of Austin’s growing population. He asserts that historical exclusion should be met with contemporary inclusion in every aspect and that gentrification poses an immediate threat to impoverished communities who are already being pressured to leave because of a lack of economic opportunity. Busch suggests that rent control, direct subsidies, and other mechanisms should be employed to create “a holistically livable environment” for all Austinites.

Busch’s book is important for students in a variety of disciplines, residents interested in city development and planning, city planners, housing and economic justice activists, as well as environmental activists. City in a Garden also leaves the history of Austin ripe for further research. In what ways did Black and Latinx residents challenge, participate, and/or survive the growing spatial disparities of their white counterparts? A research project on the historically Black Wheatsville community could provide some answers. What was life like in pre-WWII Austin for residents living in areas affected by environmental changes and hazards? An inquiry in to Mexican agricultural workers living in colonias around Austin might shed light on how changes in Austin’s economy – transitions from agricultural, to industrial, and in to oil and technology – affected where Latinos’ in Austin lived and worked over time. Readers interested in education might also be intrigued by the brief mentions of educational segregation and its lasting problems in Austin. With a hundred-year historical sweep the questions this book fosters seem endless, which is an excellent problem to have.

Overall, City in a Garden reveals a complicated past littered with good and bad decisions in hopes that people in the present and future might reckon with and correct the inequality literally built in to Austin’s city limits.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

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.

You might also like:

Changes in the Land: Indians, Colonists, and Ecology of New England
The Environment on History and the History of Environment

Also by Micaela Valadez:

Dreaming with the Ancestors: Black Seminole Women in Texas and Mexico

Seeds of Empire, By Andrew Torget (2015)

By Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra

91a3r-asy8lAndrew Torget’s Seeds of Empire places the early history of nineteenth-century Texas squarely within the political economy of slavery, cotton, and geopolitics. Torget shows that Spanish Texas had become an utterly dysfunctional polity. A royalist bloody response to the creation of autonomous creole juntas almost led to the annihilation of the Tejano population. Tejas found itself unable to pay the Comanche tribute precisely at the time that the Mississippi River cotton boom required large imports of horses. Comanches raided the already weakened Tejanos.

Tejanos found in Anglo entrepreneurs like the Austin family a viable escape from a decades long crisis. The Austins brought Anglo, land-hungry colonists across the Sabine River into Eastern Texas in the early 1820s by offering legalized slavery. There were many Anglo land speculators around but none delivered what the Austin did, namely, cunning diplomatic work to keep republican, antislavery, federalist Mexicans and pro-slavery Anglo colonists moderately satisfied.

stephen-f-austin

Stephen F. Austin (via Good Free Photos).

Torget describes the spatial partition of Texas that ensued. In the west, there were thin communities of Tejanos working as pro-slavery lobbyists in Coahuila and as importers of Anglo goods to satisfy the demands of La Bahia, Goliath, and San Antonio. In the east, there were swelling communities of Anglo settlers setting up plantations along the banks of the Colorado, Brazos, and Trinity, while churning out bales of cotton for New Orleans markets. Torget never explains why Tejanos did not themselves become cotton planters. There were Tejanos in Nacogdoches who monopolized the Comanche trade of horses and there were many well-off Tejano war-of-independence-refugees in New Orleans. Both could have used their political and commercial advantages to push Anglos out of the business of producing cotton with slaves, for Tejanos were not squeamish about slavery. For centuries Tejanos incorporated Apache criados (servants) into their household and drove thousands of Chichimeca captives into the silver mines of Parral and Zacatecas and into the cattle ranches of Nuevo Leon. Tejanos did not hesitate to feed the Caribbean royal galleys and fortifications with slaves. Be that as it may, a deep ethnic chasm did open between east and west Texas. This spatial and political balance, however, unraveled the moment the elites of Mexico City decided that they were losing control over the northern frontiers. Mexican conservatives, therefore, abolished slavery, terminated land contracts, and sent the army to remove the Anglo settlers.

