Preface for Not Even Past: What place do video games have in the history classroom? Until recently, most educators dismissed this medium as frivolous and sensational. But given the staggering time that students spend in these digital landscapes, and the increasing thoughtfulness and diversity of major games, it may be time for a reassessment. My own experience in teaching a college class on late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century American history through the Red Dead Redemption franchise has convinced me that there’s tremendous future potential in the intersection of games and serious history. My experimental course at the University of Tennessee has seen unprecedented enrollments each semester, and student enthusiasm during class has similarly shot upward. I’ve adapted the course into a book, Red Dead’s History, which has also convinced me that digital games can provide a bridge for professional historians to reach wider audiences and share the academy’s wealth of knowledge. The book has granted me opportunities for public engagement that I could never have imagined previously – many made possible by my audiobook’s narrator, actor Roger Clark, who played Red Dead Redemption II’s protagonist. Roger and I spoke to a packed auditorium at San Diego Comic-Con, and were interviewed by one of YouTube’s most popular game streamers. When Roger and his fellow actor Rob Wiethoff made a surprise visit to my college class, game news site IGN broadcast the footage to millions of viewers.While this short-form public engagement often lacks the depth that academic scholars are accustomed to, it leads viewers toward a book that is very much a scholarly product, as Red Dead’s History is a synthesis of recent historiography in U.S. Western, Southern, and Appalachian history. And as early reader reviews indicate, new audiences are finding that scholarship is fresh and illuminating. As video games continue their astronomical growth in future decades, historical games will remain central to the medium. How will professional historians leverage this public passion toward serious study of the past? The future is wide open.
Title of course: Red Dead’s History: Exploring America’s Violent Past Through the Hit Video Game
Q: What prompted the idea for the course?
This course was born during the COVID-19 pandemic. Confronting the lockdowns of 2020 and uncertain months spent at home, I rekindled a high school hobby that I had neglected for two decades – video gaming.
Used copy of Red Dead Redemption II. Source: Not Even Past
One of the first games I picked was “Red Dead Redemption II,” set in a fictionalized America of 1899. The game follows the Van der Linde gang, a diverse crew of idealistic outlaws, as they flee authority in an increasingly ordered and hierarchical world. Since its 2018 release, the game has sold more than 64 million copies, making it the seventh on the list of all-time bestselling video games – and the only historically themed one on the list.
While video games had been a mindless pastime in high school, this time around, I was playing as a professor who specialized in U.S. history since the Civil War. And though that made me a far more critical gamer, I was also genuinely surprised at how often RDRII – as it is often called – alluded to major topics that historians have spent generations debating.
These topics include corporate capitalism, settler colonialism, women’s suffrage, and the inequalities of race in an era that Mark Twain had called the “Gilded Age” – a period where the dazzling wealth of a small handful sharply contrasted with the misery of common people. These weighty topics were often on the game’s sidelines rather than at center stage – but they were present nevertheless.
Q: What does the course explore?
Given the centrality of violence to the video game, the course seeks to understand what really spurred bloodshed in the United States between 1865 and 1920.
In RDRII, gunfire is usually sparked by personal grudges, robberies, or the overconsumption of alcohol. But in Gilded Age America, it wasn’t so simple. Instead, broader social problems were the primary catalyst of violence. First, Americans fought over the emerging regime of corporate capitalism. Should new businesses like U.S. Steel and the Union Pacific Railroad, who wielded never-before-seen power and influence, dominate workers and consumers alike? Many resisted such an idea through protests, strikes, and sometimes bloodshed.
The Pullman Strike of 1894. Railroad workers who protested poor working conditions and low wages committed arson and destroyed property, which was followed by brutal state and federal law enforcement crackdown efforts. Image source: Wikimedia Commons.
Secondly, Americans came to blows over the unfulfilled promises of racial equality that were written into the U.S. Constitution after the Civil War. Especially in the South, where the vast majority of African Americans lived, the formerly enslaved and their descendants demanded inclusion in politics and a chance to progress economically. But many white Southerners resisted such efforts, often using terrorism to push their Black neighbors into subservient positions.
Q: Why is this course relevant now?
American society in the late 19th century was ruptured by inequalities wrought by capitalism and race – and so is ours today. In the wake of Black Lives Matter and Occupy Wall Street, it’s wise that we look back at the long road that brought America to its contemporary dilemmas of racial violence and the gap between rich and poor. A handy way to open that conversation with young Americans is through video games – an industry that has now surged in value to eclipse both music and movies and which might be the key to reaching this generation’s students, as studies are beginning to show.
Q: What’s a critical lesson from the course?
One key lesson is about the city of New Orleans, fictionalized in RDRII as “Saint Denis.” In the game, the outlaw protagonists trade fire with the city’s blue-coated policemen following a botched bank robbery, leaving bodies in the streets. Few gamers could guess that a similarly bloody firefight with the police riveted the actual city in 1900, just a year after the game is set, leaving seven officers dead. Yet here the outlaw was a Black man, Robert Charles, who took a violent stand against police abuse and the emerging system of Jim Crow segregation.
In response to his attacks on the police, white mobs roamed the city and indiscriminately killed Black civilians. Therefore, the explosion of violence in New Orleans was produced not by simple banditry but by one of America’s towering social dilemmas.
Illustration in “The Mascot” newspaper, New Orleans, 1889. “Results of Police Outrage Investigations.” The first panel of the cartoon entitled “As the Public See Him” shows a policeman with the head of a lion, waving a pistol and bloody billy-club over two prostrate bleeding bodies, as a citizen in the distance reacts in horror. The scond panel entitled “As the Committee Makes Him” shows policeman with the head of a lamb and angel wings, carrying a beribboned staff, exiting from a portal labled “Police Examining Committee” with a sign “Whitewashing Done Cheap”. A man with a top hat and cane looks on through binoculars. Source: Wikimedia Commons
Q: What materials does the course feature?
I frequently begin course sessions with a brief video cutscene or gameplay footage from RDRII before we dive into the actual history that the games represent – or sometimes, misrepresent. For reading, students dive into scholarly monographs such as historian K. Stephen Prince’s “The Ballad of Robert Charles,” on the violent dilemmas of race in New Orleans. They also read various original sources, such as cowboy memoirs, train schedules, and a Texas newspaper from 1899.
Q: What will the course prepare students to do?
Anyone who has taken my class – or read my new book – will know that the big social problems we are wrestling with today have deep roots and took their modern shape during the same 1865-1920 period that is memorably captured in RDRII. They’ll also become much more discerning consumers of digital media and games in particular; they’ll be better able to assess and critique representations of history on the digital screen.
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.
This week, Jeremi and Zachary have a conversation with Professor Mary Bridges, author of ‘Dollars and Dominion: U.S. Bankers and the Making of a Superpower.’ They explore the significant, yet often overlooked, role of banking institutions, particularly the Federal Reserve, in shaping American democracy and foreign policy.
Zachary sets the scene with his poem, “Reserves”.
