Recognition of Social Murder: How Lynching Invented ‘The Mexican’ by Annette M. Rodríguez B.A. University of New Mexico, 2005 M.A. University of New Mexico, 2007 M.A. Brown University, 2011 A Dissertation Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctoral Philosophy in the Department of American Studies at Brown University Providence, Rhode Island May 2016 i © Copyright 2016 by Annette M. Rodríguez ii This dissertation by Annette M. Rodríguez is accepted in its present form by the Department of American Studies as satisfying the dissertation requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. Date____________ _________________________________ Dr. Robert G. Lee Advisor Recommended to the Graduate Council Date____________ _________________________________ Dr. Barrymore Anthony Bogues Reader Date____________ _________________________________ Dr. Kirsten Pai Buick Reader Date____________ _________________________________ Dr. Karl Jacoby Reader Approved by the Graduate Council Date___________ __________________________________ Dr. Peter Weber, Dean of the Graduate School iii CURRICULUM VITAE Annette M. Rodríguez, born in Silver City, New Mexico, is an historian of the United States and the México-U.S. borderlands. In 2016, Rodríguez was presented the 18th annual Catherine Prelinger Memorial Award by the Coordinating Council for Women in History for her scholarly and professional contributions to women in history, and for educating young women to pursue careers in the historical profession. After attending Mills College in Oakland, California, and several Bay Area community colleges, Rodríguez received her B.A. and M.A. in American Studies at the University of New Mexico and continued to Brown University, where she was awarded her M.A. in American Civilizations and her Ph.D. in American Studies. Rodríguez received the Hispanic Writer Award at the New Mexico Taos Writer’s Conference in 2006, was nominated for a National Pushcart Prize in 2007, and was given the National Emerging Writer Award in 2008. She has previously been selected as a National Graduate Fellow by the Law and Society Association, a Latino Museum Studies Program Fellow at the Smithsonian Institute, the George I. Sanchez Fellow at the Center for Southwest Research, and a Graduate Fellow at the Office of the New Mexico State Historian. Rodríguez has acted as an instructor at Brown University, Northern New Mexico College, Santa Fe Community College, the Southwest Indian Polytechnic Institute, and the University of New Mexico. She concentrates her work on perennial racist violences in the United States as communicating events that construct and reinforce ideologies and hierarchies of race, gender, citizenship, and national belonging. iv ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I want to thank those who have walked with me, stirred me, and corrected me. To my Chair and Advisor Dr. Bob Lee, I offer my great appreciation. For giving this scholarship kid her big break, and for guided me through the rigors of a program that demanded excellence and offered incredible support in nurturing it. To Dr. Tony Bogues whose patience, engagement, and watchful eye have adjusted my thinking in powerful ways. His investment in talking through texts with me has been far beyond the call of duty, and his insights have reshaped my work. To Dr. Kirsten Pai Buick, who has championed me and grown me up for over a decade. She gave me my first welcome into higher education—with a spirit that has been equal parts kindness and provocation. She is the foundation of my scholarly training and her generous advocacy has insured my projects and ideas have been supported and funded. To Dr. Karl Jacoby whose concern for my well-being as well as my work continues to be a marvel. He is a model of how to think through and work through historical practice. To Dr. Patricia Perea, my wife and my Senior Advisor in all things; who invited the ever-living ghosts of Texas into our homes; who shared sadnesses and nightmares; and who gave back love and levity. Our shared curiosity has led to a decade of adventures. Patricia has enthusiastically engaged my work, and has corrected my Texas-sized mistakes. She has been loving companion and serious critic—an aspiring scholar can ask for nothing better. To my mom, Blanca Elia Acosta Doñez, seamstress, caretaker, counselor, and tireless advocate for marginalized people. And yet, still able to give support to three daughters, her own mom, her siblings, nieces, nephews, and greater community. She got me, very literally, the 2,300 miles to Brown University. I am grateful for each mile. To my dad, William Edward Rodriguez, who has survived wars at home and abroad and nurtured three daughters in spite of all his challenges—never fully enumerated. His faith and his calling are what v pushed me to go out and find my own. His gifts of books and scriptures throughout my education have always encouraged deeper consideration. His love of our four-footers (and his own) has added much sweetness to our lives. To my big sister Janette Lynne Rodríguez, who has been a witness to my life. She has accompanied me, and saved me over and over and over again. Her determined love and her willingness to feel and experience the world fully has meant both joy and pain—and the privilege of learning from her has meant my very survival. To my baby sister Camille Ruth Rodríguez, who has always provided me with necessary perspective, and whose strong, insistent presence since emerging into our world has offered delight—and the beautiful laugh of our grandma Priscilla López Rodríguez. To my auntie Apolonia Doñez, my babysitter for forty years now. I cannot conceive of my work being possible without her steady and constant encouragement. She is a far better researcher than I, and has made connections over space and time and borders, continually rewriting and enlarging our family history. To Norma Perea, who told me late-night stories of Del Rio and Sweetwater and cotton fields and fig trees and transistor radios; and to the Lomases, who provided us our Texas base of operations—where we rested, recovered and got some extreme auto repair (thanks Joe and Nancy!). The Lomas family also embraced me, fed me, and indulged me when I rudely holed up in a backroom with a laptop on holidays. To my dear friends and family at Santa Clara Pueblo, most especially Roxanne Swentzell and Rose Simpson, who took me out to the fields, into the sun, and gave me refuge. Deep appreciation to Marian Naranjo, who opened her home to me and displayed a loving fearlessness I have never seen before or since. And to my American Federation of Teachers (AFT-NM) Union President, Tim Crone, who has worked for over forty years to support the efforts of educators and to improve learning conditions for students. To my colleagues who have shared struggles and resources and travels and meals: vi Maxine Marks, who literally blocked the exit doors as I tried to quit my bachelor’s program; Emmanuel Ortega, who has offered music and laughter and new ways to understand colonial violence; Dr. Tita Berger, who kept me encouraged, accountable, and fed in the final stages; and, to Sara Matthiesen who was my reassurance, my study partner, and my co-conspirator when I first landed in the strange new world that was Brown University. I also want to thank those who have supported my research: The Futures of American Studies Institute at Dartmouth College—especially Dr. Donald Pease and Dr. Eric Lott, both read early versions of my work and suggested important correctives. Thank you to the Brown University’s Office of International Affairs, the Center for Southwest Research, the Law and Society Association, the Newberry Library Latino Studies and Borderlands Seminar, the Ronald E. McNair Program, and the Smithsonian Latino Museum Studies Program, who have all materially supported my efforts. And, my sincere gratitude to the Coordinating Council for Women in History for the Catherine Prelinger Memorial Award, which supported my final year of writing. The last several years of collecting and organizing the materials that follow have been a privilege. The scholarly support and freedom I have been given is unearned, but treasured. I have concluded this project with the words of Toni Morrison. In her Nobel Lecture she said, “We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.” She asked of storytellers, “Tell us… What it is to live at the edge of towns that cannot bear your company.” I want to dedicate my labor to all our people who work in sundown towns, who clean houses in neighborhoods they are otherwise not welcome, who drive brown and black, ten and two, eyes on the rearview—for those who bear their unbelonging each day. Finally, to Tam Tran, whose activism, scholarship, films, and humanity gave meaning to my own. vii CONTENTS Curriculum Vitae iv Acknowledgements v-vii Table of Contents viii List of Figures ix-xi Introduction A Man Was Lynched Today 1- 27 Chapter One 28-69 The Word Become Flesh Chapter Two 70-110 Los Desaparecidos Chapter Three 111-156 Massacre Resurgent Chapter Four 157-218 Awful Lawful Texas Chapter Five Demarcation and Domination 219-304 Chapter Six Bodies of War 304-387 Conclusion Repositioning the Border 388-416 Bibliography 417-469 viii FIGURES 1. Big Mary Lynched 28 2. Table 1.1 from Forgotten Dead 56 3. Excerpt from Appendix/Table, from Forgotten Dead 57 4. Map of South Texas, 1920 72 5. Florencio Garcia Draft Registration Card 75 6. Dead Mexican Bandits, Robert Runyon Collection 83 7. Unidentified young man with the remains of four Mexican men 93 8. Lakota Sioux Killed at the Battle of Wounded Knee, 1890 126 9. Two Strike and Crow Dog’s Camp, Pine Ridge South Dakota (and detail) 127 10. C.H. Cressey and William F. Kelley in mock combat 128 10. Engraving, “NO REPORTERS NEED APPLY” 128 12. The Sioux War, Final Review of General Miles’ Army at Pine Ridge 130 13. Dead Mexican Bandits, October 8, 1915, Robert Runyon Collection 136 14. Las Norias Bandit Raid: Dead bandits, October 8, 1915, 138 Robert Runyon Collection 15. Scenes of 1891 - Battle of Wounded Knee 139 16. Las Norias Bandit Raid: Texas Rangers with dead bandits, 139 Robert Runyon Collection 17. Las Norias Bandit Raid: Texas Rangers with dead bandits, 142 Robert Runyon Collection 18. Las Norias Bandit Raid: Las Norias ranch 144 Robert Runyon Collection 19. January 1st 1891 145 ix 20. Mathilde Martinez and Children 159 21. Texas Ranger and River Guards 178 22. “Martyrs of the Alamo” Advertisement, Old Mill Theater, 224 Dallas, Texas, 1915. 23. “Martyrs of the Alamo” Advertisement, Amusements 224 Advertising page, Philadelphia Inquirer 7 October 1915, 11. 24. Intertitle fifty-two from Martyrs of the Alamo: The Birth of 229 Texas, 1915, Triangle Pictures. 25. Scene from Martyrs of the Alamo: The Birth of Texas, 1915, 229 Triangle Pictures. 26. “Joe,” Scene from Martyrs of the Alamo: The Birth of Texas, 1915, 230 Triangle Pictures. 27. “Joe,” Scene from Martyrs of the Alamo: The Birth of Texas, 1915, 230 Triangle Pictures. 28: Handbill by Boston Abolitionist Theodore Parker, 24 April 1851. 232 29. David “Davy” Crocket and James Bowie. Scene from Martyrs 234 of the Alamo: The Birth of Texas, 1915, Triangle Pictures. 30. Spectators at the lynching of Jesse Washington, 268 May 16, 1916, Waco, Texas. 31. Battle of Flowers, 1906 309 32. Mexican Army on the Moove [sic], n.d. 325 33. “Home Guard San Antonio,” San Antonio Light 15 April 1917 332 34. General John Pershing with Francisco “Pancho” Villa 352 35. Proclamation $5,000 Reward from Columbus, New Mexico 352 Chief of Police 36. Otis A. Aultman postcard of U.S. soldier smiling over bodies 355 of dead Mexicans 37. “Pouring Oil on Body to Be Cremated,” W.H. Horne Postcard 358 x 38. “The Body of Pablo Lopez,” W. H. Horne postcard, 1916 361 39. “Kill every one over ten.” New York Journal 5 May 1902 364 40. “The Thompson Submachine Gun: The Most Effective Portable 369 Fire Arm in Existence,” Advertisement 41. “The Thompson Anti-Bandit Gun” Advertisement 369 42. “A Town Torn Apart,” People Magazine, 6 September 2008 398 43. Luís Ramírez, UK Guardian US News 16 December 2009 399 44. Rosario Lucero carries the urn with the ashes of her son 403 Marcelo Lucero, November 20, 2008 xi It has been said that our country’s national crime is lynching. -James Cutler1 The very idea of America makes me shake and tremble and gives me nightmares. -Josephine Baker2 INTRODUCTION: A MAN WAS LYNCHED TODAY3 When, in June 1998, an African American man named James Byrd was dragged to his death through the East Texas town of Jasper, the reportage of the incident called forward the ghost of Emmett Till.4 Journalists, commentators and public figures noted the brutal lynchings of African American men have been all too familiar events in U.S. history. Till, a child murdered by a group of white men in 1955, has been remembered and his lynching became a touchstone for the U.S. Civil Rights Movement due in some part to the cultural production that would follow his murder and the trial of his killers. The memoir by Till’s mother, Death of Innocence: The Story of the Hate Crime That Changed America, the play Blues for Mister Charlie by James Baldwin, and the journalistic production of The Chicago Defender and Jet Magazine all helped to make legible the perennial and contemporary practice of lynching African Americans. As the gruesome details of James Byrd’s murder unfolded—he was dragged alive for several miles, his limbs severed, his body eventually decapitated—the outrage of African 1 American leaders pointed to Byrd’s murder as a clear descendant of the lynching tradition that has included both the extreme suffering and mutilation of live victims and the delight of the victim’s attackers and spectators. During the trials against Byrd’s killers, media attention focused on the long history of racist violence in the south.5 In July of 2009 when a group of attackers beat a Mexican man named Luís Ramírez to death in the East Pennsylvania coal town of Shenandoah, there was no publically recognized historical analogy. Ramírez was brutally beaten by a group of men who punched and kicked him until he lay unconscious.6 After local officials failed to charge the killers with a crime, the Mexican American Legal Defense and Educational Fund (MALDEF) began a national campaign calling for federal hate crime charges against Ramírez’s killers. Said John Amaya, attorney with MALDEF, “This case is not just about what happened to Luís; it’s about what Latinos nationally are facing.” He explained to national news organizations such as the The New York Times, CNN and ABC News that Ramírez’s killing was part of a growing national trend of violence against Latinos, indicating that federal crime statistics showed a forty percent increase in attacks on Latinos from 2003 to 2007.7 The killing of Ramírez, a twenty-five-year-old factory worker, initiated a dialogue on hate crime legislation and the forty percent increase in anti-Latino violence, yet this dialogue failed to recall a documented history of lynchings against Mexicans in the United States. Although as early as 1948, in North from México: The Spanish Speaking People of the United States, Carey McWilliams argued “more Mexicans were lynched in the Southwest between 1865 and 1920 than blacks in other parts of the South,” the history of unrestrained murders of Mexicans has gone largely unrecognized as lynching 2 in both U.S. and revisionist Chicano histories. 8 The lynching of Ramírez and anti- Mexican violence, and its construction as a contemporary problem, must be challenged. African American cultural production has labored, tracing a careful genealogy of violence that has importantly situated today’s lynchings—such as James Byrd’s murder—as the offspring of historical violent subjection, terror, and murder. We must similarly, begin to think through anti-Mexican violence and its representational history or erasure. Further, we must understand violence as practice that socially constructs race and marks the boundaries of U.S. belonging.9 Spurred by the 2009 lynching of Ramírez and following the lead of McWilliams, I explore lynching’s history and contemporary use against the Mexican victim.10 I link the history of the lynching of Mexicans and campaigns of terror with current anti-immigrant lynching. For instance, a report published in 2010 by The Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) explains, “broad-based populist anger at political, demographic and economic changes in America ignited an explosion of new extremist groups and activism across the nation. Furiously anti-immigrant vigilante groups soared by nearly eighty percent, adding some 136 new groups during 2009.”11 The increase in extremist groups follows the 54% rise between 2000 and 2008 in hate groups driven largely by an angry backlash against non-white immigration.12 It is clear anti-Mexican violence in the U.S. is neither an anachronism nor an anomaly. As anti-immigrant violence rises and nativist groups flourish, work on the history and the contemporary manifestations of the lynching of Mexicans is not only relevant, but vital. In “Social Murder: How Lynching Invented ‘The Mexican’,” I work to trace the ways in which our previous definitions of lynching have circumscribed recognition of the 3 practice and its historical analysis. Further, I ask that we move from seemingly accepted understandings of lynching as extra-legal, vigilante, and as a result of objectification or dehumanization. In a relational exploration of the lynching of Mexicans that includes the lynching of indigenous peoples and African Americans; it becomes clear that lynching is a colonizing practice that benefits the expansive state. It is also a racing practice that marks national belonging inside and outside the protections of U.S. citizenship. In addition, the practice of lynching utilizes violence as spectacle and terror, engaging purposeful practices of symbolic visuality. Such practices make lynching cleverly legible, reproducible, and movable. Further, following the work of Karen E. and Barbara J. Fields, I insist that this violence is not a reaction to race, but a creator of race.13 In their work, Fields argue that racism precedes—and, indeed, constructs—race.14 I argue that the practice of racist violence—lynching—is a producer of race. I argue lynching produces and reinforces the figure of ‘the Mexican,’ and this figure is imbued with categorical specificity at the turn of the twentieth-century period. The constructed figuration of ‘the Mexican’ continues to shape today’s racist conceptions and violence. The practice of anti-Mexican violence has been relatively under-recognized as lynching in scholarship, and certainly under-theororized. Yet as noted earlier, early in the nineteenth century, the lynching of Mexicans in the southwest was recorded by Carey McWilliams in North from México, where he asserted, “more Mexicans were lynched in the Southwest between 1865 and 1920 than blacks in other parts of the South.”15 McWilliams’ work—foundational in borderlands studies, labor histories, and migration/ immigration studies—documented an unrelenting pattern of anti-Mexican violence from the mid-nineteenth century. Contemporary historians, William D. Carrigan and Clive 4 Webb have worked cataloguing the killings of Mexicans between 1848 and 1870, reporting, “[r]ecords indicate 473 out of every 100,000 Mexican migrant workers during this time period died as victims of a lynching.”16 