Torget demonstrates that it was a small, fleeting tactical decision by Santa Ana that sealed the faith of Texas in 1835, as thousands of Anglo colonists were in fully disorganized retreat to the safety of the Louisiana border. At the Brazos, however, Santa Ana split his army into two fronts to block the retreating forces of Sam Houston from crossing the Sabine. Houston stopped fleeing and turned around to engage Santa Ana’s forces. This was the moment Texas became an independent republic nobody wanted, including the Anglo colonists. Tejanos were the ones who lost the most as useless lobbyists. They had to give up lands and the rights of citizenship.

santaannasurrender

William Henry Huddle’s painting, Surrender of Santa Anna, shows the Mexican general surrendering to a wounded Sam Houston after the battle of San Jacinto in 1836 (via Wikimedia Commons).

Torget shows that the Lone Star State remained an utterly nonviable state for a full decade (1835-45), trapped in the logic of much larger geopolitical balances that pitted Great Britain, the USA, and Mexico against one another. Five of these ten years, however, witnessed an unprecedented cotton boom in the Mississippi Cotton Kingdom. It brought tens of thousands of additional colonists and black slaves to the riverine banks of Eastern Texas and new merchant warehouses to the Galveston Bay. But the boom did not bring any changes in riverine infrastructure, a sovereign port, or a national merchant marine. There was no functioning state, no mechanism to collect taxes, and no diplomatic working corps.

Britain sought to convince Texans to gain diplomatic recognition by becoming a free-labor cotton republic. Texans responded by creating a constitution that banned any black person who had been manumitted from residing within the new nation. The United States had no interest in annexing Texas because it would upset the balance between northern and southern states.

united_states_1842-1845-03

Map of the United States, 1845 (via Wikimedia Commons).

The plight of Texas worsened as the cotton boom went bust in late 1839. The only thing that Texas did well was to organize militias to bleed the raiding Comanche. Torget explains how the geopolitical logjam was broken the moment France finally recognized Texas in 1844. To secure one of the most important sources of cotton for its economy, Britain had no choice but to also recognize Texas. It was only then that Anglo Texans got what they had always wanted: annexation into the United States. Incorporation delivered a functioning government, protection against international anti-slavery forces and Mexican invasions, and a windfall for land speculators as land prices rose to the equivalent of those in Mississippi, Arkansas, and Louisiana. Cotton, Slavery, and Empire are categories that explain rather well the origins of Texas as a white supremacist state, utterly dependent on the federal government from its very inception.

Andrew J. Torget. Seeds of Empire: Cotton, Slavery, and the Transformation of the Texas Borderlands, 1800-1850. Charlotte: University of North Carolina Press, 2015.
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More by Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra on Not Even Past:
Our America: A Hispanic History of the United States, by Felipe Fernández-Armesto (2014).
Re-Reading John Winthrop’s “City upon the Hill.”
Magical Realism on Drugs: Colombian History in Netflix’s Narcos.
Prof. Cañizares-Esguerra discusses his own book, Puritan Conquistadors.
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Textbooks, Texas, and Discontent: The Fight against Inadequate Educational Resources

Banner image for the post entitled Textbooks, Texas, and Discontent: The Fight Against Inadequate Educational Resources

By Alejandra Garza and Maria Esther Hammack

Controversies surrounding textbooks are nothing new, especially in Texas. For years, textbook selection in Texas has grabbed headlines and generated great discontent and debate. Textbooks adopted by the Texas State Board of Education (SBOE) are unusually important because they are also adopted for use in classrooms across the country. Whatever Texas adopts, students across the United States get. In 2014, a coalition of unpaid Texas citizens who called themselves “Truth In Texas Textbooks,” presented the SBOE with a report containing 469 pages of factual errors, “imbalanced presentation of materials, omission of information, and opinions disguised as facts,” found in three world history and geography textbooks that were being considered for adoption that November. And who can forget the 2015 textbook fiasco, when the Texas Board of Education refused to allow professors to review and fact-check textbooks that were to be implemented in Texas curricula that year. Historians and other academics protested because non-experts were writing and reviewing history textbooks.