The conversation delves into the historical impact of Banker’s Acceptance credit instruments on global trade, the establishment of the U.S. dollar as a reserve currency, and the dynamics of financial power during and after World War I. They also address the importance of transparency and accountability in maintaining a participatory democracy.
Mary Bridges is an Ernest May Fellow in History and Policy at Harvard’s Belfer Center for Science and International Affairs. She is a historian of the twentieth-century United States. Her book, Dollars and Dominion: US Bankers and the Making of a Superpower, has just been published. Her next research project focuses on infrastructure building as a means of projecting U.S. influence overseas. Mary has also worked as a business reporter and editor.
Over sixty years ago, in November 1963, President John F. Kennedy took a fateful trip to Texas. It would be the last of his life. The trip had four planned stops: San Antonio, Houston, Dallas, with a final planned fundraiser dinner in Austin. In the days after his shocking assassination, JFK was buried at Arlington National Cemetery. Four years later in 1967, he was reinterred in his final resting place, marked by the Eternal Flame at the official presidential gravesite. The evolving design of the gravesite at Arlington had been publicized after his initial burial. However, behind the scenes, plans developed for an encircling memorial artwork. This missing wreath has remained undisclosed for decades.
With the Oak Spring Garden Foundation, I revealed the story of “The Missing Wreath: On JFK’s Grave & Mrs. Mellon’s Maquette” in an article published this fall in Ploughshares (the full text can be read here). Told as a detective narrative, it is woven like the structure of a wreath, exploring the planning, creation, and eventual disappearance of the artwork over time.
A short version of the story goes like this:
After JFK’s assassination and his initial interment in Arlington National Cemetery in November 1963, an architectural firm owned by John (Jack) Warnecke was commissioned to design the formal gravesite. Detailed research reports were created in conjunction with consultations by prominent family, scholars, architects, art critics, and clergy, along with a public exhibit of design plans at the National Gallery of Art and coverage in major news outlets. First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy wanted the gravesite to be publicly accessible yet personal and intimate as befitted a family grave. In 1964, she designated her close confidant, Rachel “Bunny” Lambert Mellon—who had designed JFK’s beloved White House Rose Garden—to represent Jackie’s wishes in the grave design.
President John F. Kennedy Gravesite, Arlington National Cemetery, Arlington, VA. Photo by author, November 2021.
With her sophisticated landscaping eye, Bunny softened Warnecke’s design around the Eternal Flame. As the final reinterment approached in 1967, she also worked behind the scenes on a secret memorial sculpture with another close confidant: the French-born Tiffany jewelry designer, Jean Schlumberger.
Bunny Mellon and Jean Schlumberger took as inspiration a wreath of military hats around the Eternal Flame that had been laid by JFK’s funerary Honor Guard in an impromptu gesture at his initial interment. Robert “Bobby” Kennedy, JFK’s brother, had been so moved by the gesture that he said the hats should remain around the grave until they “crumble to dust.” By 1969, the memorial wreath had been secretly made by French-born sculptor Louis Féron. Yet due to series of events and issues that delayed installation, the sculpture went missing by the early 1970s and was essentially lost to time—until it was rediscovered earlier this year.
Through the diligent sleuthing of Elinor Crane and Nancy Collins at the Oak Spring Garden Foundation (the Mellon’s former estate outside Upperville, VA), and with thanks to the memory of a stonemason named Tommy Reed, who had worked for essentially a half-century at Oak Spring, the lost artwork was finally found after a multi-year search. It was found disassembled in packing crates in an offsite storage facility at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum.
Originally written when the artwork was still missing, the story of “The Missing Wreath” aimed to inspire a search for the lost sculpture. In the process of writing, the search to me became a meditation on who and what gets lost and found in retellings of history. As I wrote in the longer article:
Cast and assembled memorial wreath for JFK’s gravesite, unknown location and date, photographer unknown. Photo acquired in 2021 by OSGF from an eBay sale of unidentified photos of “War Art Work” by Louis Féron (from the 2018 estate sale of Louis Féron and Leslie Snow). Courtesy of Oak Spring Garden Foundation.
“Historical artifacts never exist in a vacuum, and inanimate objects have lives and even afterlives. Public and private events color retellings; an artwork can be curated dozens of ways, even to the point of disappearing behind variations of accounts. The aura around the memorial wreath’s absence makes it almost more powerful than if it were present. When public celebrity is involved, when privacy is fiercely guarded, when privilege can determine what is noticed or neglected or even erased, stories can constellate between private records and the public imagination … Histories can get lost between lines and behind headlines—just as a crumbling stone maquette in a rural cemetery can lie for decades without notice.”
In the two years since “The Missing Wreath” was finished and accepted for publication by Ploughshares, additional puzzle pieces have emerged from different corners of the country, aiding in the search for the artwork’s final resting place. A brief coda notes the memorial’s rediscovery, highlighting its journey from lost to found, while leaving room for future historians.
As I reflect back on this remarkable story, what remains of interest to me are different ways to see the memorial wreath. Any history is always incomplete, as acts of remembering grow spaces for future storytellers to fill more gaps. With a nod to Wallace Stevens’ poem “13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” I offer here some frameworks for interpreting and re-interpreting the wreath:
1. Histories of Art and Design: JFK’s memorial wreath was co-created by the American gardener and philanthropist Rachel “Bunny” Lambert Mellon, French-born jewelry designer Jean Schlumberger, and French-born sculptor Louis Féron. When lines between artist, craftsman, and commissioner blur, who is credited as the creator of an artwork? How do historical traditions and cultural systems influence this valuation and reevaluation where art and design meet?
Nancy Collins hanging holiday wreath on headstone of Rachel “Bunny” Lambert Mellon, in Trinity Episcopal Church Cemetery, Upperville, VA. Photo by author, December 2021.
2. Histories of Labor: In addition to the co-creators in name, JFK’s memorial wreath owes much to contributions by highly skilled tradesmen including stonemasons, gardeners, servicemen, foundry workers, and more. The story of the missing wreath surfaced at the Oak Spring Garden Foundation (the former estate of Paul and Bunny Mellon in Virginia), thanks largely to a stonemason, who originally worked on a stone maquette in the early 1970s in the Oak Spring cemetery, where the sculpture briefly weathered. Since many people played a role in this memorial, how are such layers of labor credited?
3. Histories of Memorials: Plans for JFK’s Gravesite included commissioned reports in the 1960s by interdisciplinary critics and experts who considered distinctions among graves, memorials, and monuments in shaping the design. This was complemented by public-facing exhibits and family engagements with the process. Whether a national or personal memorial, how do incorporated elements do more than reflect a singular era to stand the test of time? Since the memorial wreath was not installed on JFK’s grave, how does its rediscovery offer a different reading of the same object in a different historical context?
4. Histories of Cemeteries: Multiple cemeteries in Virginia help to illuminate the story of the missing wreath: Arlington National Cemetery (where JFK is buried), Oak Spring’s Fletcher Cemetery (where the stone maquette was constructed based on JFK’s grave), Trinity Episcopal Church Cemetery (where the Mellons are buried), not to neglect other marked graves, along with unmarked cemeteries in neighboring mountains (largely interring free Black communities). Cemeteries balance preservation of memories with residual presence of physical bodies, cycles of life and death, shaped by beliefs about afterlives rooted in culture and ecology. JFK’s Gravesite sits in a national cemetery; he is one of only two presidents buried at Arlington. How do considerations of burial and commemoration reflect not only the person who died but also the values of the living?