Previous work demonstrates that we do not suffer a lack of an archive; instead ours becomes a categorical question, an issue of definition and etymology. In spite of the high rate of anti-Mexican violence documented, there has been a persistent categorical imperative to understand lynching as having specific application against the African American community. Previous work on lynching has focused on the murders of African Americans primarily in the south. While this work would construct a limiting category for lynching, such work is foundationally critical to any work on racist violence. The 1919 National Association for the Advancement of Colored Persons (NAACP) work Thirty Years of Lynching in the United States, 1889- 1918 tabulated over three thousand lynching victims and one hundred accounts of individual lynchings and stands as the only nationwide compilation of lynching events (1991 [1969]). It is a critical resource of U.S. History and helps us to track how domestic terrorism has reshaped the national map. However, this important compilation did not include the lynching of Mexicans. Similarly, the extensive files at the Tuskegee Institute, which are considered the most comprehensive records of lynching victims in the United States, undercounts Mexican lynching victims—though it does include Mexican in the accounting. Tuskegee’s files list fifty Mexicans (in Arizona, California, New México, and Texas) killed of the 4,742 total lynching victims.17 Historiographies of lynching have similarly focused on African American communities. A statistical analysis by Stewart E. Tolnay and E. M. Beck—A Festival of Violence: An Analysis of Southern Lynchings, 1882-1930—documents 2,805 lynchings with no discussion of incidents involving 5 Mexicans. In addition to the near erasure of Mexican victims of lynching, much of the work on lynching that has proliferated since the foundational work of the NAACP reads like catalogues of atrocity. We might think of these secondary sources almost as primary for the analytic field they leave available. For instance, Ralph Ginzberg’s 100 Years of Lynching (1962 [1988]), Walter White’s White Rope and Faggot: A Biography of Judge Lynch (1969) and At the Hands of Persons Unknown: The Lynching of Black America by Philip Dray (2003), all list and record lynchings, yet, offer little examination of the meaning, function, and effects of such acts. As with the statistical compilations by the NAACP and the Tuskegee Institutive, the above listed scholars all reify a white-black binary of lynching. These scholars generally limit their concern to the Deep South geographically and do not further an analysis of the role of violence in local and national histories. It is vital, I believe, to follow and explore these works while pushing against their limiting contours. Another limiting field includes histories of the U.S. west. For over a century, scholars in this field have positioned violence and lynching as inevitable historical products of westward expansion. The few works that have examined violence against Mexicans in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries often conflate lynching with generalized stories of “frontier violence” and “local vigilantism,” suggesting the U.S. West as a lawless place, with necessary and rampant vigilantism. However, scholarship, such as that of Ken Gonzales-Day and Mari Matsuda has carefully established the existence of sophisticated legal systems even as lynchings occurred.18 I argue that we must push against the categories of extra-legal and vigilante violence in order to proceed with an analysis of anti-Mexican violence. Anti-Mexican violence is often within the 6 realms of legality and may act as structuring power for local and national authorities. In addition to the gaps in analytic historical scholarship, no work has been published that considers modern lynchings of Mexicans. I assert that the murders that are termed “anti-immigrant violence” or “hate crime” murders are within the definition and category of lynching.19 The difficulty in the public’s understanding of the 2009 lynching of Luís Ramírez in Shenandoah, Pennsylvania as connected to historical anti-Mexican violence points to our charge. Our work is to establish not only the long history of Mexican lynching in the United States, but also to establish the link between historical and contemporary lynching, and to investigate the continuing function of such racist violence. Lynching is difficult to track. The possibilities for historical recovery have been, in many ways, constrained by furtive “facts”—by anecdotal whispers rather than careful reports. We often find the narratives of events disappear very much as the victims of lynching are disappeared. Yet, the issue is not one of an unrecoverable archive. Indeed, the challenge is to return to the very ample archive and reconsider what has been taken for fact. We must be attentive to the ways in which violence is represented and obscured in cultural production. Throughout my work, I point to the visual and narrative camouflage that has invented the figure of ‘The Mexican’ as non-citizen, alien, bandit, combatant, seditionist, threat. This discursive camouflage has worked for over a century to disguise acts of lynching as acts of punishment, as acts of protection, as acts of patriotic violence, or as acts of war. As with the lynching of African Americans, Mexican lynching was often masked as punishment for crime—but new and shifting veils would be added to crime and punishment justifications. Accounting for the lynching of 7 Mexicans in Texas, we note a strange mix of the historical ubiquitous—Mexicans killed in battles, in bandit troubles, as border crossers. These dead Mexicans have all peopled stories of Texas Walter Prescott Webb and J. Frank Dobie and countless memoirists. These dead Mexicans appear in captivity narratives, travel diaries, journalism, photography and film. The dead Mexican is visible and critical to the regional and national imagined community of Texas. Yet somehow, the Mexican as lynching victim has been disappeared, unrecognized. Even today, historians cannot bring themselves to refuse the bandit paradigm that has, for a century, disguised the lynching of Mexicans. I contend lynching has been an important component of African American cultural production—most markedly in the journalistic activist tradition—yet, there has been a relative lack of cultural production about anti-Mexican violence. My analysis points to the import of representational history. Such representations might be utilized to recirculate and interpret histories of racist violence; a representational repertoire of Mexican lynchings might assist in national understandings of the Ramírez murder and other contemporary lynchings. Through textual representation of histories of lynching, as well as histories of resistance to lynching, we may construct a usable history. 20 For instance, the African American literary tradition draws crucially on a journalistic history, much stemming from accounts in the well-documented anti-lynching campaigns led by leaders such as Ida B. Wells-Barnett. Certainly, these campaigns of the African American community helped to document lynchings, and the detailed documentation has nourished African American cultural production, as well as anti-lynching efforts.21 I assert without a corollary journalistic tradition of documenting racist violence as lynching, and without anti-lynching campaigns in the Mexican community, many of these generative events and 8 histories have been lost to cultural producers and anti-lynching activists. I argue for “a radical rehistoricization” that examines carefully the rhetoric that has contrasted the figure of ‘the Mexican,’ and, in doing so, has disguised the practice of lynching. 22 Each chapter, organized around an event of anti-Mexican violence is an extended deciphering. Following the work of Sylvia Wynter that underscores categorical understandings of Western “man,” I have worked to follow the production of categorical figures in the U.S.-Mexican social drama.23 Each chapter opens with a human community—the human, which is not categorically the U.S. white “man.” This human might be an indigenous leader, a wife searching for her missing husband, a father, a refugee farmer, a proud land owner, an economic immigrant, or a child. After an introduction to what we can know of this human from the available archive, I proceed to trace the meanings written on their body—in law, in media, in discourse. I trace how this human is then figured, how this human’s body is then raced—how, and by whom. I point to the rhetorical and social practices that write meaning on the body, inserting the human into categorical belonging, as non-citizen, alien, bandit, combatant, seditionist, threat. Examination of the discursive constructions opens possibilities. We can then view the ways in which these body texts are used, how they construct and reveal relationships of power and social orders. Each chapter begins with the human, and after careful disentanglement, aims to return to the human. Throughout, I argue our work is to contest the figurations of ‘the Mexican’—figurations that historians and scholars continue to reinstantiate and repeat. As Wynter writes, we must continue “the collective challenge made to the symbolic representational systems… by which we have hitherto nonconsciously woven our innumerable modes of the Self and their innumerable 9 Others.”24 There is no understanding racist violence and its functions without an understanding of its relationship to categorical U.S. belonging. By beginning and ending each chapter with the human—who would be terrorized, dominated, or murdered—we resist fabricated pre- and post-murder rationales. We make space for “a new contestatory image of the human.” 25 Terrains of Terror I engage in a reconsideration of the practice of lynching Mexicans to reflect on the perennial significance and function of racist violence. I attempt to both point to the disguising of the lynching of Mexicans, and to substantially represent these acts using representative events. Further, I seek to explore the ways in which this violence assists broader projects of belonging, citizenship, and race purity via border maintenance. I work specifically with the rhetorics of Texas, which draw on national rhetorics of colonial expansion, and whose regional narratives help to shape the new contours of the ‘Mexican’ body. Since the mid-1800s, the México-Texas border has been a crucial site of invention—Texas has become synecdoche for all relations with Mexicans in the United States. Indeed, Texas was the site of the invention of the Mexican as the killable body. Race—and the Mexican—were not found existing, race—and ‘the Mexican’—were constituted purposefully. Texas is the originator of the figure of ‘The Mexican,’ a new figure that would then become movable and adaptable nationwide. At the site of the México-Texas border, as we witness the construction of the Mexican, we also trace the continuity of the creation of the colonized body and the raced body. The tracking of the figurations of the Mexican make clear that there is no break between coloniality and 10 racialization—the colonized body and the raced body are a continuity, rather than new and distinct constructions. Further, Texas is a critical space where U.S. whiteness is created in relation to Natives, African Americans (both enslaved and freedmen), and the Mexican. I examine the México-Texas border as a critical region with national implications. Over a century of anti-Mexican violence, including today’s anti-immigrant violence is informed by antagonisms played out in Texas. Nationwide violent practices against the constructed Mexican body are derivative of the way ‘The Mexican’ is figured and constructed in Texas. The narratives of the Alamo, the Texas Revolution, the U.S.- México War, the border bulwarks against the Mexican Revolution, the military buildup during World War I, and the longstanding cultural production around the Texas Rangers are not simply a local or regional history; they are critical to the U.S. imaginary. Perpetrators of anti-Mexican violence throughout the States of the nation have drawn on Texas rhetorics, and their own figurations, practices, and policies, are powerful descendants of Texan formations. The history of lynching and racial terror in Texas tells us a larger history of U.S. expansionism and nation-building at the turn of the twentieth century. Along with the relational construction of race, we might understand the history of Texas as both exceptional and reflective of the nation. While Texas history is often figured as an exceptional, aberrant, or regional history, I suggest that we must be attentive to the history of Texas and its role in understanding the empire and the state. Further, the lynchings of Mexicans in Texas at the turn of the twentieth century are critical to larger conversations of World War I, which I argue creates the possibilities for an 11 internationalized front of war, and a militarized border. Using the theoretical framework of Anna Tsing in Frictions: An Ethnography of Global Connection, I point out the scales of the construction of citizenry via public violence. I explore the mobility of ideology and lynching from the geo-political México- Texas border outward. I assert that this border region is salient place for race making, an ideological site of meaning where the bodies of Mexicans become embroiled in a race panic of purity and boundary. These meanings become refined for use in ‘policing’ the boundaries of communities far removed from the border. Thus, we see anti-Mexican rhetoric and lynching emerging at the geopolitical border and moving outward to unexpected regions of the nation. By looking at case studies removed from the border, I explore regional and local iterations and adaptations of anti-Mexican rhetoric and lynching. Following the work of Arjun Appadurai in Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization I aim to construct “ethnographies of terrorscapes” as I track the lynching of Mexicans in the U.S. Appadurai’s work puts critical focus on mass migration and electronic media as it inhabits and moves through the global landscape. This work is well suited for the discussion of current anti-immigrant violence. Appadurai builds on Anderson’s notion of “imagined communities” and posits the social imaginary as a cultural activity. Appadurai has developed the imaginary as composed of five dimensions of global cultural flow: ethnoscapes, mediascapes, technoscapes, finanscapes, and ideoscapes. He describes “the imaginary’ as The image, the imagined, the imaginary—these are all terms that direct us to something critical and new in global cultural processes: the imagination as a social practice… the imagination has become an organized field of social practices, a form of work (in the sense of both labor and culturally 12 organized practice), and a form of negotiation between sites of agency (individuals) and globally defined fields of possibility. This unleashing of the imagination links the play of pastiche (in some settings) to the terror and coercion of states and their competitors. The imagination is now central to all forms of agency, is itself a social fact, and is the key component of the new global order.26 Like Appadurai I believe that movement across borders inflects the imagination— imagination of possibilities available through movement, an addition to cultural continuity, on the part of the migrant, and also the imagination of a pure origin by members of the receiving community. It is here where we see the ethnoscape—where cultural and territorial reproductions of group identity within transnational movement appear. Yet, I believe we must be more attentive to the ways in which the circulation of these imaginings attempt to constrain movement and manifest in violence, rather than absorb the migrant, the migrant’s labor, or the migrant’s capital. In the moment of contact, confrontation, and violent attack, in the event of the lynching, ethnoscapes are deployed with terrifying precision to construct terrorscapes. I add to Appadurai’s formation of –scapes where the linkage between ethnic perceptions and space are critical by also examining the role of public, performative violences as significant resistances to global imaginaries of migration and interchange. Throughout this project—culminating in the lynchings of Marcelo Lucero in Long Island, New York (2008) and Luís Ramírez in Shenandoah, Pennsylvania (2009)—I track assailants and victims and the imaginings of both. Violence and terror have constituted the nation from its colonial expansion; violence against Mexicans has been entwined with the U.S. wars of expansion—the so- called “Indian Wars,” the Texas Revolution, the U.S.-México War, the colonial expansion of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, and the militarism of the World War I period. Lynching violence is inextricably linked to land disentitlement and land 13 acquisition. Thus, we must be attentive to geographies of violence along with genealogies of violence. As I explore case studies in Texas, New York, and Pennsylvania, I attempt to uncover the ways in which the lynching of Mexicans works to govern movement, constrain mobility, and police boundaries of belonging. I examine the effects of violent campaigns in communities terrorized by lynching violence.27 I set forth the parameters for tracking the lynching of Mexicans in an effort to make explicit U.S. terrorscapes. I attempt to follow José Rabasa’s work in Writing Violence on the Northern Frontier: The Historiography of Sixteenth-century New Mexico and Florida and the Legacy of Conquest. Rabasa’s work sets forth an understanding of public violence as having “the force of law.” My intent is to utilize Arjun Appadurai’s conception of the –scape in conversation with Rabasa to construct a contemporary adaptation of Rabasa’s work, describing the ways in which violence—in particular lynching—creates rules that discipline Mexican bodies and their movement. My case study approach, like Rabasa’s, demonstrates “the pragmatic use of violence for subordination.”28 In coupling Appadurai and Rabasa, I contribute to the literature by setting forth the concept of the “terrorscape.” Like Appadurai, I draw on Benedict Anderson’s Imagined Communities where Anderson articulates the ways in which participants imagine themselves as belonging to a community or nation. These imaginations are bolstered by shared language and overt demonstrations, such as national flags. I add to Anderson’s formulation that the boundaries of “imagined communities” are also vitally generated via public violence. Further, we might consider violence as a social practice—even a discursive practice, reflecting and reinforcing the underlying epistemology of white supremacy. 