Photograph of a 2015 Texas textbook caption that grossly mischaracterized the nature of slavery
A 2015 Texas textbook caption grossly mischaracterized the nature of slavery (Coby Burren via the San Antonio Current).

But that was not the only contentious issue surrounding textbooks in Texas last year. Mrs. Roni Dean-Burren split open a Pandora’s box of controversies when she posted a picture on Facebook of her teenage son’s textbook which explicitly portrayed slaves as immigrant workers. The Texas State Board of Education had adopted the textbook, published by McGraw Hill, a few years ago and sold about 140,000 in Texas and other states. McGraw Hill was quick to respond and quench the controversy. They immediately acknowledged that they had made “a mistake” and rapidly agreed to do their “utmost to fix it.”

This year’s controversy has had a different outcome. Unlike McGraw Hill, Jaime Riddle and Valarie Angle, the authors of the Mexican American Heritage textbook and its publisher, Momentum Instruction, LLC, have yet to apologize for a widely criticized textbook. Beyond an unwillingness to acknowledge the large number of problems in their textbook, they have failed to respond to questions and comments from historians and experts challenging their work. The Mexican American Heritage textbook has more than 800 factual errors, errors of omission, and misleading representations of Mexican American history and culture.

Book cover of The Mexican American Heritage textbook by Jaime Riddle and Valarie Angle
The Mexican American Heritage textbook (via authors).

In addition to factual errors, the book is riddled with what several historians have deemed “ethnic hostility” — clearly racist remarks, blatantly condescending portrayals of Mexican Americans and their historical roles, and a large number of specific instances where the authors’ opinions straightforwardly belittle Mexican-American history, heritage, and people of Mexican descent and their accomplishments and contributions. The authors and the publisher have refused to work with experts to fix the errors and have yet to demonstrate any intent to withdraw the book from consideration for adoption by the State Board of Education in hearings scheduled for November 15 and 18, 2016. The final decision pertaining to the adoption or rejection of the textbook is set to be made on November 18, 2016.

A textbook with an extensive number of errors, with clearly racist and condescending content does not belong in any classroom. Textbooks are meant to educate and empower our future generations through an emphasis on factual history and on understanding the heritage and identity of all the peoples of the country, but the Mexican American Heritage textbook is set to do just the opposite. Its content erases Mexican American history and culture and it presents historical information in manner that misinforms, rather than educates.

Black and white image of Moses Austin
Moses Austin, 1761-1821 (via Wikimedia Commons).

For instance, a passage in the book claims that “in 1822, Moses Austin obtained the first charter to start an American colony in Texas.” As most historians know, what Austin received was not a charter, but an offer for a land grant where up to 300 colonists could move and settle in Texas, then Mexican territory, with the stipulation that they swear allegiance to Mexico and become Mexican citizens. Also, expert historians made sure to note that Moses Austin died in 1821, so by 1822, the date provided in the textbook, Austin was in fact no longer alive and could not have obtained what the authors claimed was the first charter to colonize Texas.

Last month The Guardian reported that the passages in the textbook portray Mexican Americans as “anti-education and anti-English” and depict “true Mexican identity” as being inherently in rebellion against the establishment. They write that “High School and college youth may refuse to attend class, speak English or learn certain subjects because they perceive injustice in the school system,” and claiming Mexican American prosperity is hindered by their own identity. In addition to reports in the media, the Ad Hoc Committee, consisting of a group of scholars who took the initiative to read and review the textbook last spring, have highlighted some of the most disturbing errors. In chapter 3, for example, the authors wrote that “most Mexicans weren’t literate, they could not own land, and had been given the message that they should be subdued rather than lifted up. How would they invent a system from nothing that depended on participating in political and economic life?”[1] They portray Mexican Americans as having an all-encompassing cultural attitude of laziness that makes them put off important things for “mañana,” because, according to the textbook, they “have not been reared to put in a full day’s work so vigorously.”