5. Histories of Gardens: Bunny Mellon designed JFK’s White House Rose Garden during the president’s life, his Gravesite at Arlington after his death, and later the bayside grounds in Boston for his Presidential Library and Museum. After her death, the Mellon estate at Oak Spring transitioned from a private estate into a “garden foundation” to cross-pollinate the humanities, arts and sciences. One of its responsibilities includes stewarding the property’s cemetery, which caught the attention of Elinor Crane. Crane began asking questions about the crumbling stone maquette and enlisted Nancy Collins, the Foundation’s archivist, to help her search. Histories of gardens and cemeteries overlap. As landscapes change over time, how do attentions to plants help to support living histories and reparative futures, including attending to climate change?
6. Histories of Materials: JFK’s grave is composed of engraved slate headstones around a large round stone sourced from New England, in a sea of wavy pink granite, surrounded by specimen trees and other signature plantings. The design of the memorial wreath symbolically interweaves materials from bamboo to rope, driftwood to military hats, which inspired the wreath after JFK’s Honor Guard laid their hats in that shape at his initial interment. His memorial artwork was cast at a metal foundry and brought outside for a brief time to weather on an oyster shell stone maquette at Oak Spring. Considering both natural and manmade resources, how does materiality contribute to this story of the memorial wreath?
7. Histories of Ecology: After her multi-year search for the missing memorial wreath, Elinor Crane finally witnessed the artwork in early 2024 disassembled and crated at the JFK Presidential Library and Museum in Boston. On one of the disassembled pieces, she spied an unexpected detail: some bird droppings which she surmised came from Oak Spring when the memorial had been laid to rest for a short time on the outdoor stone maquette in the cemetery in the early 1970s. Since Oak Spring has transitioned from a private estate to a garden foundation to focus on cross-pollinating research, would it be possible to test and trace those droppings to identify the avian species? What foods might that bird have eaten, and does its kin still migrate through this ecosystem? This detail may seem insignificant but reveals the living world that surrounds such memorials.
Stone maquette related to JFK gravesite in Fletcher Cemetery at Oak Spring Garden Foundation, Upperville, VA. Photo by author, November 2021.
8. Histories of Lands (Ancestral, Colonized, Enslaved, Emancipated, Legislated): Established in 1864, Arlington National Cemetery is relatively young. It occupies land once owned by Robert E. Lee, which was requisitioned during the Civil War as a national burial ground. On the heels of the Emancipation Proclamation, part of the land was designated Freedman’s Village to support free Black women and men escaping enslavement. In centuries before colonization, the intersecting waterways of the Potomac and Chesapeake region served as homeland for hundreds of Indigenous communities. How are these ancestral lands recognized and represented in national and regional cemeteries, and who else may be buried in marked and unmarked graves in and beyond this region?
9.Histories of Witnesses: Most of JFK’s contemporaries have died, but after the memorial wreath was found in 2024, Elinor Crane and Nancy Collins learned that an important member of JFK’s funeral Honor Guard still lives. James L. Felder was only the tenth Black American to serve with the Honor Guard (with the other nine preceding him by only months), and he wrote an account of his experience, I Buried John F. Kennedy (1994). When the Oak Spring Garden Foundation gathered experts for a private meeting in September 2024 to share news of the lost-and-found memorial, Felder spoke about his experience and also shared his personal album of JFK’s funeral, made for him personally by First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy. Attendees also received a copy of Felder’s book with an advanced copy of “The Missing Wreath.” His album was reproduced for an exhibition on the memorial wreath that will run at the Oak Spring Garden Foundation from October 2024 into 2025. “The Untold Story of a Lost Memorial” exhibition invites attendees to share their own intersecting memories.
10. Histories of Libraries & Museums: Many museums and libraries figure in this story, including the Oak Spring Garden Library, Museums of Fine Arts in Virginia and Boston, the JFK Presidential Library and Museum, and others. Collections are never complete by themselves. Primary research often requires years for researchers to piece together a story. Large collections may take years to process, catalogue, and create finding aids to make items accessible. Versions of cataloguing can leave items relatively invisible. Conservation and preservation of a single item may take months or longer. Events like a global pandemic can separate curators from collections. Scholarly trends may neglect aspects of objects that hide in plain sight. Historical events influence why items were collected in the first place, leaving gaps in historical records. Collaborations help to reconnect parts that have been disassembled over time. How do related histories influence the lost-and-found memorial wreath and other aspects that may be missing from this story?
11. Histories of Speculative Futures: If the memorial wreath been installed after JFK’s reinterment, what would its reception have been in the era of the late 1960s or early 1970s? Would it have distracted from the timeless simplicity of the Eternal Flame, and what other unrealized memorial plans for the president’s grave lie buried in other archives? Now that the memorial wreath has been found, what are its possible futures, from its current resting place disassembled in Boston to an anticipated exhibition reassembled in Virginia, or otherwise? Why does the specter of JFK’s unrealized presidency continue to haunt our current moment, including vulnerabilities around civil rights and other social concerns that remain pressing issues? Beyond surmising what the world might have been if JFK had survived, would it be more helpful to consider: What descendants have we become, and what kind of ancestors do we wish to be?
12.Symbolic Histories: Many symbols are woven into JFK’s memorial wreath—military hats, ropes, driftwood, a leaf, and more—not to neglect the symbol of the wreath itself. Why have the symbol of wreaths played such an important role over time? What does the choice of a memorial in the shape of a wreath resembling a crown of thorns offer to this larger encircling story? Now that over a half-century has passed since the memorial wreath was created, what symbols still carry resonance or not, depending on the eye (and age and background) of the beholder? Beyond the memorial wreath, how might the living symbol of the Eternal Flame illuminate a path forward, among other eternal flames that have existed across centuries and cultures?
13.Public Histories and Public Memories: For many, the memory of that day remains remarkably vivid. If you were alive in 1963, consider what do you remember? If you weren’t alive then, ask someone who was to share generational knowledge—not only about JFK but also about their daily lives. How do generations connect to learn about the arc of evolving and intersecting histories? What other questions arise? What knowledges emerge by sharing these stories? As I wrote:
“Even as this story tells the arc of an artwork that went missing, it is as much if not more a story of those who co-created a memorial and who cared to go searching for an artifact that got lost, about the ephemeral or privileged materiality of human lives, how cultural collections are acquired and stewarded in ways that evolve, laying groundwork for future researchers and historical understandings.” ~ GEH, “The Missing Wreath”
These are 13 ways of looking at JFK’s lost-and-found memorial wreath, offering more questions than answers. There are surely more. But these questions provide a starting point to look again at this traumatic and critical moment in modern American history, as we work to imagine and co-create possible futures.