14 Violences against raced bodies externalize and ritualize relationships and boundaries. Acts of violence have consolidated group belonging. White community consolidation occurs in relation to the raced figures. Further, the path to belonging is rarely—if ever— explicitly articulated. Most often it involves some implied social knowledge. In Shamanism, Colonialism, and the Wild Man: A Study in Terror and Healing, Michael Taussig’s ethnographic meditation on colonial cultures of violence in Columbia’s Putomayo region, Taussig explains that implicit social knowledge is that which … moves people without their knowing quite why or quite how, with what makes the real the real and the normal normal, and above all with what makes ethical distinctions politically powerful. [A]n essentially inarticulatable and imageric nondiscursive knowing of social relationality, and in trying to understand the way that history and memory interact in the constituting of this knowledge.29 Taussig insists that rituals of violence and domination are social practices in which individuals participate utilizing an unarticulated implied social knowledge “[a]cquired through practices rather than through conscious learning, like one’s native tongue, implicit social knowledge can be thought of as one of the dominant faculties of what it takes to be a social being.”30 The lynching of Mexicans is a potent site to think through the use of violent rituals as enactments and producers of social knowledge and public modes of belonging. (Re)Producing the Mexican Critically, lynching as a public social ritual marks group membership and signals which bodies receive the protections and privileges of citizenship. I argue that the lynching of the Mexican body in Texas helped to create ‘the Mexican.’ The Mexican body as part of a distinct racial group—constructed as separate from those raced as 15 Native, African American, or white—was accomplished by both the threat and by performance of certain ritualized violences. In framing my discussion on the Mexican body, I draw on the work of Robert G. Lee. In Orientals: Asian Americans in Popular Culture Lee works to track cultural representations of Asians/Asian Americans in the United States and the six representational categories to which the ‘Oriental’ has been circumscribed. Lee theorizes that the ‘Oriental’ is a constructed racial category and he identifies the ‘Oriental’ representational categories as pollutant, coolie, deviant, yellow peril, model minority, and gook.31 Similarly, I discuss the production of the figure of ‘The Mexican’ as a raced body. I trace how the Mexican has been constructed as non- citizen, alien, bandit, combatant, seditionist, and threat. While Lee identifies the myriad and changing representations of the ‘Oriental’ as products of cultural crisis brought on by shifting class relations, I argue that the figurations of the Mexican are evidence of narrative camouflage and often post-event pretext. 32 Further, the fiction of the Mexican as bandit or as combatant functions exactly as the fiction of the African American as criminal or rapist. In these lynching cases, the racist construction of the Mexican or the African American works as causal alibi for the killers. In addition, these figurations functioned to enable wide-scale land disentitlement. My argument about racial—racist—construction is relational. I examine the terrain of Texas noting the ways in which violence or the vulnerability to certain kinds of violence creates distinct racial categories—Native, Mexican, African American, and white. I engage the work of Jose E. Limon’s American Encounters: Greater México, the United States and the Erotics of Culture. Limón makes historic parallels between those of Mexican origin in the U.S. and African Americans in the south, pointing to the U.S. 16 political and economic system as organizers of racial domination in Greater México and the U.S. south. The parallel labor and race hierarchies within this political economy suggests the violent community spectacle of lynching in its symbolic language operates similarly for African Americans and Mexicans. I claim that the policing and domination of those figured as non-citizen—outside of the protection of the state—has been accomplished in part through publicly performed acts of brutality. While many historians have focused on structural definitions of U.S. citizenship as well as legal efforts to restrict immigration and migrant movement, I aim to explore the machinations of citizenship and nativism with a focus on the practices of public violence. Such violence is under- recognized in the histories of U.S. racial formation, immigration, and the production of citizenship. In thinking through public violence against Native, African Americans, and Mexicans, I am not concerned with a general formulation of “the other,” or the condition of being “othered,” but instead the specificity of being figured as a race outside of the nation, outside of citizenship. I am focused on attempts at the refusal of social and political life via terror. I insist that our focus is not ‘social death,’ but social murder. For Natives, African Americans, and Mexicans, lynchings are not only enactments of social dominance, but also a revocation of the privileges and protections of citizenship—for those killed and those who survive. The accepted binary relationship between whites and African Americans in histories of lynching is importantly complicated by an analytic of citizenship. We might think more carefully of the African American victims of lynching, who were constructed specifically as non-citizen in the Jim Crow South. Mexicans (regardless of citizenship status) have similarly been the victims of a discourse of ‘alien’ 17 and non-citizen as they have been targeted for lynching. Publically enacted practices of violence socially reaffirm the construction of the non-citizen. I position the state as a producer of normative citizenship and demonstrate both resemblance and divergence in the history of racial violence against the African American and Mexican body throughout. Though many scholars—most markedly Chicano Studies scholars—have discussed bodies on the border, in thinking about U.S. colonialism, I propose that borders are written with bodies.33 When we look at the shifting mappings and the cartographic representations of the nation, the new boundaries, the new mappings, the bisections, have been marked violently on and with human bodies. Those bodies marked as outside of the nation, as non-citizen have been mutilated and murdered, and these bodily acts can be read for their textual function—where revocations of national belonging are inscribed on human flesh. The lynching of Mexicans requires thinking through the issues of coloniality and citizenship. Tracing constructions of race allow us to explore the ways in which a community and nation work to produce bodies who are killable and expendable. We then may begin to ask: How is difference constructed? How is it mapped to race? How is citizenship constructed and mapped to race? How are these constructions related to violence? The question of how those figured outside of citizenship experience violence and torture and are killed is relevant today. The study of the machinations and functions of lynching help us to think through the multiple figurations of persons on whose bodies the nation has violently constructed. As Colin Dayan writes in The Law is A White Dog: How Legal Rituals Make and Unmake Persons: Rituals of expulsion remain intact to intimidate and control. Who gets banned and expelled so that we can live in reasonable consensus? Let us 18 name them now. Criminals. Security Threats. Terrorists. Enemy Aliens. Illegal Immigrants. Migrant Contaminants. Unlawful Enemy Alien Combatants. Ghost Detainees. These are new orders of life; they hover outside of the bounds of the civil, beyond the simple dichotomies of reason and unreason, legal and illegal.34 I understand the public tortures of lynching and the threat of lynching as “rituals of expulsion.” This ritual murder races bodies. In Chapter One: The Word Become Flesh, I focus on what it means to study violence as both witnessed publicly and as made to be public through reproduction of constructed narratives, oral histories, and visual representation. I work though the current and accepted definitions of lynching. I argue we must redefine lynching, though this redefinition must be based on the long scholarship around the lynching of African Americans. Further, I focus on how lynching is a social act with measurable functions. In Chapter Two: Los Desaparecidos, I trace how figurations of the Mexican body are actively constructed as: non-citizen, alien, bandit, combatant, seditionist, and threat. In Texas at the turn of the twentieth century, Mexicans were actively reduced to a monolithic figure—not understood by their long-standing relationship to the land, their place of birth, their citizenship status, their daily conduct, or their relationship to the law. I track this reduction and focus on how lynching, as a practice of terror, contributed to this reduction. In particular, I coin the term “disappearance lynching.” While spectacle lynchings dominate the literature, the lynching of Mexicans in Texas often took a ritual different form. These lynchings that were called “disappearances,” where bodies of Mexicans were found created a different kind of spectacle. The display of brutalized and murdered bodies in the landscape became markers of a new social order and acted as signpost of the now acceptable violence against Mexican bodies. 19 In Chapter Three: Massacre Resurgent, I explore contemporaneous reports, constructed narratives, and visuals representations of Native massacre, which proliferated in the Texas imaginary. I argue that the Texas archetype of the Indian fighter would help to determine the rituals and stagings of the lynching of Mexicans. These constructions of the Texan Indian fighter and the Native bandit/combatant foreshadow figurations of Mexican bodies, as well as ritual violences against Mexicans. In Chapter Four: Awful Lawful Texas, I re-interpret the socio-political context of anti-Mexican violence. Many scholars have argued that the lynchings of Mexicans were accomplished in a “lawless west.” The few works that have examined violence against Mexicans in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries often conflate lynching murders with generalized stories of frontier violence and local vigilantism, suggesting the west was a lawless land with rampant vigilantism in the service of order. I note the lynchings of Mexicans in Texas speak not to a state of lawlessness, but rather to lynching as de facto lawful. In addition, we can understand the practice of lawful lynching as related to the militarization of the México-Texas border as well as state-sponsored violence against Mexicans. In Chapter Five: Demarcation and Domination, I explore the relational construction of race via ritual violence, pointing to the contemporaneous widespread lynching of African Americans in Texas. The racial figurations in play in Texas—Native, Mexican, African American—were constructed relationally with one another, and against the category of whiteness. Ritual murders are social practices of terror, and lynching assailants demarcate and dominate constructed racial figurations. I work forward chronologically to the World War I period in Chapter Six: Bodies of War, emphasizing the critical context of the war and focusing on the scale of militarization at the México- 20 Texas border. I propose an intervention on the study of anti-Mexican violence focusing on what I have termed “nostalgic militarism.” I argue that white Texas settlers worked to maintain the conditions of war that began with the battles for Texas Independence and through the U.S.-México War, Indian Wars, the Civil War, to World War I. White settlers sought to create the conditions of a continuous and literal war zone. I conclude with Repositioning the Border, where I build on my claim that the México-Texas border is a potent location for race-making and an ideological site of meaning. I explore the mobility of racist ideologies and practices. I examine three case studies away from the México-Texas border—the lynchings of Luís Ramírez in Shenandoah, Pennsylvania (2009) and Marcelo Lucero in Long Island, New York (2008).I note how these lynchings continue to function as rituals of disentitlement, markers of race, citizenship, and belonging. I reiterate that violence against Mexican bodies is a tool of colonial occupation, a tool of race-making, and a continuing technology of terror and racist dominance. Throughout, I emphasize that while ‘race’ is not real, racism—and racist violence—are real.35 Thus, this work is about the construction, function, and application of race as racism. I explore the possibilities that follow from critical historiography and the re-definition of lynching. I began with a reflection on the 2009 lynching of Luís Ramírez, where those contesting anti-immigration violence failed to call upon a history of lynchings against Mexicans in the United States.36 When addressing the murder of Ramírez, attorney John Amaya and others were not equipped with an accessible historical analogy. Yet the fiancé and mother of Luís Ramírez’ two children joined a lineage of women who have sought to make their lynched loved ones recognizable. Like the mourning Mexican widows of 21 Texas, like the children of lynched Tejanos, who have testified to their brutal lynchings, detailing brutal abductions and murders; and like Elizabeth Till-Mobley, the mother of Emmett Till who insisted that the casket containing his body be left open, because, in her words, “I wanted the world to see what they did to my baby;” Ramírez’s fiancé joined a continuum of attempts to make lynching visible—even punishable. Crystal Dillman released photos of Luis Ramírez in the hospital, as he lay dying—his head swollen, the bones of his face broken, the imprint of the crucifix he wore stamped in a bruise on his chest.37 Reclaiming the lynched men and women as beloved and as human, these survivors inflect the tragic Antigone—like her, they insist on the proper burial of their dead within the nation, they insist on public mourning, and unlike Antigone, they survive. The acts of these witness-survivors refuse the invisibility of the unprotected and insist on the punishment of their killers. May some small part of an historian’s work be to locate obscured narratives of terror, and also to recognize spaces of possibility and refusal. 22 Notes to Introduction 1 James Cutler’s Lynch Law: An Investigation into the History of Lynching in the United States, a historical survey of lynching was released in 1905 and draws widely on the Chicago Tribune, which gathered detailed statistics about the causes, locations, and numbers of lynchings throughout the U.S. beginning in 1882 until 1918. 2 Josephine Baker, in response to the East St. Louis Riot that left over two hundred African Americans dead and over six thousand homeless. Quoted in The Future of the Race, Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and Cornel West (New York: Knopf, 1996), 72. 3 Adapted from banner hung by the National Organization for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) at its New York City 5th Avenue offices, which read “A Man Was Hung Yesterday.” This banner was part of a larger public awareness campaign where the NAACP would drape the banner out of its window and above 5th Avenue after reports of lynchings. The NAACP continued this practice until 1938, when the organization was threatened with revocation of their lease. Library of Congress, NAACP Collection, Prints and Photographs Division Reproduction Number: LC-USZC4- 4734/LC-USZ62-33793 (6-10b), Courtesy of the NAACP. 4 “The Devastating Details of James Byrd’s Death” transcript from: World News Tonight with Peter Jennings 02/22/99; “Justice for James Byrd Jr.” Baltimore Afro- American 03/04/1999; “Jonathan Estrin Tells Tragic Story of James Byrd Jr.” The Philadelphia Tribune 10-18-2002. 5 Soon after, books such as Joyce King’s Hate Crime: The Story of a Dragging in Jasper, Texas (2002) and Dina Temple-Raston’s A Death in Texas: A Story of Race, Murder, and a Small Town’s Struggle for Redemption (2002) and the feature film Jasper, Texas (2003) along with the documentary Two Towns of Jasper (2003) kept alive the brutal lynching of James Byrd. 6 Ian Urbina, “After Pennsylvania Trial, Tensions Simmer Over Race” The New York Times (May 16, 2009): A18. Grinburg, Emanuella. “Some Satisfied, Others Outraged with Verdict for Immigrant’s Death,” CNN (May 3, 2009). 7 Sean D. Hamill, “Mexican’s Death Bares a Town’s Ethnic Tension,” New York Times 5 August 2008, A12; Urbina. 8 Quoted in Moises Sandoval, LULAC: Our Legacy, the First Fifty Years (Washington: LULAC, 1979), 4. From the Refugia Castillo League of United Latin American Citizens papers, University of New México, Center for Southwest Research (Box 1, Folder1); also, according to William D. Carrigan, “Between 1848 and 1870, “Records indicate 473 out of every 100,000 Mexican migrant workers during this time period died as victims of a lynching.” In “The Lynching of Persons of Mexican Origin or Descent in the United States, 1848 to 1928,” in Journal of Social History 27:2 (Winter 2003), 1-29. 23 My choice of the masculine Chicano is purposeful. In Spanish the –o indicates a masculine noun (rather than –a, which indicates a feminine noun). Chicano revisionist historians have largely constructed a classist and masculinist history to think through anti-Mexican violence. There has been a relative indifference to Mexican victims (men, women, and children, mostly of the laboring class) accomplished with the collusion of Hispano elites writing post-1848 about their own losses of land and prestige to the U.S. annexation of the Mexican Northern Provinces. Their writings elucidated non-labor class concerns, and while critical of post-Guadalupe Hidalgo economic U.S. dominance, they rarely condemned violence against racialized bodies. Coupled with the erasure of Mexican victims of violence in Hispano elite literary production, is the romantic tradition of Chicano revisionist historians who have constructed masculine individual heroes— unsubdued rebels—while ignoring scores of dead victims. Revisionist Chicanos have drawn on the U.S. narrative tradition of rugged individualism, taking up the U.S. literary and political trope of the individualist masculine hero, elevating Joaqúin Murrieta, the Cortina brothers and Gregorio Córtez. The devoted focus on the constructed Mexican/Chicano hero has helped to erase the scores of brutalized and murdered Mexicans/ Chicanos even as they have celebrated Chicanismo’s Great Men. 9 I have chosen to use the word Mexican throughout this manuscript rather than to identify persons as Hispano, Hispanic, Mexican American, or Chicano though many of the subjects herein bear U.S. citizenship. I arrive at the general term “Mexican” for the following reasons: ‘Hispano’ and ‘Spanish’ are inadequate for the subjects of whom I speak as many are not part of the legacy of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo due to regional point of origin, or because they fall outside of the annexation period. In addition, the use of the word Hispanic, newly coined in the 1970s by a U.S. governmental bureau, is simply ahistoric when referring to individuals born before 1970. The words Mexican American and Chicano are also similarly ahistorical. The term Chicano is a socio-political construction, popularized during the U.S. Civil Rights movements of the 1960s and 1970s, and imbedded in the term Chicano is a claim of U.S. citizenry. Part of the “Chicano” ideology is that Chicanos are U.S. born, and this separates them from Mexican-born Mexicans. I do not believe in such a separation, as this belief is animated by an acceptance of difference created by the national boundary enforced after a U.S. war of aggression sparked in 1846. 