Contrary to those portrayals, Mexican Americans and Mexican American scholars, historians and other professionals have begun the rigorous undertaking of meticulously reviewing the textbook by tabulating historical inaccuracies, listing factual errors, and conducting extensive and in depth analysis of the historical content of the textbook. The Mexican American scholars and the community were quick to organize in Austin and across Texas, and have managed to coordinate with other scholars, and historians across the country to write a strong case against the Mexican American Heritage textbook, so that it is not adopted by the Texas State Board of Education in the November hearings. The Ad Hoc Committee presented its report this past summer to the Texas State Board of Education’s Representative, Ruben Cortez, Jr., to explain why the proposed textbook was inadequate, how it failed to meet basic standards and guiding principles in the history profession. They provided an extensive list of suggested revisions to the publisher, suggestions that today, at one week until the hearing, have gone vastly unheeded.

Close-up photograph of the six flags over Texas emblems under state capitol dome
The Texas State Capitol (via Wikimedia Commons).

Here at UT Austin, the University of Texas Textbook Review Committee has six members working under the guidance of Dr. Emilio Zamora, of the UT Austin History Department, to produce a complete annotated list of factual errors, omissions, and misrepresentations, and also a list of suggested revisions. The committee’s goal is to serve historians and experts such as Dr. Zamora to prepare a written response based on their findings and historical evidence, to present to the Texas State Board of Education on November 15, and for that response to help prevent the Mexican American Heritage textbook from being adopted.

Despite the documented factual errors and wide criticism of the textbook, the hearing is not going to be an easy one. Conservative politicians have been supporting adoption of the textbook. For example, David Bradley, the Republican state representative for Southeast Texas on the Texas Board of Education, said that he had originally voted against the call for textbooks because he considers Mexican-American studies to be discriminatory against Americans of other ethnic backgrounds. He now plans to vote to adopt the book, because he is “going to give them what they asked for.” Bradley added “they wanted a course, and they wanted special treatment, and we had publisher step up.” He is intent on casting his vote for the adoption of this textbook.

The Main Building at the University of Texas - Austin (via Wikimedia Commons).
The Main Building at the University of Texas – Austin (via Wikimedia Commons).

Criticism of the textbook has come from historians across the nation, professional organizations, and activists’ platforms, including American Historical Association. In September, the AHA wrote a letter of concern to the Texas State Board of Education regarding the textbook because, they wrote, “the textbook does not adequately reflect the scholarship of historians who have worked in the field of Mexican American history, or measure up to the broad standards of history as a discipline.” The American Historical Association urged the Texas Board of Education “reject the use of this textbook as an option for institutions within the purview of the board’s adoption policies.”

We hope that more allies come to our support, and that many scholars, historians, educators, and students show up at the William B. Travis Building at the State Capitol for the hearings on November 15. It is imperative that textbooks such as The Mexican American Heritage do not get adopted. A textbook on Mexican Americans or Mexican American history or any other history that is filled with errors and racist allegations should not be used to educate our children, not now, not ever.

[1]District 2 Ad Hoc Committee Report on Proposed Social Studies Special Topic Textbook: Mexican American Heritage, presented to Ruben Cortez, Jr., State Board of Education Representative, September 6, 2016.


Board of Education agendas and information for the November 15th-18th meetings can be found here.
A map indicating the building location can be found here.
You can find out who your SBOE representative is here, and can contact members of the SBOE here.


You may also like:
Chris Babits offers Another Perspective on the Texas Textbook Controversy.
Christopher Rose recounts his experience testifying before the SBOE in this blog post.
NEP contributors relate what happens When a Government Tells Historians How to Write and How to Teach.

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.

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