Gretchen Ernster Henderson is a Senior Lecturer at the University of Texas at Austin and writes across environmental arts, cultural histories, and integrative sciences. Her publications, exhibitions, and performances include five books, arts media, and opera libretti. She previously served as Associate Director for Research at the Harry Ransom Center at UT-Austin and Co-Director of a National Endowment for the Humanities Institute on Museums: Humanities in the Public Sphere at Georgetown University with UC-Santa Cruz.
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.
Banner picture: Oak Spring Garden Library, Oak Spring Garden Foundation, Upperville, VA. Photo by author, April 2021.
On Saturday, September 21, 2024, I had the privilege of joining a diverse group from Austin’s activist community for a workshop, Archiving Activism Freedom School, organized by Dr. Ashanté Reese and Dr. Ashley Farmer–both of them Associate Professors of African and African Diaspora Studies (AADS) at the University of Texas at Austin. Funded by the National Archives’ National Historical Publications and Records Commission, Campus Contexutation Intiative, and GRIDS, the workshop aimed to make community archiving practices and techniques accessible with the wider goal of documenting activism. The purpose of the Archiving Activism: Freedom School was to “teach student activist, organizers, and community organizations how to archive their community work and maintain digital documentation of their legacies”.
Oriented towards minority student activism and focused on the diverse racial geographies of Austin, the Archiving Activism Freedom School was “organized in the spirit and tradition of historical freedom schools”. As the organizers explain, Freedom schools “are temporary, alterative, and free schools aimed to help organize communities for social, political, and economic equality”. They have their origins in 18th and 19th century secret schools, “where enslaved people learned to read, write, and become politically engaged”. Such institutions became key tools for labor movement and civil rights struggles through the 20th century.
Historically, the purpose of freedom schools has been to empower communities by teaching their history, critically examining their current circumstances, and fostering education for social and political transformation. These goals were thoughtfully integrated into the Archiving Activism Freedom School.
Photo Credit: Michael T. Davis Photography
The first session of the agenda began with two talks by Texas-community members that focused on the question of ‘Why archives matter for your activism’. Jonathan Cortez, (Assistant Professor at the History Department of UT Austin) gave a talk on their experience with the Vicente Carranza Archive which was collected by a Chicano radio host from Corpus Christi. Cortez’s experience as a researcher brought them together with Vicente Carranza, resulting in the development of the Vicente Carranza Papers, a Texas A&M University-Corpus Christi (TAMU-CC) Special Collections now available for consultation at TARO (Texas Archival Resources Online). Cortez’s talk highlighted the importance of community history and creative thinking for archival practice as a means to highlight the activism of Hispanic communities in South Texas.
In the second presentation, Stephanie Lang, writer, organizer, community curator, and founder of RECLAIM, an organization that discovers, recovers, and showcases narratives and histories of Black people through the diaspora, shared her experience with the changing racial landscape of Austin. A seventh-generation African American woman from Austin, she talked about the importance of oral history for documenting the Black history of Austin. Lang emphasized that preservation is a way to maintain the memory and presence of the people of East Austin, one of the city’s most rapidly gentrifying neighborhoods in the city. Archiving, Lang stressed, offers proof that black and brown communities of Austin have pushed back.
In a subsequent session focused on the question of “Who deserves to hold your archives?”, participants heard from Carol Mead (Head of Archives and Manuscripts at The Dolph Briscoe Center for American History), Jacqueline Smith-Francis (Archivist and Curator of Black and African American stories at the Austin History Center), and Rachel Winston (Austin-Based activist, curator, and archivist, currently holding the inaugural Black Diaspora Archivist position at LLILAS Benson, Latin American Studies and Collections).
Photo Credit: Michael T. Davis Photography
A long-time archivist at the largest archive within the University of Texas system Mead’s presentation highlighted the ethics of archiving. In doing so, she stressed questions of access and use to keep in mind while creating and engaging with archives. Smith-Francis emphasized that archival work is deeply connected to land, sovereignty, and the silences contained within archives. Drawing on her 25 years as an archivist at the Austin Public Library, she talked about how community archive programs in Austin have contributed to the decolonization of archives. This shift means that archival initiatives now prioritize diverse subjects, stories, and collections—largely thanks to efforts like her own. Finally, Rachel Winston’s presentation offered valuable insights into the decision-making process behind where to place collections and why. She emphasized the importance of carefully selecting who you engage with when creating archives and shared key strategies for building meaningful relationships with archival institutions.
The second half of the workshop was focused on creating an archival plan. First, archivist Genevia Chamblee-Smith, Hidden Collections Curator at the Texas State University Libraries, walked participants through the step-by-step process needed to create an archive. She outlined six key steps: 1) identify, 2) evaluate, 3) describe, 4) arrange, 5) preserve, and 6) name. In the spirit of sharing knowledge, I will briefly outline the main points of these key steps.
Identify: Take inventory of the materials. What is available? What is important to keep, and what can be discarded? Where are the materials located?
Evaluate: Assess the types of materials you have. Which items are the most sensitive or vulnerable? Do you need professional assistance to process or preserve them?
Describe: Each item intended for preservation must be described in detail, answering key questions: What is it? Why is it significant? Who created it? Where did it come from?
Arrange: Organize materials by subject or type. Create an inventory for easy reference, and store documents in acid-free boxes or folders. Ensure the arrangement allows others to access the materials easily.
Preservation: The workshop emphasized digital preservation techniques. Staying current with technology is essential to prevent materials from becoming obsolete. Key strategies include scanning, converting to digital files, storing data across multiple external drives, and regularly backing up materials.
Name: The final step is consistent file naming. Use the File Naming Convention (FNC) framework to ensure files are easy to identify and relate to others. File names should include relevant metadata, avoid spaces and special characters, follow naming conventions, and be descriptive.
Each participant received an acid-free archive box containing cotton gloves, a pencil, a flash drive, and an acid-free folder. Image taken by the author.
With all this information at hand, the Freedom School ended with a digitization workshop where participants were able to scan and organize their materials for digitization, aiming at social movements preservation.
The workshop included concrete items designed to help with archiving work. Participants received an acid-free archive box containing cotton gloves, a pencil, a flash drive, and an acid-free folder. We also received a booklet that not only outlined the day’s agenda but also provided space to brainstorm and map out the six key steps for organizing our archiving projects.
The Archiving Activism Freedom School was an inspiring initiative, designed to introduce non-trained archivists and community participants to the process of creating archives. I spoke with several attendees focused on activism. They were genuinely excited to be there and grateful for the opportunity to learn more about how to archive community’s materials in a professional, intentional way.
More importantly, this workshop serves as a much-needed example of how to bridge the gap between archivists, academics, and activists. While the concept of community archives is gaining momentum, the scholarship in this field is still emerging. This workshop offered invaluable insights into the priorities, challenges, and opportunities that community archives present, making it an incredible learning experience for all involved.