10 I join the vigorous scholarship that reconsiders the features of U.S. lynching as not solely concerned with the black victim. Discussions of the act of lynching used to dominate multiple ‘othered’ communities through violence and terror include: Madeleine M. Noble whose The White Caps of Harrison and Crawford County Indiana: A Study in the Violent Enforcement of Morality, which looks at white-on-white vigilantism as an outgrowth of economic conditions; Steve Olney’s And the Dead Shall Rise: The Murder of Mary Phagan and the Lynching of Leo Frank that traces southern anti-Semitism via the mob murder of a Jewish pencil factory worker; and Christopher Waldrep’s The Many 24 Faces of Judge Lynch: Extralegal Violence and Punishment in America that includes anti-union lynchings along with the predominantly African American lynchings in his study. All augment the enormous breadth of work on the lynching of African Americans. 11 Mark Potok “Rage on the Right: The Year in Hate and Extremism.” Southern Poverty Law Center, Intelligence Report, Spring 2010, Issue Number: 137. 12 Ibid. 13 Karen E. Fields and Barbara J. Fields, Racecraft: The Soul of Inequality in American Life (London: Verso, 2013). In Chapter One – “A Tour of Racecraft” the formulation where racism is shown to precede “race” is carefully laid out. I want to thank Dr. Kirsten Pai Buick for pointing me in the direction of Fields’ work, which upended— productively—all of the work I had previously done, discussing racist violence as a reaction to re-existing race. 14 Fields (2013), 25-26. 15 Sandoval. 16 William D. Carrigan and Clive Webb, “The Lynching of Persons of Mexican Origin or Descent in the United States, 1848 to 1928,” in Journal of Social History 27:2 (Winter 2003), 1-29. Carrigan and Webb’s regionally specific work has continued in The Making of A Lynching Culture: Violence And Vigilantism In Central Texas, 1836-1916 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2004) and Forgotten Dead: Mob Violence against Mexicans in the United States, 1848-1928 (Oxford University Press, 2013). 17 Rudolfo F. Acuña, “Crocodile Tears: Lynchings of Mexicans” in Hispanic Vistas 16 June 2005 http://www.hispanicvista.com/HVC/Opinion/Guest_Columns/062005Acuna.htm 18 See Gonzales-Day’s Lynching in the West: 1850-1935 and Mari Matsuda’s “Law, Race, and the Border: The El Paso Salt War of 1877” in Harvard Law Review Vol. 117, No. 3 (Jan., 2004), 941-963, in particular. 19 See Norton Moses, Lynching and Vigilantism in the United States: An Annotated Bibliography (1997), xiv. The concept of a “usable past” was articulated in Van Wyck Brooks’ America's 20 Coming of Age (B. W. Huebsch, 1915), 72. 21 For instance, James Baldwin’s play Blues for Mister Charlie (New York: Vintage Books, 1995) and short story “Going to Meet the Man,” as well as the work of Countee Cullen, Richard Wright, and Toni Morrison. 25 22 Katherine McKittrick, ed. Sylvia Wynter: On Being Human as Praxis (Durham: Duke University Press, 2015), 197. 23 Wynter calls this work the “Man versus human struggle.” Sylvia Wynter, “Unsettling the Coloniality of Being/Power/Truth/Freedom: Towards the Human, After Man, Its Overrepresentation—An Argument,” CR: The New Centennial Review, Volume 3, Number 3, Fall 2003, 257-337, 261. 24 Sylvia Wynter, “1492: New World View,” in Race, Discourse, and the Origin of the Americas: A New World View, Vera Lawrence Hyatt and Rex Nettleford, eds. (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1995), 5-57, 50. 25 Ibid, 5-57, 50. 26 Arjun Appadurai, Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996). 27 While sociological studies and ethnographies on contemporary hate groups, nativist groups and right-wing extremist groups, such as Tómas Almaguer’s Racial Fault Lines: The Historical Origins of White Supremacy in California (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008), Sara Breinlinger’s The Social Psychology of Collective Action: Identity, Injustice and Gender (1996), and David Theo Goldberg’s Racist Culture: Philosophy and the Politics of Meaning (1993) have proliferated, particularly since the 1990s, little ethnographic work has been done on the targets of such movements. I augment the work on U.S. hate groups, nativist groups and right-wing extremist groups by focusing my ethnographic efforts on targeted communities. 28 José Rabasa, Writing Violence on the Northern Frontier: The Historiography of Sixteenth-century New Mexico and Florida and the Legacy of Conquest (Duke University Press, 2000), 22. 29 Taussig, 366-367. 30 Ibid, 393. 31 Robert G. Lee, Orientals: Asian Americans in Popular Culture (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1999), 5, 8-11. 32 Ibid, 8-9. 33 Colonialism as the political and economic control of a people through an occupying force. 34 Colin Dayan, The Law Is A White Dog: How Legal Rituals Make and Unmake Persons (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2011), 22. 26 35 This is directly the formulation Barbara J. and Karen E. Fields in Racecraft: The Soul of Inequality in American Life (London: Verso, 2013)16-19. 36 A return to the discussion of the lynching of Luís Ramírez can be found in Conclusion – Repositioning the Border. 37 The lynching of Luís Ramírez in Shenandoah, Pennsylvania was preceded by the lynching of Marcelo Lucero in Long Island in November of 2008. 27 Those who commit the murders write the reports. -Ida B. Wells-Barnett1 CHAPTER ONE: THE WORD BECOME FLESH In September of 1916, a five-ton Asian circus elephant named Big Mary was lynched in Erwin, Tennessee. The lynching of Big Mary was preceded by sensationalist newspaper stories demanding her public execution. Media included publicity announcing her spectacular lynching by the owner of the Sparks World Famous Shows Circus, with whom she’d been traveling. Arrangements were made by rail for both Big Mary and assembled spectators to the lynching site. An estimated 2,500 people— adults and children—amassed at the Clinchfield rail yard to watch as Big Mary FIGURE 1: Execution of ‘Murderous May’ Sparks Bros. Man-killing Elephant, at Erwin, Tennessee. was hoisted at the neck by a crane. The elephant’s body was lifted in a series of sudden jerks. After the first chain snapped, a larger one was found and Big Mary was then hanged for half an hour before finally being 28 declared dead.2 As with other lynchings, the public killing of Big Mary begs that we explore the practice of violent acts as spectacle (in real time and in reproduction). Mary’s brutal killing is also representative of the use of railroad and the technology, coupling lynching with modernity, rather than as a primitive frontier practice; further, like many lynching victims, Big Mary was not subject to ‘vigilante’ or extra-legal violence. In fact, Big Mary had been taken into custody by the local Sherriff prior to her lynching. What must be clear in the lynching of Big Mary, is that the practice of lynching is not in the realm of crime and punishment. Should the question “What did the elephant do?” have entered your mind, it may be quickly followed by “What could an elephant do to earn a slow, painful, once-failed hanging by chain?” Big Mary’s public lynching was not the result of a crime—alleged or real. Big Mary’s lynching is as irrational as any other lynching. Her example helps to make this point—decoupling crime and punishment from lynching— quite real. Deviating from every contemporary scholar of lynching I have surveyed, I do not engage the question of guilt and innocence because lynching—like other many other forms of violence, such as rape and torture—is an act outside of crime and punishment. To engage the question of alleged crime, guilt, innocence, is to accept the logic of the lynchers. Anti-lynching activist and journalist Ida B. Wells-Barnett demanded, “the old thread bare lie that Negro men rape white women” as the basis for Southern lynchings of African American men be refuted by the press.3 In the south, the lynching of African Americans had been continuously linked to perceived or alleged sexual transgressions. The foundational work of Ida B. Wells-Barnett in The Red Record: Tabulated Statistics 29 and Alleged Causes of Lynching in the United States, 1892-1893-1894 began the work of unraveling this causal link. Wells-Barnett made visible how invented sexual acts were used as rationalizations for lynching. In Race, Rape, and Lynching: The Red Record of American Literature, 1890-1912 Sandra Gunning continued this work, identifying narrative moments in which the falsehood of African American sexual aggression was recirculated in popular literature.4 Wells-Barnett fought the raced and sexualized cause and effect most effectively with statistical evidence gathered that empirically disproved the causal link between alleged sexual assault and lynching “as punishment.”5 In spite of Wells-Barnett’s painstaking work over a century ago, the unraveling of alleged criminality as causal for lynching has yet to be completely accomplished. As with African American victims of lynching, we must similarly wrestle with lynching of Mexicans as not tied to criminality. Indeed, by tying lynchings to alleged crimes, we have narratively inverted the criminal. Rather than focus on the criminal act of killing (preceded often by slow torture) and rather than framing the lynchers as criminals, discussions of lynching continue to ask the question of the mutilated corpse— “What did they do?” Lynching, uncoupled from crime and punishment, is the first scholarly leap required of us. Next we might ask: How does lynching function as a social act? Throughout “Social Murder: How Lynching Invented ‘The Mexican’,” I argue that lynching is a distinctive public, ritual violence. Further, this violence is yet another tool of racialization—as has been phenotype, language, citizenship, affect, et cetera. Lynching has become another means by which race is indexed in the United States. The violence to which persons are subject, or the terror of said violence, powerfully 30 circumscribes race and citizen categories. The ability to carry out lynchings unpunished also signals race category. The study of lynching as a social violence conjoined with race category was established by Wells-Barnett, and I work to continue in her tradition. Wells-Barnett became engaged in documenting lynching after the lynching of three men who owned a grocery store that was in direct competition with a white-owned grocery store. The African American owners and operators of People’s Grocery, which was just outside of Memphis, Tennessee, had seen harassment in the weeks before their lynchings. Postman Thomas Moss, a friend of Wells-Barnett’s, and ten African American men opened People’s Grocery as a cooperative and their successful venture would be targeted by local white grocer William Barrett. A posse of nine men slowly and brutally tortured and lynched Moss and two of his clerks, Calvin McDowell and Will Stewart. The accounts in local papers made clear that reporters witnessed the lynchings, their stories contained enormous detail, including the purported last words of Moss, “Tell my people to go West, there is no justice for them here.” As a social, ritual practice, the extraction of last words during and after torture was customary. The last words, taken down by invited guests, by no accident, usually worked to send specific messages to targeted communities. Wells-Barnett, in her editorial that followed the lynchings of Moss, McDowell and Stewart, would also urge African Americans to “leave a town which will neither protect our lives and property, nor give us a fair trial in the courts, but takes us out and murders us in cold blood when accused by white persons.” Over 6,000 African Americans were said to leave the Memphis area immediately after the three men were lynched. Reporting on the murders, Wells-Barnett emphasized the role of the legal authorities in the area; she emphasized the targeting of ‘Negroes,’ and insisted that 31 African American had the right to armed self-defense. Wells-Barnett focused on the humanity of the victims; Moss in particular, whose daughter continued to wait for him to return home, hugging the pant leg of his postal uniform as it hung limp in his closet. In reporting on the lynching of the three men, Wells-Barnett would also point to the clear economic motive for violently shutting down People’s Grocery—the African American cooperative would later be sold to competing white grocer William Barrett for one-eighth of its value. 6 Using Wells-Barnett’s model, in order that we might be better armed to think through lynching’s insidious use, I propose that we must first explore the terrain on which the choreography of lynching is enacted. We must meditate on the social significance of violence against Mexicans as a practice of power and domination (as Wells-Barnett did so potently for African American victims). This meditation significantly contributes to the study of the continuing race hierarchy in the United States, and focuses on the production of citizen and non-citizen bodies utilizing acts of violence. Definition as Meaning I argue that it is crucial to set forth a working definition of lynching in order to more carefully engage in the work. Lynching—a public act, meant to be witnessed, remembered, recorded, and recirculated, as we see in the killings of Moss, McDowell, and Stewart—has appropriately been defined communally, through activist organizations and anti-lynching campaigns beginning in the late-nineteenth century. The definition of lynching was never legally stable, but rather, it was wrestled out in public by parties interested in prosecuting lynchers and bringing an end to the practice. Thus, we must 32 consider that each working definition of lynching has been contextual and contingent.7 The shifting definitions of lynching by anti-lynching crusaders have been given extensive treatment by Christopher Waldrep in “War of Words: The Controversy over the Definition of Lynching, 1899-1940.” Waldrep makes the claim that Ida B. Wells- Barnett’s social science positivism that relied on data collection with the aim of statistical truth would be later rejected by anti-lynching campaigns, though they would draw often exclusively on her work. For instance, Waldrep traces W.E.B. DuBois’ shifting approach to racial violence. Waldrep writes, while DuBois … began his professional career as a social scientist... In working on this monograph [The Philadelphia Negro: A Social Study in 1899], DuBois collected facts, supposing that his data alone would undermine white racism. In April 1899, when whites murdered Sam Hose and displayed the dead man’s knuckles in an Atlanta grocery store, DuBois was shaken. In the face of such shocking barbarity, science hardly seemed enough. The Souls of Black Folk, the book that DuBois wrote after The Philadelphia Negro and after the Sam Hose murder, illustrates the decline in DuBois’s reliance on social science. Instead of relying on spare facts, DuBois invoked rhetoric to persuade. 8 The discussion of defining lynching was tied from its inception to statistical data collection. While Wells-Barnett sought to make visible the practice of lynching and risked her life to compile and publish descriptions of lynching events, Jessie Daniel Ames, who founded the Association of Southern Women for the Prevention of Lynching, was animated by the goal of a “zero lynching year.” The teleological approach of Ames led her to discount many murders in an effort to achieve a “zero lynching year.” In the thinking of Ames, lynching must be defined as having a racial-motivation and must result in the recovery of a body. This narrow definition led to the removal of mob violence against labor leaders, accused Socialists, and other ‘non-White’ victims, such as Sicilians and Jews.9 In addition, Ames’ definition removed from consideration those individuals 33 who were witnessed to be violently “disappeared” from their communities, never to be recovered. While Waldrep carefully traces the shifting definitions for lynching and the social and political context of those changes, many authors and researchers of lynching leave the act undefined. Some adopt the definitions of the foundational Tuskegee Institute. 10 Others invoke a definition by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) which was never agreed upon. Indeed, Waldrep explains “[t]he NAACP insisted it must remain on guard against a ‘technical and doctrinaire’ definition. Instead, lynching must be seen for what it was, a ‘technique of racial exploitation,- economic, cultural and political.’”11 Most often, scholars simply leave the contours of the act of lynching undefined. While I agree with the NAACP’s formulation of lynching as a technique of exploitation, I believe we must refine the definition of lynching further with emphasis on the features of lynching, the targets of lynching, and the function of lynching. For many contemporary studies of lynching, the definition of what an author believes constitutes a lynching is left unarticulated. I aim to work differently; this is due in part to my focus on the “unexpected” victims of lynching—Mexicans in the United States. Lynching has been largely framed as a binary relationship in which those constructed as white enact violence against African Americans.12 While we might simply go forward detailing the correspondences between the lynchings of African Americans and the lynchings of Mexicans, I suggest, instead, that we must work to define the practice of lynching, attentive not only to the targets of lynching, but also to the function of lynching. Indeed, I will work to demonstrate that the relationship between the targets 34 of lynching and the availability offered assailants to participate in acts of unpunished public violence is dialectic. In the case of both African American victims of lynching, who were constructed as non-citizen in the Jim Crow South, and Mexicans (regardless of citizenship status), both have been the victims of a discourse of non-citizen as they have been targeted for lynching. Such a formulation also helps us to better understand the murders of indigenous peoples and other raced victims, figured—not only in social tradition but in law—as non-citizen. Lynching and the threat of lynching has acted as a violent revocation of the privileges and protections of citizenship. While scholars have discussed the racial terms of lynching and construction of ‘otherness’ in their work, I diverge by asserting that lynching both draws on and contributes to discourses of raced citizenship. However cumbersome, we must work deliberately to define lynching. I have focused not only on the act itself, but deliberately, also, on the aims of those who undertake it, on those who have been targeted by the practice, and on lynching’s overall function and effects. My comparisons between the murders of Luís Ramírez (2009) and James Byrd (1998) must be more than intuitive, more than based on resemblance. To make meaning of these lives and to make meaning from their murders, I have looked carefully at the historical practice of lynching and its contemporary uses. I craft historical and contemporary sketches of lynchings, describing the context of these acts and the elements that crystallize into the terrorizing events. Whether describing the lynching of Florencio García in 1918 just outside of Point Isabel, Texas, or the lynching of Marcelo Lucero in Long Island, New York in 2008, I analyze the public methods of lynching, the constructing and targeting