Camila Ordorica is a doctoral candidate in Latin American History at the University of Texas at Austin, where she studies the history of the General Archive of Mexico during the long nineteenth century (1790-1910). Her research dialogues with archival, cultural, social, and material history, and explores how archives are written into history and their role within it. Camila’s passion for archival studies is rooted in her training as an archivist. She has worked at the Acervos Históricos de la Universidad Iberoamericana and the archives of Sine-Comunarr. She has also collaborated with UNAM’s ENES-Morelia, the ’17, Institute of Critical Studies’ and the International Federation of Public History in archival studies, practice, and digital humanities.
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.
On September 30, 2024, Dr. Tara López, Assistant Professor of Ethnic Studies at Winona State University, presented her new book, Chuco Punk: Sonic Insurgency in El Paso, at the Institute for Historical Studies. Part of The University of Texas Press’ American Music Series, the book traces El Paso’s influential Chicanx punk rock scene from its evolution in the 1970s through the early 2000s. López uses ‘Chuco punk’ as a lens to explore broader political, social, and cultural forces in the borderlands.[1] In doing so, she reveals how this music scene reflected a longer history of cultural and musical resistance among El Paso’s predominantly Chicanx community.
Chuco Punk is deeply embedded in the cultural and geographical specificity of El Paso, a city marked by the realities of militarization and segregation along the U.S.-Mexico border. “Dr. López’s work is impressively propulsive—weaving her expertise as a sociologist, a musicologist, and a transnational historian,” praises Dr. Annette Rodriguez, Assistant Professor of History at UT-Austin. “She elevates late-20th century El Paso, Texas, and Ciudad Juárez to their proper historical significance by documenting this long insurgent sonic landscape.” As Dr. Rodriguez notes, López explores how El Paso’s punk music scene created an outlet for marginalized voices while also responding to the wider social and political environment.
Punks in El Paso found ways to create their own space, sound, and community outside mainstream venues by staging shows in backyards and mechanic shops. The DIY and underground spirit of the scene often garnered dismissive attitudes. Bobby Welch, a concert promoter interviewed by López, recalled feeling that many people dismissed punk musicians as “stupid people who [couldn’t] play two chords.” However, Chuco Punk upends that narrative, showing that these El Paso artists forged a platform to vent frustrations and express solidarity while also pushing back against broader social expectations. By taking these musicians seriously, López emphasized that punk music in El Paso was more than just a rebellious subculture. The genre was also a form of political memory and protest.
López’s research draws on over seventy interviews with punks as well as unarchived materials, such as flyers, zines, photographs, and other ephemera. For the punks of El Paso, personal collections became informal archives. They carefully preserved their own history, which challenges the conventional narrative that punk music is predominately white and male. López’s work resists this framing. Instead, she illustrates how Chicanx women, in particular, carved out their own space within the punk scene.
Alongside these unarchived materials, oral histories serve as the backbone of López’s historical research. However, she initially faced some hesitation within the punk community, whose members were wary of academics seeking to document their story. This skepticism—rooted in the sense that punk itself was never taken seriously by mainstream culture—eventually gave way to rich collaboration. In gaining the punk community’s trust, López is able to elevate marginalized voices and materials by drawing on their rich, informal archives.
Ultimately, López offers more than a history of punk music in El Paso. She also challenges scholars to rethink their assumptions about what sources, archives, and communities are worthy of academic study. In her presentation, she recounted stories of fellow scholars who framed her research as “fun” or “a hobby.” Pushing back, she argued that these attitudes marginalize important narratives and constrain academic scholarship. The power of centering communities at the periphery became apparent during the talk’s question and answer session. Multiple attendees, themselves from El Paso, became emotional as they thanked López for telling the story of their community. Their reactions demonstrate the project’s ability to awaken and animate historical memory. Chuco Punk thus opens new possibilities for how we think about archives, memory, and the role of subcultures in shaping broader historical narratives.
SBITCH – Onion Street, Austin, TX 2000. Video of local punk band discussed in book.
Sicteens, August 27, 1996 at The Attic. Video of local punk band discussed in book.
Gabrielle Esparza is a Ph.D. candidate in Latin American history, with a focus on twentieth-century Argentina. Her dissertation examines the evolution of President Raúl Alfonsín’s human rights policies from his candidacy to his presidency in post-dictatorship Argentina. At the University of Texas at Austin, Gabrielle has served as a graduate research assistant at the Texas State Historical Association and as co-coordinator of the Symposium on Gender, History, and Sexuality in 2020-2021. Gabrielle was also Associate Editor and Communications Director of Not Even Past from 2021-2022. Currently, Gabrielle works as a graduate research assistant in the Institute for Historical Studies and as an Editorial Assistant for The Americas: A Quarterly Review of Latin American History.
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.
[1] El Chuco is a common nickname for El Paso. Scholars attribute the term’s origins to the pachuco subculture that originated in El Paso in the 1920s. Pachucos were particularly well-known for their jargon and style, which included ‘zoot suits.’ See Dictionary of Chicano Folklore (2000)by Rafaela G. Castro for more on this term.
I was on a train listening to the podcast The Road to Now and I couldn’t stop laughing. The hosts joked about drunken slogans from the 19th century on American daredevil diver, Sam Patch, a feud fought by jumping off Passaic Falls, and a ship with an effigy of Andrew Jackson being sent over a waterfall. [1] As I stifled my laughter, it became clear that there was much more to the story. The podcasters explained Patch’s bizarre journey to becoming one of the United States’ first ‘common man’ celebrities during the onset of the Industrial Age, a narrative also explored in Leaps of Fame: The Rise of Sam Patch and a Changing Industrial Landscape.
To better understand Sam Patch’s life in the context of 19th century working-class culture, I set out to make a ClioVis timeline. ClioVis is an interactive timeline software that allows you to chart, and emphasize connections between, historical concepts, events, and themes. My project incorporates The Road to Now’s podcast episode on Patch, allowing users to hear audio clippings of the podcast. Additionally, I relied heavily on Paul E. Johnson’s research in his excellent book Sam Patch: The Famous Jumper. Not many records exist on Sam Patch, especially preceding his fame, and Johnson’s book is the product of extensive research.
Patch life’s offers a fascinating window into a crucial moment in US history as industrial change transformed literal and cultural landscapes. Born around the turn of the 19th century, Patch spent his youth navigating a shifting landscape of worker identity in New England. He worked as a skilled laborer in various textile mills and, in Paterson, New Jersey, even joined the Paterson Association of Spinners.[2] Outside of work, he quickly began mastering the art of jumping from high places.[3] Thousands of people gathered to watch Patch’s leaps, but his story goes beyond showmanship. Studying his life as a performer reveals how class-status determined access to natural spaces and illuminates the rise of the American daredevil celebrity.
A lithograph of Paterson, New Jersey nearly 88 years after its founding (Packard & Butler Lith. Philadelphia 1880). Source: Library of Congress
The United States’ emerging Industrial Revolution provided the backdrop to Sam Patch’s life. At the time of Patch’s birth, the United States’ first water-powered mills were not even a decade old. In Pawtucket, Rhode Island, Samuel Slater opened the country’s first water-powered textile mill in 1793.[4] This style of mill would eventually transform New England’s waterways as entrepreneurs sought to harness the power of water for industrial production. In Paterson, New Jersey, the Society for Establishing Useful Manufactures (S.U.M.) built an industrial city that Alexander Hamilton hoped would define the United States’ industrial landscape. Paterson Mill—eventually water-powered—opened in 1794.[5]
Patch worked in both of these industrial centers before becoming a daredevil. In Pawtucket, Patch found joy and escape by jumping in the Blackstone River with other children, where he began learning the art of high dives. In 1824, Pawtucket was the site of the nation’s first factory strike. Limited evidence makes it difficult to know if Patch took part in the strike. Regardless, he witnessed the formidable power of Pawtucket’s mill owners who colluded in setting working conditions to limit competition and maximize profits.[6] His time in Rhode Island helped form his sympathies for New England’s working-class.
In 1826, Patch moved to Paterson, New Jersey where he would perform a jump designed to antagonize local businessman Timothy Crane over his use of public land. Patch and his fellow spinners frequently enjoyed the Passaic River recreational area. In contrast, Crane built a park called “Forest Garden” which featured a curated selection of plants for the enjoyment of the city’s elite. For a fee, people could enter Crane’s new park which used to be the site of a public playground.[7] In September 1829, Crane promoted the installation of a bridge across Passaic Falls to his new park. Patch intentionally chose to organize a leap to coincide with the unveiling of this bridge. Crane, hearing of these plans, worked with the police to lock Patch in a basement with Patch’s other favorite pastime: the copious consumption of alcohol. Despite this effort, Patch found a way to freedom and jumped from Passaic Falls right as Crane placed the bridge.[8] As planned, Patch stole the large crowd’s attention. Perhaps unintentionally, Patch also started his path toward becoming the United States’ first famous stuntman.
By jumping at the same time as Crane’s bridge unveiling, Patch staged a public show of resistance to Crane’s attempt to privatize land and regulate the recreational use of natural spaces. We may understand Patch’s jump as highlighting two important concerns that came to define his career as a showman: the public use of natural spaces and his sympathy with New England’s working-class. Patch brought entertainment to public audiences and championed the use of natural spaces for common enjoyment. Crane, on the other hand, created his “Forest Garden” in an attempt to make recreational areas more exclusive.
“Sam Patch on platform. (Typed and glued on the back: “In the 1829 Sam Patch built a 97-foot ladder-like platform at the base of Goat Island and jumped into the river”) Source: Wikimedia Commons
By fall 1829, Patch had become famous and regularly attracted audiences of thousands. Invited to an event celebrating ‘the Niagara Frontier,’ Patch headed to the falls in early October. He planned to jump his highest jump yet off of a platform on Goat Island—a site in between the United States and Canadian Falls. Patch arrived late which led the organizers to delay his jump by a day. When the date came, he had a drink and prepared to throw himself from the prepared platform. As per his routine, Patch wore his Paterson Association of Spinners uniform during his jump.[9] He leapt from the platform and gracefully landed in the pool below. His audience cheered as he emerged from the water. Patch went on to do another jump at the falls just 10 days later. These events further strengthened Patch’s fame.
As Historian Paul E. Johnson argues, Patch was one of the first ‘common men’ to reach celebrity status without significant wealth or ties to positions of great authority. In his words, Patch “wanted to be famous and he succeeded”, a fear that was far from common at the time.[10] In this way, he represented many aspects of the Jacksonian Era. His rise to fame mirrored the ideals that President Andrew Jackson and the Democrats promoted—an image of opportunity and success available to supposedly “ordinary” white male Americans.
My ClioVis timeline expands on Sam Patch’s story while better situating it within the context of the early 19th century. Using the ‘categories’ feature, I organized my timeline into cultural history, labor history, and the events of Patch’s life. The software also allows me to incorporate images, audio clippings, and ‘connections’ to strengthen my argument. These features enabled me to create a complex chronology of Patch’s life.
Sam Patch ended his career with a fatal jump into the Genesee River in 1829—yet, his legacy lives on. Following his death, Patch’s name entered into the colloquial lexicon. “What the Sam Patch,” “Where the Sam Patch,” and “Some things can be done as well as others” all became common sayings.[11] President Jackson named one of his horses Sam Patch, and the actual Patch became a character in countless theatrical productions and literary works across the world.[12] Today, Patch’s life offers us a platform to jump off for a deeper understanding how the Industrial Revolution changed natural and cultural landscapes in New England. His story provides insight into how capitalists and workers varied in their approaches toward using public land. Finally, examining Patch’s rise to fame tells us something about how Patch and the Jacksonian Era ushered in new ideas of the ‘American celebrity.’ Patch claimed physical space—through his jumps and their audiences—for the working-class on public land and in peoples’ minds as a ‘common man’ celebrity.
Aidan Dresang is an undergraduate history major studying to become a public high school history teacher. He is interested in environmental history and resistance movements. As a future history teacher, Aidan hopes to teach history critically and bridge the community-classroom divide. He is currently a ClioVis intern.
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.
[1] Rivers Langley, Narado Moore, and Ben Sawyer, “Sam Patch: America’s First Daredevil,” The Road to Now, accessed July 15, 2024, https://open.spotify.com/episode/3qHTRGbVgsrML2z5nYmtAL?si=c6bbc181cf284adb.
[2] ‘Spinners’ refers to workers who made thread, often using the ‘spinning jenny.’ The adoption of power looms in textile production mills often led to the displacement of skilled textile workers (spinners).
[3] Paul E. Johnson, Sam Patch, the Famous Jumper, 1st ed (New York, NY: Hill and Wang, 2003).
This week, Jeremi and Zachary sit down with Samuel G. Freedman to talk about the often overlooked contributions of Hubert Humphrey to American history and civil rights.
The discussion traces Humphrey’s rise from a small-town boy in South Dakota to a pivotal figure in the civil rights movement and U.S. politics. Despite not achieving the presidency, Humphrey’s impact as Mayor of Minneapolis, U.S. Senator, and Vice President is profound, particularly his efforts on civil rights, African American and Jewish relations.
Zachary sets the scene with his poem, “The Old Days.”
Samuel G. Freedman is an award-winning author, columnist, and professor. A former columnist for The New York Times and a professor at Columbia University, he is the author of 10 acclaimed books, including the newly-released Into the Bright Sunshine: Young Hubert Humphrey and the Fight for Civil Rights. Jon Meacham has hailed the book as “a compelling and important account of Humphrey’s critical role in the freedom struggles of the mid-20th century.”
Freedman’s previous books are Small Victories: The Real World of a Teacher, Her Students and Their High School (1990); Upon This Rock: The Miracles of a Black Church (1993); The Inheritance: How Three Families and America Moved from Roosevelt to Reagan and Beyond (1996); Jew vs. Jew: The Struggle for the Soul of American Jewry (2000); Who She Was: My Search for My Mother’s Life (2005); and Letters To A Young Journalist (2006); and Breaking The Line: The Season in Black College Football That Transformed the Game and Changed the Course of Civil Rights (2013).