of ‘killable’ victims, and the purposefully terrorizing effects of 35 the lynchings. While many treatments of the lynchings of both African American and Mexican victims ‘recover’ and describe lynchings, they also fail to analyze the above features. Employing the foundational scholarship on the lynching of African Americans, where racist violence in the United States has been most documented and theorized, we might embrace historian and lynching scholar Norton Moses’ definition of lynching.13 Moses traces the history of U.S. collective—or mob—violence and draws on over 4,200 works in Lynching and Vigilantism in the United States: An Annotated Bibliography. Moses delimits the act of lynching as follows: Lynching as a deliberate murder by a mob [of three or more people] having a common purpose and targeting one of more previously specified. The individual might be specified by name or only as an unnamed person falling into a limited category [such as race, ethnicity or nationality]… the definition of lynching contains nothing about the instrumentality of the murder. Some people incorrectly assume that a lynching had to occur by hanging. Actually, the murder could take any form including beating, shooting and burning alive.14 Moses’ definition of lynching sets a crucial foundation thinking through the categorical nature of the targeting of victims, and focusing on myriad manifestations of violence— i.e. not limited to hanging. Yet, we must build on the working definition provided by Moses in order to construct one that more wholly reflects the practice of lynching, its function and effects. My insistence on definition borrows on the method of Hannah Arendt. In many ways, Arendt’s work emphasizes the careful assembly of definitions. In The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951), The Human Condition (1958), On Revolution (1963) and On Violence (1970), Arendt thinks through political and social phenomena with a focus on the precision of language. Arendt demonstrates the necessity of distinguishing between 36 common usage, theory, and practice of such familiar terms as “freedom,” “nature,” “violence,” “war,” “happiness,” “power,” et cetera. In articulating the terms of discussion, or the terms of meaning, a scholar does not construct a definition conveniently only to apply it at will, but rather to trace a history of usage and to make visible embedded assumptions in current usage. Utilizing Arendt’s model, having surveyed the literature, I offer my definition of lynching, which I have used in locating and analyzing lynchings in the United States. Lynching noun (verb form “to lynch”) A lynching is an act that aims to kill. This act is performed publicly or is meant to be witnessed via artifacts, such as photographs, souvenirs, oral and written accounts. Lynchings are “public” in that they are intended to be witnessed, remembered, recorded, and recirculated. The group of assailants acts with confidence of impunity and/or implicit or explicit community endorsement. The group of assailants targets a victim of a defined categorical group. This group of assailants draws on and contributes to dominant constructions of particular bodies in defined categorical groups as killable. Assailants who practice lynching aim at dominance and or terror through public acts of torture and or murder. Assailants who practice lynching intend to create collective memories of terror and dominance.15 The act of lynching is meant to be discernable—either in real time and place or in story or by artifact. These killings are performative rituals meant to persuade, meant to function as a social control to reinforce ideologies of belonging and racial hierarchy. The ritual of the lynching becomes a meeting place for violence that constructs and reconstructs dominance and that makes visible who may draw on the privileges and protections of citizenship. This definition will allow us a new paradigm from which to work through lynching. Such a move widens possibilities of historical recovery, discussions of 37 contemporary use of lynching, and also allows for paradigmatic analysis. This semiotic approach proposed by Ferdinand de Saussure wherein we turn our attention to “associative” (or paradigmatic) relations, searching for unarticulated relations held in absenti.16 For instance, the word lynching takes its value based on unarticulated ideas that ‘go without saying,’ that which we ‘take for granted’ as ‘obvious.’17 Such unarticulated linguistic relations or definitions suggest that there is an acceptable and common understanding for lynching, yet in insisting on analyzing textual absences, we might move closer to revealing which interests might be served by particular omissions. In focusing on questions that have been left unasked, we begin a disambiguation of lynching as an act. We think in particular about ‘what goes without saying;’ for instance, that lynching concerns only the African American victim, or that lynching is an act that is ‘extralegal.’ What if we were to press upon these two unarticulated assumptions, embedded in even the most recent scholarship? The study of the lynching of Mexicans not only allows—but requires— paradigmatic analysis pressing upon what lynching is not. Lynching is a practice that has not only been used against the African American victim; nor is lynching extra-legal. Further, the practice of lynching is not preceded by a mysterious process we have come to call “objectification,” or “dehumanization.” In addition, the act of lynching is completely outside of the realm of crime and punishment. And in direct contrast with much of the work on lynching, we must recognize that those persons who utilize the practice of lynching are not “evil,” but rather assailants emboldened to commit torture and to kill without fear of punishment. In addition to exploring what lynching is not, this study delves into what lynching 38 is, as a practice, as a communicating event. I argue that lynching must be related to U.S. histories of colonialism and violence against colonized and raced bodies. Lynching must be understood as an act to be witnessed—for in being visible, it acts as both spectacle and terror. Because such acts are performative and meant to be visible, the terroristic function of lynching moves/is movable, and also becomes reproducible. I argue that the practice of lynching in the United States works as one of many tools for the (re)production of figurations of the raced body, of the non-citizen body, invoking questions of national belonging. The ‘Illegal,’ the Legal, and the Extra-legal While the founders of the United States famously proclaimed all men as created equal, it has been citizenship status, rather than mere humanity that has confirmed rights upon individuals in the United States. 18 The history of differential citizenship—or inaccess to citizenship—has been contingent on racial construction. This is important to hold in place as we consider racist violence. The foundations of U.S. citizenry were clear as the indigenous of the Americas faced mass extermination and removal, and Africans were imported as property, rather than as citizens. As the nation evolved its terms of U.S. citizenship, those terms continued to be raced. African slaves were deemed non-citizens by Dred Scott v. Sandford (1856), the indigenous in the U.S. were declared neither citizen nor non-citizen—but rather “domestic dependents” and Asian immigrants were patently not allowed to naturalize. Those of mixed-race descent were also barred from U.S. citizenship. The nation of individual rights has indeed bestowed citizenship, civil liberties, and privileges based on 39 raced belonging in the imagined community.19 In the U.S., ‘whiteness’—always in the process of being constructed and reconstructed—has been an indispensable factor for full social and political citizenship in the United States.20 Although historically there have been multiple and changing definitions of whiteness in the United States, whiteness as a deadly concept was established very early on as the pinnacle of the U.S. racial hierarchy. In 1795, Congress passed the Naturalization Act that restricted citizenship to “free white persons” who had resided in the United States for five years. Contributing to whiteness studies, Matthew Frye Jacobson has looked at the construction of whiteness in the United States from 1790 to 1965. Jacobson’s boldly conceived text Whiteness of a Different Color: European Immigrants and the Alchemy of Race is an attempt to map “whiteness and its vicissitudes.” Jacobson’s work demonstrates that race need not only mean ‘other’—in fact, we may talk about race and whiteness with similar complexity. Jacobson denaturalizes race, and also complicates monolithic whiteness, not attributing ‘race’ to only othered subjects. In a related text, Impossible Subjects: Illegal Aliens and the Making of Modern America Mae M. Ngai also employs a sociolegal historical approach to trace the construction of race as related to immigration—Ngai importantly makes colonialism a significant part of her argument and Ngai foregrounds colonialism as part of the legacy of conquest, showing that global movement and migrations are related to colonial incursion. Indeed, in Ngai’s historical genealogy, race and the condition of being ‘other’ in the U.S. is produced along with the shifting labor needs of the United States—this is crucial in looking at México and the southwest. The U.S. southwest can be understood as a colony and its political-economic system that pulls labor northward along its colonial route—Ngai argues that migration follows lines of 40 incursion by imperial/colonial conquest—that invasion precedes movements of people.21 For both scholars, the questions are not merely juridical in tracing policy—Ngai and Jacobson are asking the questions of how meaning is made, how U.S. citizens are constructed around race. The use of the word race is problematic, as Barbara J. Fields indicated in “Slavery, Race and Ideology in the United States of America.” Fields, building on the scholarship which has deemed race a social construct explains that racial identity is formed and performed relationally, to and against its structuring opposite, “race is not an idea but an ideology.” She continues that “the notion of race, in its popular manifestation, is an ideological construct and thus, above all, a historical product.”22 Beliefs in ‘race’ and the reality of racism are the concern of my work. A race panic generated around Mexican bodies may reflect a certain anxiety around the Mexican’s unboundedness. The social construction of Mexican ‘race’ has been complicated with myriad versions of Mexicans as white, non-white, and something in between. Ian Haney López agrees that “all racial identities, not least those of Mexican Americans and Latinos as more generally, are intelligible only as social constructions. Race is best understood as a process of social differentiation rooted in culturally contingent beliefs in the biological division of humans.”23 The need to define race for Mexicans has been propelled by the need to insert them into an already functioning racial hierarchy structuring the United States. Are they white or black, and how can this determine the Mexican’s place in the U.S. racial hierarchy? Any discussion of Mexicans in the U.S. must inflect the surrounding race, nation and citizenship ideologies. The unending legal contortions regarding the citizenship of Mexicans reflect an 41 anxious preoccupation that attempts to create solid borders of belonging and nation. Further, as legal machinations failed to completely consolidate a non-porous border or a solid white citizenry, lynching has acted as a framing device—framing abomination, what is unclean, unholy—the Mexican. The work of symbolic anthropologist Mary Douglas explores how people actively create meaning in their social relations through ordering patterns of symbolism. Douglas deeply details how public, performative symbolic acts (such as lynching) are ritual reifications of power. Douglas maintains the function of public ritual is to consolidate community, to assert power and to articulate ideology. In Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Purity and Taboo Douglas insists that “daily repetitions and otherwise unrecognized ritualistic practices should be understood to be potent ordering systems.” 24 I attempt to emphasize the role of lynching, and the daily terror or threat of lynching as markers of the boundaries of race, citizenship and nation. The violences against raced bodies have acted to consolidate white citizenship. The ensuing lynching “ritual recognize[d]the potency of disorder”. 25 Lynching has been employed as redress for a perceived fissure in the still-porous national boundary. Douglas’ discussions of boundaries in Purity and Danger identify the concern for purity as a primary theme of the rituals of every society. For my discussion of lynching this notion of rituals of purity is crucial. The legal language of citizenship—the “legal” and the “illegal” person—has been reinforced by lynching. The act of lynching has not been one of ‘vigilantes’ who act completely outside of legality. In “Vigilantism: An Analysis of Establishment Violence,” H. Jon Rosenbaum and Peter C. Sederberg conclude “vigilantism is simply establishment violence. It consists of acts or threats of coercion in violation of the formal boundaries of 42 an established sociopolitical order which, however, are intended by the violators to defend that order from some form of subversion”26 The language of citizenship, constructing persons as legal or illegal not only occurs on the terrain of official policy and legal documents. The language reinforcing and constructing citizen identities are discursive formations manifested in both official and unofficial realms. Often the constructed ‘illegal’ is summoned bare of context. The language of the ‘illegal’ invokes—unspoken—its opposite. In The History of Sexuality Foucault admonishes us as explorers of discursive formation to look at what is said and what is unsaid. He asks, “search instead for instances of discursive production (which also administer silences, to be sure), of the production of power (which sometimes has the function of prohibiting), of the propagation of knowledge (which often cause mistaken beliefs or systematic misconceptions to circulate).”27 Thus, we might take a moment to consider what the ‘illegal’ is constructed against. The ‘illegal’s’ opposite is the U.S. citizen—that body present within the bounds of the nation’s borders legally. In Cities and Citizenship James Holston and Arjun Appadurai explain that a feature of modernity has been the carving of distinct nations, and that nations have established citizenship as an identity which coordinates all other identities.28 In the United States, the intertwining ideologies of an expansive nationalism, colonialism, and race hierarchy have all—separately and in concert—constructed citizenship as the nation’s most cogent product. The language opposition of ‘illegal’ and ‘citizen’ makes possible the social opposition of ‘illegal’ and ‘citizen’ and animates the violence of language against raced bodies. Because these violences both draw upon and bolster the aforementioned ideologies they are a crucial site that displays their intractable 43 reciprocity. Language therefore performs; articulating community relations, hierarchies and nationalistic loyalties. Indexed in the idea of U.S. citizen is whiteness and in ‘illegal’ is the alien or raced body. This preoccupation with race, citizenry, and illegality has been articulated recently in the Arizona courts, where the state courts regularly identify persons as ‘illegals.’ The Arizona judiciary was called to task for the use of words such as ‘illegal’ in its official documents. The legal group Los Abogados sent a memo to the Arizona judiciary powerfully arguing that the judiciary must discontinue the use of anti-immigrant pejorative words, such as the noun ‘illegal’ to describe persons. A portion of the memo, sent in September of 2008, follows: [W]e ask that you strongly encourage Arizona’s judges and court employees to avoid using certain inflammatory immigrant-related terms in court documents, correspondence, and proceedings. Rather than describing the act that may have been committed by that person, these terms attach an illegal status to the person, thereby establishing a brand on contemptability. We believe elimination of these unnecessary terms from public documents and proceedings will increase the professionalism of the courts, reduce perceptions of judicial bias, and lead to greater confidence in Arizona’s courts. Those supporting federal immigration reform and human rights for the undocumented uniformly declare that ‘no human being is illegal,’ but that only captures part of the issue. Nobody uses the term ‘illegals’ to describe other people who are carrying on in their daily lives with impunity after violating the law. Persons who fail to register for Selective Service, who do not pay their taxes, who do not have a current driver’s license while driving, or who violate their probation are not labeled an ‘illegal.’ Putting this in greater perspective, even a convicted murderer is never referred to as an ‘illegal’ because of that conviction.29 The statement of Los Abogados points out the strange conflation of ‘illegal’ with the immigrant person, though there are countless illegal acts committed by myriad social actors daily. It asks the court to acknowledge its “authoritative discourse,” as Bakhtin would term it and remove the pejorative language. This language, it explains, is not 44 harmless. As Marx explained of language ideology, it functions as an ahistorical project. In the case of Mexicans in the United States, we see the discursive creation of a social object—the ‘illegal’—that positions Mexicans as alien invaders. The ideological language project thus accomplishes an inversion of the historically accurate incursion and occupation of México’s Northern Provinces by the United States during the U.S. invasion of México in 1847. Further, as the legal machinations fail to completely consolidate a non-porous border of solid white ‘citizenry,’ the violence of language acts as a framing device. Language consolidates community, asserts power and articulates ideology through daily repetitions. Language is a potent ordering system. By looking at language in its everyday use and in multiple forums, we are allowed a wider vision of the discursive formations around the ‘illegal,’ and the ‘Mexican.’ In The Archaeology of Knowledge, Foucault explains that looking at overall discursive formations (as constituted in part by individual language acts); we see the limits and the conditions of what is said.30 He explains in this volume that discourse is what is said, but also that discourse is part of larger discursive formation. Discourse is not just a series of statements, but constructs and reflects the possibility of discursive formations. Discourse displays the relationships between statement and power that make statements meaningful. Discursive formation is powerful and tricky because it naturalizes that which is a construct and causes vast misrecognition. Discursive formations—such as the discourse around the ‘illegal’—function below the level of conscious activity and are naturalized as ‘real’ categories of being. The linguistic subject positions created (‘illegal,’) are therefore not individual subjects, but their relation to discursive formations, and societal systems.31 45 If a social object is created via an indexical use of language rather than a referential use, what is being indexed? As explained above, unstated in ‘illegal’ is the ideal white U.S. citizen. Further, the unspoken (and spoken in more overt and virulent anti-immigrant, anti-Mexican forums) threat is immigration (often posed as ‘illegal,’ but ‘legal’ immigration is similarly cast as a threat) and this drives the rhetoric of the nation being overrun. Such rhetoric seeks a body on which to violently mark boundaries. Here we may find Foucault’s formation of bio-power, a field of power that emerged in the 19th century, profoundly shaped the 20th century, and continues to operate today. Via bio- power, the living being at the level of the national population is targeted. The nation seeks to regularize biological processes. This is war of the races, charged with power that forwards biological-social racism.32 The taboo and overtly racist discourse of the nature of the ‘illegal’ is also the unspoken discourse of population control. With each invocation of ‘illegal’ is an unspoken discourse of bodily, biological difference. The desire to close the U.S.-México border is built around the Mexican threat of invasion and penetration from foreign bodies. A discourse of brown bodies coming over walls and through tunnels positions ‘illegals’ as moving en masse, not as individuals. Such prevailing and naturalized discourse suggests bodily, biological difference and writes large the U.S. seminal nightmare involving tunnels and broken barriers, the fear of penetration. The question of immigration in the United States bolsters Foucault’s claim that “‘population’ [is] an economic and political problem.”33 Throughout the second half of the 19th century to the present, immigration and labor needs have constructed the Mexican as alien other and invader, and the idea of the Mexican as existing in multiplicity, not as individual but as large groupings, augments anxieties of national 46 blood purity. 34 It is here, with the state controlling the idealized numbers and features of its population that national racism took power. Writes Foucault, Racism took shape at this point (racism in its modern, ‘biologizing,’ statist form): it was then that the whole politics of settlement (peuplement), family, marriage, education, social hierarchization, and property, accompanied by a long series of permanent interventions at the level of the body, conduct, health, and everyday life, received their color and their justification from the mythical concern with protecting the purity of the blood and ensuring the triumph of the race.35 Discursive formations and language acts create the object of the ‘immigrant,’ which can be inferred in the word ‘illegal.’ This inference derives from indexicality’s relation to history. As Mikhail Bakhtin made clear, language carries connotation from its previous use, every “word in language is half someone else’s.”36 These words in use draw on a history of anti-immigrant sentiment. The violence of language and the violence of physical attack are mutually reinforcing. J.L. Austin first articulated the importance of speech acts, explaining that words are not just words. Words can act. When we utter something, we also act, speech can—rather than state something—actually do something.37 We must note that language/speech acts are not preludes or antecedents to violence, rather speech acts are violence in themselves. The importance of understanding “speech acts” as violence rather than as propaganda that lead to violence is imperative. Violences such as anti-immigrant propaganda, restrictive signs and legislative acts, and alarmist newscasts that recirculate the social object of the ‘illegal’ are mutually reinforcing violences. They are not heightened and accelerating individual steps on a continuum of violence, or more carelessly, a cause and effect of physical violence. Anti- immigrant language acts are not just a symptom of violence, but active agents of violence. 47 I therefore approach lynching as related to figurations of the U.S. citizen body and I consider the construction of the Mexican as non-citizen as an invitation to violence. The Mexican body has been subject to several figurations, which are all critical to the violences targeting Mexicans. Many scholars have explored the Mexican as “savage,” as “bandit,” as “greaser.”38 These constructions of Mexicans have constituted a strikingly comprehensive cultural project utilizing U.S. newspaper stories and editorials, dime novels, combatant narratives, political cartoons, public policy rhetoric, popular music and film. Such figurations have been incisively traced by scholars, such as Mark C. Anderson.39 I add to these figurations the Mexican as non citizen, alien, bandit, combatant, seditionist, threat—and the Mexican as multiple even in singularity. I examine the constructed figurations of the Mexican body as post-event post-script, not as an act of “dehumaniziation” or “objectification” (a point to which I will return). Nativist groups and their relationship to the state is not a simple one. Though organizations such as the Mexican American Legal Defense and Educational Fund (MALDEF), the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), and the Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) have treated nativist violence as extra-legal and have attempted to use state law and state power to both punish perpetrators of violence and to eradicate such groups, the binary relationship between the state and the “extra-legal” nativists may not be as clean as previously presumed. The use of the word ‘vigilante’ to describe extralegal actors or illegal practices is common.40 Groups termed vigilance committees in the United States were seen widely as early as the 1820s, anti- Catholic violence spread throughout the East Coast and in the 1830s in the South, committees of vigilance formed to attack Abolitionists who would help the cause of the 48 anti-slavery movement.41 Many celebrated political figures, such as Andrew Jackson and Theodore Roosevelt have been known members or sympathizers of vigilance or vigilante movements.42 So-called vigilantism has manifested across place and time in the United States to police the boundaries of U.S. citizenship and belonging. While many historians and theorists have focused on structural definitions of U.S. citizenship as well as legal efforts to restrict immigration and migrant movement, I aim to explore the machinations of citizenship and nativism with an eye to the practices of organizations or groups constructed as vigilante. Such violence is under-recognized in the histories of U.S. race formation, immigration, and the production of citizenship. I wish to explore the history and the contemporary use of that which is constructed as “vigilante justice,” as a pernicious practice of nativism and racist violence linked to current anti-immigrant movements. In addition, I explore the framing of vigilante violence as extralegal or illegal violence. I suggest that the category of “extra-legal” is a false category. In my explorations of vigilante racialized violence, I have found that the actions of vigilantes fit the aims of the state, if not always its means. Such violence ultimately upholds the foundational principles of U.S. white supremacy that undergird the state. Rosenbaum and Sederberg similarly suggest that vigilante violence can in some instances become a function of the state, writing “the presence of vigilantes may be functional in mass societies. Vigilantes are more interested in participating in the maintenance of the established order than in protecting due process.”43 In the case of anti-Catholic, anti- Abolitionist, and anti-immigrant vigilantes, these groups aim to enforce—through violent means—normative U.S. citizenship. Rosenbaum and Sederberg continue, “vigilantism is 49 basically ‘negative’; that is, the essential aim is to suppress, or even eradicate, any threat to the status quo.”44 Thus, I ask: if the practices of vigilante groups and members of such groups are meant to preserve a set of state values, can they properly be called illegal? In the Invention of the White Race: Racial Oppression and Social Control, Theodore W. Allen looks at the invention of white identity in the colonies, which were to become the United States. This invention, he posits, was a means of social control to remove labor solidarity between African-American and European-American bond laborers during the period of the Virginia Colony. This invention helped to squash Bacon’s Rebellion of 1676 where bond laborers joined together to demand better representation and protection from the colonial government, and an end to bond servitude.45 Allen’s proposal echoes the proposal of Emmanuel Levinas, who wrote in an essay on the age of Hitlerism, “[I]f race doesn’t exist, it must be invented!”46 We may follow the proposition, then, concluding that the foundational epistemology of the United States is one of white supremacy and raced hierarchy as a form of social control. I have focused my work on racist violence in the United States, in particular lynching. In addition to the invention of race, the citizen has been created through legal machinations—this citizen relying on constructions of race and U.S. normativity. By detailing some of the moments of constructed U.S. citizenry, I aim to show how the state has generated both citizens and non-citizens.47 Moreover, the “non-citizen” is always vulnerable.48 Following the logic of race and citizen identities, I inquire as to the relationship between vigilante violence and the state. I ask if they are a co-production, or—to take the argument to its most extreme—is vigilante violence a contrivance, a kind of statecraft, wherein the state outsources the instrumentality of border patrol to “extra- 50 legal” groupings and social movements? Certainly, Rosenbaum and Sederberg remind us that vigilante violence is “a second form of violence [the first being revolutionary violence] that is designed to maintain the established sociopolitical order.”49 If the vigilante aims to maintain the order of the state, can the vigilante be properly called extra-legal? Throughout my work, I investigate the link between lynching and U.S. citizenship, in particular the racialization of U.S. citizenship. For Mexicans, claims to citizenship have been fraught. Like African Americans, the indigenous, and Asian Americans, their raced bodies have marked them as alien, as non-citizen. The raced bodies of Mexicans in a nation, which elevates whiteness, have been the brutalized bodies in performative lynching rituals that a) construct and reinforce white U.S. citizen identity and dominance and, b) refute national belonging for Mexicans. As was the case in the Jim Crow south that refused full entrance to African Americans as U.S. citizens, lynching against Mexicans has worked to construct the Mexican as ‘alien,’ while also affirming the necessary presence of the Mexican in order to consolidate normative white U.S. citizenship. Violence is used to construct and reinforce normative U.S. white citizenship identity, to police citizenship, and to dominate the landscape’s Mexican presence. This heritage, however, is not history. I maintain that campaigns of racist terror continue with unchanged aims. I draw upon the history of the Ku Klux Klan and its reformulated attempt at race cleansing as evidenced in groups such as the Minutemen Project and American Border Patrol. These groups seek to close a border and imagine the U.S.- México border as flawed, hopelessly fractured with need of their protection. As the 51 rhetoric of a broken border grows, so does the participation in “vigilante” committees. The empirical research of Rosenbaum and Sederberg shows that “the potential for vigilantism varies positively with the intensity and scope of belief that a regime is ineffective in dealing with challenges to the prevailing sociopolitical order.”50 The border, these groups assert, is broken and needs fixing; the U.S. state has failed in its own border protection. Yet, each time we hear an argument about the failure of the border and the state reforms—wall, patrols, drones, search lights, razor wire—we must recall Foucault’s Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison.51 Near the end of his extraordinary text, Foucault notes how the development of the prison has included multiple reforms, yet the prison continues to “fail.” Foucault explains, “One must not, therefore, regard the prison, its ‘failure’ and its more or less successful reform as three successive stages.” Foucault continues, explaining that the failure of the prison system is productive of a “four-fold system of the juridical deprivation of liberty.”52 We might similarly concern ourselves with the border, not as a series of failures and reforms, but rather, we must ask what is the failure of the border productive of? Foucault asks us to “reverse the problem and ask oneself what is served by the failure of the prison?”53 Following Foucault, the question therefore, might be posed “What is served by the failure of the border?” I opine one of the functions of a failed border is that it allows for the domination of northbound labor, which has historically subsidized the U.S. economy. Bodies are allowed to move north; are marked as ‘illegal;’and are then subject to the violence of economic exploitation. This exploitation need not be addressed by the state, rather the state benefits from the subsidy of the laboring body without the responsibility of protecting the illegal, non-citizen body. Continuing his discussion of the failure of the 52 prison, Foucault writes: The prison, and no doubt punishment in general, is not intended to eliminate offenses, but rather to distinguish them, to distribute them, to use them; that it is not so much that they render docile those who are liable to transgress the law, but they tend to assimilate the transgression of the laws in a general tactics of subjection. Penalty would then appear to be a way of handing illegalities, of laying down the limits of tolerance, of giving free reign to some, of putting pressure on others, of excluding a particular section, of making another useful, of neutralizing certain individuals and of profiting from others. In short, penalty does not simple ‘check’ illegalities; it differentiates them, it provides them with a general ‘economy.’54 Here we might be reminded of Los Abogados, who when asking for the use of the word ‘illegal’ to be struck from the Arizona judiciary explained how the rhetoric of the ‘illegal.’ Rather than describing the act that may have been committed by that person, these terms attach an illegal status to the person, thereby establishing a brand on contemptability…Nobody uses the term ‘illegals’ to describe other people who are carrying on in their daily lives with impunity after violating the law. Persons who fail to register for Selective Service, who do not pay their taxes, who do not have a current driver’s license while driving, or who violate their probation are not labeled an ‘illegal.’ Putting this in greater perspective, even a convicted murderer is never referred to as an ‘illegal’ because of that conviction.55 Foucault and Los Abogados refer to the same instrumentality of a ‘broken border’ as productive of a differentiated ‘illegality’—one that does not only create a criminal, but a certain distinguished illegal actor, an illegal actor whose crossing of the broken border is made to define his non-citizen identity. Killing the Human There has been an important rediscovery of the lynching of Mexicans in recent scholarship.56 However, in much of this work, historical recovery rather than relational 53 analysis has been both the means and the end. In much of the work being done on the lynching of Mexicans, scholars have yet to throw off the logic of crime and punishment. A decade after penning the critically important article “The Lynching of Persons of Mexican Origin or Descent in the United States, 1848 to 1928” (2003), William D. Carrigan and Clive Webb’s book-length study on violence against Mexicans titled Forgotten Dead: Mob Violence against Mexicans in the United States, 1848-1928 dispenses of the word lynching in favor of the phrase “mob violence.” Carrigan and Webb explain this choice noting, “the word lynching has no precise, stable definition and is politically charged.”57 Carrigan and Webb, drawing on many of the same violent acts against Mexicans in their 2003 work “The Lynching of Persons of Mexican Origin or Descent,” have shifted their understanding of these events and utilize instead the category “mob violence” to discuss the focus of their study. In shifting their category of meaning away from the word “lynching,” Carrigan and Webb further reason: “[d]ifferent mobs in different places at different times might all have referred to themselves as lynchers, but these mobs did not always define the word in the same way.”58 We must be attentive to the way in which Carrigan and Webb give authority to groups of violent assailants to define their own actions. While lynching has often included self-satisfied public boasts, a feature of lynching violence has been justification of violence in service to the community. Lynching has upheld the order of the state more often than defied it. That Carrigan and Webb give deference to attackers in how their crimes might be labeled and defined happens not only in this instance but in large part throughout their work. Forgotten Dead: Mob Violence against Mexicans in the United States is properly called by Carrigan and Webb “the first systematic study of Mexican victims of mob 54 violence.”59 Carrigan and Webb’s social science approach of compiling data on 547 Mexican victims of “mob violence” does much to recover the names of victims of lynching, in addition to the dates and locations of these events. This index of victims follows the methods of Ida B. Wells-Barnett, the NAACP, and the Tuskegee Institute, which all moved away from anecdotal recollections to confirmed and confirmable lynching reports. Carrigan and Webb have collected these reports from newspapers, government documents and oral testimonies. Their accomplishment is one that scholars and researchers will draw on—the work will likely be generative of many more studies of violence against Mexicans in the United States. However, in a disturbing reification of the logic of the lyncher, for each victim of lynching, Carrigan and Webb have generated narratives and charts that for each attach a crime—alleged or real. Carrigan and Webb insist throughout their work that lynching (or “mob violence”) can be understood with a logic of crime and punishment. In the introductory “Note on Terms,” Carrigan and Webb outline “two broad categories of mob violence:” The first type includes mobs that targeted and killed particular individuals for specific crimes or actions, such as murder or inappropriate social behavior. The second involves the indiscriminate slaying of individuals based on group identity, such as being from México.60 The categories created by Carrigan and Webb, rather than indict the killers of Mexican victims, reinforce the justifications of the lynchers. The criminals are not those who kill, but those who are killed. The cause and effect narrative construction explains that the targeting and killing is a result of “specific crimes or actions” of the Mexican victims. What we might now colloquially call “blaming the victim” is taken a step further by Carrigan and Webb. In the first table provided in the text, Carrigan and Webb list the number of Mexican victims who were killed at the hands of a mob. In the first aggregate 55 data on these victims, they are framed not as victims of murder, but as alleged criminals. Over five hundred victims are listed, restating the most common justifications of their killers.61 Further, Carrigan and Webb close Forgotten Dead with two appendices totaling fifty-seven pages, which name for name associate Mexican victims of lynching with FIGURE 2: Table 1.1 from Forgotten Dead, Mob Violence against Mexicans in the United States, 1848-1928. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. crimes their killers alleged they committed. Such categorical refigurations of victims of lynching, such reiterations of the invented social objects, such as the bandit—though—bracketed with the word ‘allegedly’ simply remake the discursive logic of the lynchers one hundred years later. The adoption of this logic in the first full-length historical recovery of the lynching of Mexicans works to cement the coupling of racist, ritual murder with crime and punishment. The fifty- seven-page table advances the lie of lynching being in the realm of criminality.62 The table, instead, painstakingly ascribes crimes—alleged or real—to Mexican victims, leaving for the reader the possibility that lynching is an act of punishment, rather than an act of terror. 56 FIGURE 3: Excerpt from Appendix/Table, Forgotten Dead: Mob Violence against Mexicans in the United States, 1848-1928. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. These killers, guilty of torture and murder in many cases—though left unpunished—are not evil. The question of the nature of evil or of “human nature” is not mine. In “Social Murder: How Lynching Invented ‘The Mexican,’” I explore the conditions that create possibility. Possibility for targeting, for murdering, for having these acts go unpunished or even having these acts endorsed by community. The question of the human heart—the capacity for cruelty, for torture, for slow killing, the question of killing for sport—I leave for philosophers, theologians, people wiser than I. While I am challenged with these questions, I have not the tools to answer them. Instead, I work with those tools available to me, thinking specifically about historical context, rather than invented causality; thinking specifically about social organization and relations of power, rather than the nature of “evil.” Further, the concept of “evil” as an animator for violence is a comfort but it is also an illusion. The groups of assailants who I describe make sober choices in an 57 everyday set of events to target fellow human beings, to give chase, to hold down, to absorb the human screams and cries, to dismember, to push their own bodies and energy brutally against the body of another. I have rejected the consolation that these human actors are “evil,’ or have somehow moved in and out of a state of evil. I have also rejected the consolation that these human actors believe themselves to be acting attacking an “object,” or a thing that has been “dehumanized.” Even in the case of our lynched elephant, Big Mary, this animal was not “objectified,” this animal was humanized—Big Mary herself was imbued with human motivations, emotions, and guilt. Brutal violence has often been discussed in terms of objectifying or dehumanizing the ‘other.’ When people become things, the logic follows, they become dispensable— and any atrocity can be justified. This formula is too simple. Why has this become the accepted formula for violence and atrocity? In her most recent work, Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence, Judith Butler explores the U.S. penchant for utilizing “the ethnic frame for conceiving who will be human.”63 She asks in relation to current U.S. policy regarding Afghanistan and Iraq: “Who counts as human? Whose lives count as lives? And finally: What makes for a grievable life?”64 Butler returns to an oft used formulation of violence: that formulation for violence against raced bodies— slavery, torture, lynching, brutal sexual assault, even genocide—which defaults to the “dehumanization of the object.”65 Timothy Zimbardo echoes Butler in The Lucifer Effect: Understanding How Good People Turn Evil writing that, Dehumanization is one of the central processes in the transformation of ordinary, normal people into indifferent or even wanton perpetrators of evil. Dehumanization is like a cortical cataract that clouds one’s thinking and fosters the perception that other people are less than human. It makes some people come to see those others as enemies deserving of torment, torture, and even annihilation. 58 I assert that though the idea of dehumanization is conceptually comforting; as in, they thought they weren’t human as they enslaved them, beat them, mutilated them, brutally tortured and murdered them, it is false comfort. For even in the acts of violence, perpetrators of these acts are always aware of the humanity of those they brutalize. Indeed, it is precisely the fact that the torturers are human (not monsters, not evil) and that their victims are human that torments can be so effectively imagined. Only when the human capacity for pain and humiliation are understood can creative cruelties be devised and acted upon. To suggest that there is a careful, intellectual process to torture and murder along the lines of: dehumanized, therefore murderable, is to give age old cruelty too much credit. If we are invested in the proposal that where there is a victim, there was a life, and a life worth noting, we must unravel the argument of “dehumanization.” I argue strongly that the murders of Mexicans and thus the lives of Mexicans were of great value to their families and their communities. These lives were also of great value to their attackers, who targeted and methodically hunted these men and women, perhaps slowly tortured, dismembered and displayed them. The careful, ritualistic attention given to their murders proclaims the importance of these murdered men and women in their attackers’ imaginary. Violence is a human interaction. It is a moment of human connection. Body to body. Eye to eye. Face, even, to face. This idea of violence as a human interaction is one that merits further attention. In the beautifully articulated ethical system of Emmanuel Levinas—who believes that the existence of the other, the face of the other, and the wound of the other, invokes a responsibility to the other— cannot account for the moment of violence wherein recognition of the other is refuted.66 What if we were to recognize that lynching is a human interaction, that the attackers are 59 humans with an aim to commit violence against other humans? Certainly violence against a pack of coyotes (often done) would not be adequate. In order to reify the human and the citizen subjectivity of the attackers (and to the benefit of all who align with the subjectivity of the attackers), it is the life of another human that must be taken. Thus, while the Mexican victims are dominated, marginalized, constructed as alien, non-citizen subjects, they are not dehumanized. Their human lives serve human purposes. Lynching is a violent ritual that has a function, and that requires us to think through the question of violence—not violence per se, but rather violence as spectacle and terror. In focusing on the function of lynching, we might think beyond the “causes” of lynching—as many scholars posit the matter. Rather than understand lynching as an act that result from cause and effect, we must consider lynching as one of many daily potentialities. And as the deliberately chosen act by a group against an individual, we must ask what lynching can accomplish. We must think carefully through the labor of lynching. What work does the act of lynching, the public performance of violence, the display of tortured bodies, do? Rather than a simple act of murder, lynchers’ acts construct and reify “cultures of fear.” As Michael Taussig writes in Shamanism, Colonialism, and the Wild Man: A Study in Terror and Healing, we must attend to “the torturer’s … need to control massive populations, entire social classes, and even nations through the cultural elaboration of fear.” 67 Taussig is explicitly exploring public rituals of violence and torture in the colonial context, which is relevant to the condition of the Mexican in the United States. 68 The work of Laura E. Gómez in Manifest Destinies: The Making of the Mexican-American Race asserts that Mexicans in what we now call the southwest and west coast of the United States have been “the unique product of ‘double 60 colonization,’ first by the Spanish and later by the Americans.”69 Taussig’s understanding of the use of terror in a colonial context mirrors its use against Mexican bodies in the United States. The Mexican body is the body in which we can most clearly trace the continuity of the colonial dominations and racialization. I posit that the ritual practice of lynching is a readable language that manifests those raced bodies figured outside of the nation, outside of citizenship. 61 Notes to Chapter One 1 From the speech “Lynch Law In All Its Phases,” given at Boston’s Tremont Temple 13 February1893, published in Our Day Magazine May 1893, 333-337. 2 For more on the lynching of Big Mary, see: Randy Hodge and Charles Edwin Price, The Day They Hung the Elephant (Johnson City, Tennessee: Overmountain Press, 1992); Ted Olson, The Hanging of Mary, a Circus Elephant (Knoxville, Tennessee: University of Tennessee Press, 2009) and Joan Vannorsdall Schroeder “The Day They Hanged an Elephant in East Tennessee,” Blue Ridge Country Magazine, 1 May 1997 at http://blueridgecountry.com/articles/mary-the-elephant/#ixzz3rZhnhUXo 3 Ida B. Wells, Southern Horrors: Lynch Law in All Its Phases (New York, 1892), reprinted in Jacqueline Jones Royster, Southern Horrors and Other Writings: The Anti- Lynching Campaign of Ida B. Wells, 1892-1900 (Boston, 1997), 52. 4 In “Learning from Los Angeles: Another One Rides the Bus,” George Lipsitz turns to Gunning’s work in his discussion of current U.S. trends toward “spectacular violence, as articulated in the U.S. War on Terror images post 9/11. Lipsitz finds the photographs of U.S militarism in Afghanistan, Iraq and Guantanamo, Cuba as analogous to circulated and collected images of lynchings. Citing Gunning, Lipsitz writes “the inner logic and cultural dynamics of spectacular violence enacted in the name of retribution and revenge… [Gunning] argues that the sensational titillations of lynching became ends in themselves” (1998) American Quarterly Volume 56, No 3 (September 2004), 511-529. 5 The shifting definitions of lynching by anti-lynching crusaders is given extensive treatment by lynching scholar Christopher Waldrep in “War of Words: The Controversy over the Definition of Lynching, 1899-1940” The Journal of Southern History, Vol. 66, No. 1 (February 2000), 75-100. 6 Alfreda M. Duster, ed., Crusade for Justice: The Autobiography of Ida B. Wells (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1970, 1972), 51. 7 This includes, of course, my own attempts. 8 Christopher Waldrep, “War of Words: The Controversy over the Definition of Lynching, 1899-1940.” The Journal of Southern History, Vol. 66, No. 1 (Feb., 2000), pp. 75-100. For more on the On DuBois’s changing strategies see Dominic J. Capeci Jr. and Jack C. Knight, “Reckoning with Violence: W. E.B. DuBois and the 1906 Atlanta Race Riot,” Journal of Southern History, LXII (November 1996), 727-66. 9 The shifting constructions of “whiteness” and the access to the constructed racial category of whiteness will be explored throughout my work. 10 The definition of lynching according to the Tuskegee Institute was published in 62 the Montgomery Advertiser June 7, 1959: “There must be legal evidence that a person was killed. That person must have met death illegally. A group of three or more persons must have participated in the killing. The group must have acted under the pretext of service to justice, race or tradition.” Reprinted in Ralph Ginzburg’s 100 Years of Lynchings (Baltimore: Black Classics Press, 1988 [1962], 245. As Christopher Waldrep details in The Many Faces of Judge Lynch: Extralegal Violence and Punishment in America, the definition of what constituted a lynching was contested within the NAACP from its inception through the 1940s. A definition was never agreed upon within the group, though many scholars insist on using “the NAACP’s definition of lynching.” See Waldrep, 2-3. 11 Waldrep (2000), 99. 12 In addition to this binary, previous work on lynching has largely focused on the murders of African Americans in the South. Crucial foundational works on lynching include the 1919 National Association for the Advancement of Colored Persons (NAACP) work Thirty Years of Lynching in the United States, 1889-1918, which tabulated over three thousand lynching victims and one hundred accounts of individual lynchings and stands as the only nationwide compilation of lynching events (1991 [1969]). This compilation did not include the lynching of Mexicans. The extensive files at the Tuskegee Institute, which are considered the most comprehensive records of lynching victims in the United States, does list the lynching of fifty Mexicans (in Arizona, California, New México, and Texas) yet these are of 4,742 total lynching victims listed, clearly an undercount (Acuña 2005). Scholars who have constructed historiographies of lynching similarly focus on African American victims. A large statistical analysis by Stewart E. Tolnay and E. M. Beck’s—A Festival of Violence: An Analysis of Southern Lynchings, 1882-1930—documents 2,805 lynching incidents (1995) with no discussion of incidents involving Mexicans. Unlike the many atrocity catalogues of lynching that have proliferated since the foundational work of the NAACP—such as Ralph Ginzberg’s 100 Years of Lynching (1962 [1988]), Walter White’s White Rope and Faggot: A Biography of Judge Lynch (1969) and At the Hands of Persons Unknown: The Lynching of Black America by Philip Dray (2005) which largely document and describe lynchings, yet offer little analysis—Tolnay and Beck do include some amount of analysis, positing that the Southern lynching of African- Americans was more deeply rooted in economic conditions and competition, rather than race hatred (1995). Though Tolnay and Beck further their analysis on the function of violence, they along with the above listed scholars all reify a white-black binary of race violence and lynching. These scholars also limit their concern to the Deep South geographically and ideologically. 13 Selected important works in the field include the foundational works of Ida B. Wells-Barnett in The Memphis Diary of Ida B. Wells (Boston: Beacon Press, 1995), The Red Record Tabulated Statistics and Alleged Causes of Lynching in the United States (New York: Dodo Press, 2009), Wells-Barnett with Jacqueline Jones Royster, Southern Horrors and Other Writings; The Anti-Lynching Campaign of Ida B. Wells, 1892-1900, 63 (Cambridge: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 1996). Work on racialized violence continued with the scholarship of William Edward Burghardt (W.E.B.) DuBois in Black Reconstruction: An Essay Toward the History of the Part Which Black People Have Played in the Attempt to Reconstruct Democracy in America, 1860–1880 (New York: Free Press, 1998 [1935]); Franz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth (New York: Grove Press, 1968) and Black Skin, White Masks (New York: Grove, 1967), Reprint of Peau noire, masques blancs (Paris, 1952); Jesse Daniel Ames’ The Changing Character of Lynching: Review of Lynching, 1931-1941 (Atlanta: Commission on Interracial Corporation, Inc., 1942); and Michael Hatt’s “Race, Ritual, and Responsibility: Performativity and Southern Lynching” in Performing the Body/ Performing the Text (London: Routledge, 1999), 76- 88. 14 Norton Moses, Lynching and Vigilantism in the United States: An Annotated Bibliography (1997), xiv. 15 The concept of “creating collective memory” is Jonathan Markovitz’s from Legacies of Lynching: Racial Violence and Memory (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004), xxvi. 16 Ferdinand de Saussure, Course in General Linguistics, trans. Wade Baskin (London: Fontana/Collins: [1916] 1974), 123; and Ferdinand de Saussure, Course in General Linguistics, trans. Roy Harris (London: Duckworth [1916] 1983), 122. 17 Saussure (1974), 117 and Saussure (1983), 115. 18 Thomas Jefferson’s “United States Declaration of Independence” preamble adopted by the Continental Congress on July 4, 1776, reads: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect [sic] their Safety and Happiness. 19 Here I reference Anderson’s “imagined community.” Amy S. Greenberg writes “As Benedict Anderson has explained, the ability of nationalism to turn ‘chance into destiny’ is dependent on participants imagining a community or nation ‘as a deep horizontal relationship,’ regardless of ‘actual inequality and exploitation.’ Territorial expansionism enabled participants to imagine themselves part of the American community,” Amy S. Greenberg, Manifest Manhood and the Antebellum American Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 44. 64 20 Jacobson couples the U.S. racial hierarchy with U.S. imperial projects. As Jacobson concludes, the racial hierarchy of U.S. nationhood defined boundaries of belonging via ‘whiteness’ throughout the generations and the historical U.S. global imperial incursions. He writes, “the distinction between whiteness and nonwhiteness never fully lost its salience in American political culture. Mexican annexation, black Emancipation, Reconstruction, Jim Crow practices, Indian Wars, Asian immigration and Exclusion, Hawaiian and Puerto Rican annexation, and Philippine conquest—all would keep whiteness very much alive,” Matthew Frye Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color: European Immigrants and the Alchemy of Race (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1999), 37. 21 Mae M. Ngai, “From Colonial Subject to Undesirable Alien: Filipino Migration in the Invisible Empire,” in Impossible Subjects: Illegal Aliens and the Making of Modern America, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005, 96-126. For more on the Southwest as an ‘internal colony,’ see Laura E. Gómez, Manifest Destinies: The Making of the Mexican American Race (New York: New York University Press, 2007). Barbara Jean Fields, “Slavery, Race, and Ideology in the United States of 22 America” in New Left Review 181 (1990), 95-188. 23 Ian F. Haney-Lopez, “Race, Ethnicity, Erasure: The Salience of Race to LatCrit Theory” in California Law Review LatCrit: Latinas/os and the Law: A Joint Symposium by California Law Review and La Raza Law Journal 85: 5 (Oct. 1997), 1143-1211, 1152. 24 Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Purity and Taboo (London: Routledge Press,1966), 68. 25 Ibid, 94. 26 H. Jon Rosenbaum and Peter C. Sederberg, “Vigilantism: An Analysis of Establishment Violence,” Comparative Politics, Vol. 6, No. 4 (July 1974), 541-570, 542. 27 Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, Volume I: An Introduction (New York: Random House, 1990), 12. 28 James Holston and Arjun Appadurai, “Introduction: Cities and Citizenship” in Cities and Citizenship. James Holston, ed. (Durham: Duke University Press, 1999), 2-6. 