With his colleague Kerry Donahue, Freedman co-produced a radio documentary and authored a companion book, both entitled Dying Words: The AIDS Reporting of Jeff Schmalz and How it Transformed The New York Times. The documentary and book were released in conjunction with World AIDS Day on December 1, 2015, and since then the documentary has been broadcast on more than 500 NPR member stations. In 2020, Freedman wrote Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom: The Journey From Stage to Screen, the companion book to the film adaptation of August Wilson’s classic play.
Small Victories was a finalist for the 1990 National Book Award and The Inheritance was a finalist for the 1997 Pulitzer Prize. Upon This Rock won the 1993 Helen Bernstein Award for Excellence in Journalism. Four of Freedman’s books have been listed among The New York Times’ Notable Books of the Year.
Jew vs. Jew won the National Jewish Book Award for Non-Fiction in 2001 and made the Publishers Weekly Religion Best-Sellers list. As a result of the book, Freedman was named one of the “Forward Fifty” most important American Jews in the year 2000 by the weekly Jewish newspaper The Forward.
Freedman was a staff reporter for The New York Times from 1981 through 1987. From 2004 through 2008, he wrote the paper’s “On Education” column, winning first prize in the Education Writers Association’s annual competition in 2005. From 2006 through 2016, Freedman wrote the “On Religion” column, receiving the Goldziher Prize for Journalists in 2017 for a series of columns about Muslim-Americans that had been published over the preceding six years.
Freedman has contributed to numerous other publications and websites, including The New Yorker, The Washington Post, The Guardian, Daily Beast, New York, Rolling Stone, USA Today, Los Angeles Times, Buzzfeed, Salon, Slate, Chicago Sun-Times, Tablet, The Forward, Ha’aretz, The Undefeated, The Root, and BeliefNet.
A tenured professor at the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, Freedman was named the nation’s outstanding journalism educator in 1997 by the Society of Professional Journalists. In 2012, he received Columbia University’s coveted Presidential Award for Outstanding Teaching. Freedman’s class in book-writing has developed more than 110 authors, editors, and agents, and it has been featured in Publishers Weekly and the Christian Science Monitor. He is a board member of the J. Anthony Lukas Book Awards and member of the Journalism Advisory Council of Religion News Service and the faculty advisory board of the Center for Journalism Ethics. He has spoken at the Smithsonian Institution, Yale University, and UCLA, among other venues, and has appeared on National Public Radio, CNN, and the PBS News Hour.
Freedman holds a bachelor’s degree in journalism and history from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, which he received in May 1977. He lives in New York with his wife, Christia Chana Blomquist.
This week, Jeremy and Zachary sit down with Paul Stekler to explore whether debates influence election outcomes, referencing major debates from past elections, and look closely at the recent debate between Kamala Harris and Donald Trump.
Zachary sets the scene with his poem, “Everyone is Laughing”.
Paul Stekler is a nationally recognized documentary filmmaker whose critically praised and award-winning work includes George Wallace: Settin’ the Woods on Fire; Last Man Standing: Politics, Texas Style; Vote for Me: Politics in America, a four-hour PBS special about grassroots electoral politics; two segments of the Eyes on the Prize II series on the history of civil rights; Last Stand at Little Big Horn (broadcast as part of PBS’s series The American Experience); Louisiana Boys: Raised on Politics (broadcast on PBS’s P.O.V. series); Getting Back to Abnormal (which aired on P.O.V. in 2014); and 2016’s Postcards from the Great Divide, a web series about politics for The Washington Post and PBS Digital. Overall, his films have won two George Foster Peabody Awards, three Alfred I. duPont-Columbia University Journalism Awards, three national Emmy Awards, and a special jury prize at the Sundance Film Festival.
It’s usual when hearing the word “lowrider” to imagine a car, lifted just barely above the road by wheels with stylized rims, and probably an impressive paint job and hydraulic system. Alongside this meaning, lowrider also refers to an entire culture and community that surrounds the customization and competition of cars, bikes, and anything else that can be converted to fit the lowrider aesthetic. Lowriding is a culture rooted in Mexican American communities with southwestern influences, that values family, community service, creativity, and dedication. This phenomenon has given rise to numerous car shows and competitions across the nation, and internationally, all with the goal to inspire and encourage lowriders to “create cars that push the limits of what a car can be.”
At the Bullock Texas State History Museum, Carros y Cultura: Lowriding Legacies in Texas, is on display until September 2nd, and it’s one cruise that should not be missed. Immediately when walking through the exhibit entrance, you’re struck by color and creativity. Large banners hang from the ceiling displaying words that encompass what it means to be a lowrider: community, character, creativity, family, artistry, dedication, style, respect, culture, skill, identity, “con safos”, valor, passion, and pride. These embody the values of the car club community. Approaching each item, whether it be a modified bicycle, or a car painted to resemble a mural, the values become clear from the level of detail, dedication, and familial story each piece needed to become the museum-worthy work it is today.
Courtesy of the Bullock Texas State History Museum. 1967 Ford LTDcourtesy John Colunga, Austin.
Lowriding originated in California after the end of World War II as a conveyor of cultural expression and as a reflection of Mexican American identity. At the time, the cultural movement was heavily associated with the Chicano civil rights movement, which resulted in city laws targeting the lowriding cars by restricting car height. The restrictions didn’t deter the lowriders, who cleverly adapted by installing hydraulic systems that let them raise the cars to a legal height for driving, then lower them for cruising. This creative solution to the targeting laws became a beacon of lowriding culture and is embedded in competitions and shows as a testament to the skill of designers.
After a resurgence in the 1970s, lowrider culture expanded outside of California, reaching the rest of the Southwest region and Texas. Soon, car clubs began popping up in West Texas cities such as El Paso and Odessa that are through points of traffic flowing from Texas, California, and Mexico. The club and car culture continued to grow throughout Texas, and soon reached relevance in pop culture and media. Publications like Lowrider Magazine gave the community a unified voice, while lowriders gained visibility in movies and music. Eventually, the community activity reached formal competitions and car shows, bringing lowriding into the mainstream auto industry and cementing the culture’s relevance in a new audience. Lowriding has expanded its reach past the U.S. borders, with shows taking place all over the world.
Community is a major tenet of lowrider culture, and this can be seen through the more than a thousand official car clubs that support the culture and maintain its connections throughout the country. Lowrider Magazine has a registry of over 1,300 clubs today, but this is a low estimate of the true number of clubs that individuals and families run on their own. Each of them has an individual story and identity: some choose to focus on a certain style of car (the Chevrolet Impala is one of the most popular models to customize), and some base their membership on shared values. All seek to serve their communities and sustain their culture through familial connections and positive, respectful environments. Clubs can serve the community in a variety of ways, including raising money for charities and providing collective family friendly gatherings for small towns and neighborhoods. In Austin specifically, the club Highclass Austin works to help less fortunate children through hosting an annual holiday toy drive for orphans in Mexico.
Courtesy of the Bullock Texas State History Museum. 1963 Chevy Impala courtesy Raul Rodriguez Jr., Round Rock
One of the earliest lowriding car clubs in Texas was founded in the 1970s by Nick Hernandez, a legendary lowrider from Odessa, Texas. The club, Taste of Latin, had 14 chapters across the state at its peak of popularity, and aside from showcasing the various creations of the lowriders, acted as a vocal outlet for Mexican American civil rights. Nick Hernandez is also the father of America’s longest running lowrider car show, the Tejano Super Show, which began in 1972. One of Hernandez’s personal cars was a 1964 Impala called the “Odessa Masterpiece,” which helped grow the Taste of Latin’s reputation for customized paint schemes. The iconic piece, the hood mural, was featured in Lowrider Magazine in 1980, and recognized in Texas Monthly as Best Lowrider in 1985. The mural features a dual-paned painting centered around two blue fairies set in a grassy waterscape, and colorful striped detailing framing the hood.
Since family is a strong tenet of lowrider culture, most car club gatherings take place on Sunday afternoons, with activities such as picnics, car shows, and cruises. Familial bonds are strengthened through time spent together, but also teaching the art of customization to the next generation. A lowrider child’s first introduction to the culture is often a Taylor Tot stroller, vintage strollers with custom paint jobs, or a custom pedal car, both displayed alongside the full-size cars in the exhibit to emphasize the intergenerational connections of lowriding. Lowriding, the exhibition tells us, is something that runs in the family, and parents who participate in the culture encourage their children to find their own ways of creative expression by teaching them lowriding techniques. A phenomenon that began as a way for children to engage with the culture, working on bikes allows parents to pass lowriding values and skills to their children, and inspires them to build their own personal connections to the culture and the craft.
Courtesy of the Bullock Texas State History Museum. 1984 Chevy Monte Carlo “La Mera Mera” courtesy Mercedes Mata, Dallas
The cars themselves are the true marvel of the exhibition. Lowrider cars are extraordinary vehicles for personal expression, and the two Chevrolet Monte Carlos on display are of the most eye-catching of the group. One, “La Mera Mera,” is a dazzling pink 1984 Monte Carlo designed by third-generation Dallas lowrider, Mercedes Mata. This car features a custom pink interior, molding, exterior, and even a heart-shaped chain steering wheel. The hood’s mural depicts the creator, Mercedes, with the backdrop of her hometown’s skyline, honoring its importance to her and her family. Mercedes cemented her place in the Dallas community as the youngest woman to build her own lowrider, and she continues to advocate for other female lowriders as well as for mental health through her social media presence.
The “Blue Monte” is one of the most impressive parts of the exhibit, boasting more than thirty years of different major paint jobs and customization, and numerous awards and accolades from Lowrider Magazine. The intense dedication and work put into this car is obvious from the second one lays eyes on the Monte Carlo car, and it is difficult to put into words how stunning the artwork is. Blue Monte’s base is a sparkling royal blue paint topped with a rainbow of stripes and geometric line work that make this car truly unique. The mysticism does not end with the paint; the entire interior of the convertible is covered with a vibrant golden crushed velvet, which is also found in the trunk surrounding the hydraulic motor. Gold and reflective details are found all around the car, from the mirrored doors and center console, to the rims and engraved bumpers. And resting on top of the rear center console is a miniature version of the Blue Monte—a testament to the car’s place in lowrider pop culture.
Blue Monte’s owner and designer, Chuy Martinez, is as much an icon to the lowrider community as the car itself. He has been an active member of Laredo’s lowrider community since he was 15 years old. Quickly becoming a prominent member of one of the oldest Texas lowrider clubs, Brown Impressions, Martinez has held the position of club president since 1982. When Martinez became the owner of the car that would become the infamous “Blue Monte,” he knew he wanted to create something that was completely unique to himself, and in 1990 he began this process by turning the car into a convertible. This iconic duo of car and designer has earned numerous show awards at car shows, including Best Full Custom, Best Metal Engraving, and even Best Lowrider of All.
Courtesy of the Bullock Texas State History Museum 1975 Chevy Monte Carlo courtesy Chuy Martinez, Laredo
The cars and bikes not only represent a personal creative output, but reveal deep ties to Texan and Mexican culture through artistic expression. Under a front spotlight at one of the exhibit’s entrances rests the “Still Texas,” a 12-inch 1972 Schwinn Fastback bike designed with the familiar orange and white color scheme of the Texas favorite, Whataburger. The bike’s owner and designer, Danny Pechal, wanted to create the piece as an homage that felt purely Texan when competing around the country. Sporting an eye-catching neon orange, the small but intricate bike holds a scavenger hunt’s worth of Whataburger iconography, from the “24-Hours” sign posted on the front wheel, to the signature “W” logo emblazoned on the sides, wheels, and handlebars of the bike.
Another element of cultural representation comes through in Austin lowrider John Colunga’s 1967 Ford LTD, which displays a mixture of high-quality materials and refined technique to create two massive painted murals. Colunga used a polyurethane paint that is also used on airplanes, buses, and trains, creating murals that are not only detailed works of art, but also stand the test of time and weather. The murals, one a mélange of sky and color resembling the northern lights with a center image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, a highly significant figure in Mexican Catholic culture, is accompanied by vines of roses that encompass the frame of the car. With a green body, white roof, and red painted details, the car and its colors represent a tribute to Mexico and its culture, cemented by the Mexican flag displayed proudly in the open trunk.
Courtesy of the Bullock Texas State History Museum. John Colunga with 1967 Ford LTD.
In gazing at the intricate creations of the lowrider designers, it’s important to also recognize the small details that come together to form these pieces of art. The exhibit displays the parts of what makes a custom lowrider special in both up-close models you can touch and an interactive digital game that gives the viewer a deeper glimpse into how much work goes into creating a fully customized lowrider car. Parts of the display include a chain-link steering wheel, switches for a hydraulic system, an engraved chrome plaque, and samples of the crushed velvet and leather upholstery that is commonly found in lowriders.
From the full-size cars exhibited in the museum to the small but vitally important details of engraved chrome and fabric, every aspect of creating a lowrider is displayed for visitors to enjoy. Even more impressive than the cars themselves are the stories, of communities coming together for the less fortunate, of families finding a collective bond through multiple generations, and of individuals finding their passions and holding pride in their unique works of art. Nowhere else will one see such strong community ties, a rich cultural history, and absolutely dazzling cars all in one place. This particular collection tells the story of lowriding beautifully, and is not one to be missed.
The exhibition, which ran at the museum from May 11, 2024, to September 2, 2024, is sadly no longer on display but it remains a significant achievement.
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.
This week, Jeremy and Zachary sit down with John A. Lawrence to delve into the intricacies of the U.S. Congress. They discuss its historical significance, common misconceptions about its operations, and the inherent challenges in passing legislation.
Zachary sets the scene with his poem, “The Speaker”.
John A. Lawrence served for thirty-eight years as a senior staff person in the United States House of Representatives, including as chief of staff for Speaker Nancy Pelosi. He is currently a visiting professor at the University of California’s Washington Center. He is the author of: The Class of ’74: Congress after Watergate and the Roots of Partisanship; Arc of Power: Inside Nancy Pelosi’s Speakership, 2005-2010; and Sherlock Holmes: The Affair at Mayerling Lodge.