29 “Judge Bans Use of ‘Illegal’ and ‘Aliens.’” Corruption Chronicles: A Judicial Watch Blog (7 November 2008). http://www.judicialwatch.org/blog/2008/nov/judge-ban- use-illegal-and-aliens 30 Michel Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge (London: Routledge, 2002), 82. 65 31 Ibid, 44, 38, 54-55, 59-60. 32 Ibid, 135-159. 33 Ibid, 25. 34 Ibid, 147. 35 Ibid, 149. 36 Mikhail Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981), 293. 37 J.L. Austin, How To Do Things With Words (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1962). 38 One of the earliest and most thorough treatments is Arnoldo De León’s They Called Them Greaser: Anglo Attitudes Toward Mexicans in Texas, 1821-1900 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1983). 39 Anderson’s works, such as “The Mythical Frontier, the Mexican Revolution, and the Press: An Imperial Subplot,” Canadian Review of American Studies 37:1 (2007) 2-22; and “The Good (for nothing!) Neighbor: Imagining Mexico” in La Revolución Mexicana en el espejo de la caricatura estadounidense, Juan Manuel Aurrecoechea, ed., (Mexico City: Museo de Carrillo Gil, 2011) follow the scholarship on the figuration of Mexicans in the U.S. by Paul Foos. A Short, Offhand, Killing Affair: Soldiers and Social Conflict during the Mexican-American War (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002) suggests that the Mexican as combatant against U.S. expansionism became fertile ground for he constructions of Mexicans to follow in the late nineteenth century to the present. 40 See R.G. Abrams, Vigilant Citizens: Vigilantism and the State. Malden, Mass.: Polity Press, 1999; Richard Maxwell Brown, “Legal and Behavioral Perspectives on American Vigilantism.” Perspectives in American History, V (1971), 106-116; Richard Maxwell Brown, “The American Vigilante Tradition,” in Hugh David Graham and Gurr, eds. The History of Violence in America (New York, 1969), 154-217; Culberson, William C. Vigilantism: Political History of Private Power in the United States (New York: Greenwood, 1990). 41 See Thomas S. Kidd, “‘Let Hell and Rome Do Their Worst’: World News, Anti-Catholicism, and International Protestantism in Early-Eighteenth-Century Boston” The New England Quarterly, Vol. 76, No. 2 (June 2003), 265-290; Tyler Anbinder. Nativism and Slavery: The Northern Know Nothings and the Politics of the 1850s (Oxford University Press, 1994). 42 Brown, 123-128. 66 43 Rosenbaum and Sederberg, 562-563. 44 Ibid, 559. 45 Theodore W. Allen, The Invention of the White Race: Racial Oppression and Social Control, Volume 1 (London: Verso, 1994), 14-21. See also John Berry, Francis Moryson, and Herbert Jefferys, “A True Narrative of the Rise, Progress and Cessation of the Late Rebellion in Virginia, Most Humbly an Impartially Recorded by His Majesties Commissioners, Appointed to inquire into the Affairs of the Said Colony,” Charles Andrews, ed. in Narrative of the Insurrections 1675 to 1690, (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1915), 111-113. 46 Emmanuel Lévinas, “Reflections on Hitlerism,” in Unforeseen History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 19. 47 This is compellingly argued by David Theo Goldberg in The Racial State (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004). 48 Much more work on the state’s construction of subjectivities can be found in the work of Michel Foucault, Hannah Arendt, and Giorgio Agamben. While Agamben’s work on the “state of exception” is compelling, particularly for “non-citizen” subjects, Arendt’s work in Totalitarianism critically discusses state violence when it is not an exception, but rather written into law. The work of the two might be effectively put into dialogue to further explore the “non-citizen” in U.S. history. This points to further work to be done by myself. To explore Agamben’s formulation of the “state of exception,” see Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life (Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, 1995) and State of Exception. Homo Sacer II, 1 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003). 49 Rosenbaum and Sederberg, 541. 50 Ibid, 545. 51 I aim to do further exploration of the unmanned drones on the border. The U.S. Defense Department has taken the Predator drone out of declared war/conflict zones and brought them to secure the length U.S.-México border. I wonder: What does it mean that they are “unmanned?” Are they instead, to adopt Donna Haraway’s language, cyborgs? With one long pair of eyes—optic nerve connecting drone body to warm flesh of human button-pusher at Fort in Virginia? How does the Predator drone expand the panopticon— a transborder panopticon, set in motion to detect movement on particular bodies, to secure a border. What if there are no eyes to witness the wound? How might the use of drones frustrate the ethical system of Levinas? 52 Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (New York: 67 Vintage Press, 1991), 270-271. 53 Ibid, 272. 54 Ibid, 272. 55 Ibid, 272. 56 In the years between 2006 and 2015, a number of works centering or featuring work on anti-Mexican violence were published. These include the book-length works: Manfred Berg’s Globalizing Lynching History: Vigilantism and Extralegal Punishment from an International Perspective (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011) and Popular Justice: A History of Lynching in America (Government Institutes, 2011). Nicole Marie Guidotti-Hernández’s Unspeakable Violence: Remapping U.S. and Mexican National Imaginaries (Durham: Duke University Press, 2011) includes a chapter on the lynching of “Juanita” in Downieville, California, one of the few lynchings of a Mexican woman documented. Similarly, work on anti-Mexican lynching in California is done by Ken Gonzales-Day in Lynching in the West, 1850-1935 (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006) and Linda Heidenreich in This Land was Mexican Once: Histories of Resistance from Northern California (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2009). Cynthia E. Orozco’s No Mexicans, Women, or Dogs Allowed: The Rise of the Mexican American Civil Rights movement (University of Texas Press, 2010) connects social movements to violence in much of the southwest, including Arizona, California, New Mexico, and Texas. In the collection Lynching Beyond Dixie: American Mob Violence Outside the South (University of Illinois Press, 2013) edited by Michael James Pfiefer, several essays consider the lynchings of Asian Americans, Natives, and Mexicans alongside African Americans. Patrick T. Troester works to connect anti-Mexican violence to the U.S.- Mexico War (1847-1848) in “Direful Vengeance:” A U.S.-Mexican War Massacre and the Culture of Collective Violence in Nineteenth-Century North America (University of Akron, 2014). William D. Carrigan and Clive Webb’s Forgotten Dead: Mob Violence against Mexicans in the United States, 1848-1928 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013) is the first sustained book-length treatment on the lynching of Mexicans, however, Carrigan and Webb have chosen to term these killings “mob violence.” Demonstrating exciting possibilities in the field are the many excellent theses and dissertations yet to be published. Thinking through issues of Latino/a subjectivity, violence, and performativity is Coya Paz Brownrigg’s “A Changing Lynchocracy: Lynching and The Performance of American Identity in Gold Rush California, 1848- 1858,” Dissertation, Northwestern (2010). Working through questions of revenge violence is Adelheid Janes, A “War of Extermination”: The Rancheria Massacre and Anti-Mexican Violence in Gold Rush Amador County,” Master’s Thesis, California State University at Sacramento (2012). Excellent historical recovery work on events in Texas is Monica Muñoz Martinez’s “‘Inherited Loss’: Tejanas and Tejanos Contesting State Violence and Revising Public Memory, 1910-Present,” Dissertation, Yale (2012). Tackling violence and responses to violence in Texas is Richard Henry Ribb, whose work 68 I give sustained attention. His dissertation is titled “José Tomás Canales and the Texas Rangers: Myth, Identity, and Power in South Texas, 1900-1920” Dissertation, University of Texas at Austin (2001). I am especially impressed by the work of Travis Taylor, whose work points to a method of unraveling Mexican Revolution Spill-Over Theory, which I discuss in Chapter 4 – Awful Lawful Texas. Taylor’s dissertation is “Lynching on the Border: The Death of Antonio Rodríguez and the Rise of Anti-Americanism during the Mexican Revolution,” Angelo State University (2012). 57 William D. Carrigan and Clive Webb, Forgotten Dead: Mob Violence against Mexicans in the United States, 1848-1928 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), xi. 58 Ibid, xi. 59 Ibid, 7. 60 Ibid, xii. Emphasis mine. 61 Ibid, Figure 1.1, 19. 62 Ibid, Appendix A and Appendix B follow the conclusion to the text, 178. 63 Judith Butler, Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence (London: Verso, 2004), xvi. 64 Ibid, 20. 65 See anthropologists Floyd Matson and Ashley Montagu in The Human Connection (New York: McGraw Hill Book Co., 1979) and The Dehumanization of Man (New York: McGraw Hill Book Co., 1983); more recently the explanatory logic of “dehumanization” has been revived in works regarding the Rwandan genocides and works dealing with torture by U.S. contractors at the Abu Ghraib U.S. military facility. 66 Emmanuel Lévinas, Humanism of the Other (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2006). 67 Michael Taussig, Shamanism, Colonialism, and the Wild Man: A Study in Terror and Healing (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 8. 68 Colonialism as the political and economic control of a people through an occupying force. 69 Laura E. Gómez, Manifest Destinies: The Making of the Mexican-American Race (New York: New York University Press, 2007), 10. 69 Affairs on the border cannot be judged by the standards that hold elsewhere. –Walter Prescott Webb1 CHAPTER TWO: LOS DESAPARECIDOS On the fourth of April 1918, Florencio García, a young man employed by the Piper Plantation near Brownsville, Texas was removed from his home by two men who identified themselves as Texas Rangers.2 Florencio—twenty-five years old, brother to two sisters, husband, father, and recently promoted cattle foreman—was taken mid-day by Rangers A.P. Locke and George W. Saddler.3 Florencio was led away while still proudly wearing his new Texas-style Stetson, which he had purchased on credit at a local shop and was still paying off. His new, still stiff, wide-brimmed hat, the style of area ranchers, made for a mismatch to his yet to be replaced well-worn low-quarter button shoes.4 It was just past one o’clock in the afternoon when García, who lived at the Piper Plantation with his wife and children, bid a quick goodbye.5 His family would not see him alive again. Soon after Rangers Locke and Saddler took Florencio García, his wife began pleading for information. When the sun set without her husband’s return, she reported García missing. Ten days later a local politico, H.N. Gray, who worked monitoring México’s revolutionary forces on both sides of the border, began to investigate García’s 70 disappearance. Gray contacted the Mexican Consul in Brownsville in an effort to determine García’s location and return him to his family and to his employers at the Piper Plantation. Gray explained that Florencio García’s wife had contacted him and “sent for him after he disappeared.”6 Gray and others had been surprised that García had been taken into custody by the Rangers, as García had lived on the Piper Plantation with his wife and children for several years and had recently been promoted from a ranch laborer to the foreman of the milch herd—a valuable group of milk-producing Holstein cattle. While searching for García, the manager of the Piper Plantation, Mr. Kibbey, told Gray Florencio García was a hard worker and “a man of very good character.” Further, Mr. Beebee, who worked for the Federal Intelligence Department in Brownsville and who had known García for several years, also attested to García’s good character.7 The reason for García’s apprehension was unknown, as was his location. Nearly a month after his capture, the Mexican Consul in Brownsville, J.Z. Garza, followed with his own inquiries regarding Florencio García’s disappearance. García’s “people”—presumably his father and wife—had also sought the assistance of the Mexican Consul’s Office when their requests for information from local officials went unanswered. Consul Garza contacted Texas Ranger Captain William M. Hanson, who had been appointed Special Investigator for all Ranger field activities January 31st of that year.8 In a letter to Captain Hanson, Consul Garza described Florencio García’s disappearance: [H]e was arrested about three weeks ago at “Las Tranquilas” [The Piper Plantation] by Rangers Saddler [sic] and Locke [sic]…since that date, his 71 people have not had any word of him, and I have made every effort in my power to locate him… After he was arrested at Piper Plantation, the Rangers were seen with García at Point Isabel for the last time. As far as I have been able to investigate, García never has been guilty of any crimes or misdemeanors in the Mexican side and there is no reason for him to remain in hiding if he were there now. We have made every effort to locate him.9 The Piper Plantation where Florencio García lived and worked was ten miles south of FIGURE 4: Map of south Texas, 1920 (magnification showing Cameron Country, with locations in the text noted in red) Leslie’s New World Atlas, Leslie-Judge Company (NY: New York City, 1920), Map #1827 http://etc.usf.edu.maps Brownsville, and had previously been known as Las Tranquilas. In 1907, Piper shifted from small agricultural and cattle ventures and began cultivating sugarcane. Within two years of initiating sugarcane production, The Piper Planation was one of the leaders in sugarcane raw tonnage, and coupled this success with its profitable cattle operations that had been greatly improved after the near-eradication of “Texas Fever” in local cattle.10 Florencio and his family had lived as farm hands on the plantation, cultivating crops and working with cattle herds. 72 As inquiries into Florencio García’s location and condition continued, Rangers Locke and Saddler claimed that they took García in for questioning, but rather than take him to local headquarters, the town Sherriff’s Headquarters, Brownsville’s local jail, or the Cameron County Court House, Locke and Saddler explained they decided instead to take García to a location in Point Isabel. There, they explained, Ranger John D. Sittre, who they believed was fluent in Spanish, could interrogate García.11 The discussion of Sittre’s Spanish-speaking skills and the need to interrogate García for reasons varied. Later they included accusations of general theft, cattle theft—though García was in fact a ranch foreman—and García’s refusal to register with the local Draft Board.12 Rangers Locke and Saddler did not detail these until weeks after they removed García from his home. Further, Point Isabel was over thirty miles northeast of the Piper Plantation across rugged terrain, toward the San Padre Islands—in directly the opposite direction of Fort Brown, where inquiries about draft dodging could presumably be investigated. Locke and Saddler, who may have realized that their accusations of theft would seem unlikely to most, seized upon the opportunity to claim García was a “slacker,” or man who had failed to register for Selective Service. The figuration of Mexican men—whether U.S citizen or non-U.S. citizen—as “slacker” had become more widely used against Mexicans in the southwest borderlands as the United States foresaw possible entry into the European Theater of what would become World War I. This discursive formation became a potent addition to the earlier tropes where Mexican men were figured as “bandits” or simply non-citizens. The “slacker” was constructed as one who was not adequately participating in the larger U.S. war effort. This term targeted most specifically those men who were suspected of avoiding military service. The Selective Service Act required all men 73 between the ages of twenty-one and thirty to register for military service.13 It required men who were U.S. citizens to register with their local Draft Board, and though President Wilson would not sign the Act into law until 1917, as early as 1913 Texas newspapers were discussing the merits of the draft law and regularly issuing charges of unpatriotic acts against Mexicans in the area—deeming them “slackers.” 14 Indeed, by 1918, “slacker raids” were common, where Federal Authorities would not only find men who were thought to be “draft dodgers,” but also forcibly induct them into military service.15 Between 1913 and 1917 (with the institution of the Selective Service) new suspicions and anti-Mexican sentiments formed around the idea of Mexican men as “slackers,” unpatriotic wage earners, ready to cross the border south to escape war efforts, unwilling to prove loyalty to the country in which they earned a living. These sentiments were seen in local English language newspapers, and are well articulated by Carlysle Graham Raht in his 1919 history of south Texas The Romance of Davis Mountains and Big Bend Country. Raht, writing in 1919—in three short sentences— includes an explanation of labor conditions where Mexican men make up much of the south Texas labor force; and refers to both older and new figurations of Mexican men. In the first case, Raht invokes the “bandit,” noting Mexicans have knowledge and opportunity for raiding local ranches and escaping capture; and in the second invokes the figure of the Mexican man as slacker. These people knew the conditions on the Texas side of the Rio Grande, owing to the fact that the American ranchman employed Mexican help, which formed the floating population of the country. These Mexican laborers knew intimately the trails, the whereabouts of the horses and cattle, as well as supplies and provisions. Added to this leading element was the American slacker, who, for the most part, came from that portion of the Mexican population who were willing enough to make their living amongst us but who were not willing to fight for their country.16 74 In these figurations of the Mexican body, we see the Mexican actively constructed as bandit, non- citizen, seditionist, and combatant. Mexicans were actively reduced to a monolithic class of people—not categorized by their long-standing relationship to the land, their place of birth, their citizenship status, their daily conduct, or their FIGURE 5: Florencio García Draft Registration Card, Cameron County, 5 January 1917. relationship to the law— but rather, a class of persons whose political and social status, expected behaviors, quotidian treatment were decided by their visually recognized morphological or phenotypic characteristics. Arguing for the value of the Texas Rangers (and also working on behalf of the Texas Cattle Raisers’ Association) attorney Dayton Moses would make clear race claims that would couple the “Mexican” with banditry and lawlessness: A great many of the people who live on this side of the river are of a different race from our own. There are a good many people all around of our won race who live on this side of the river who are not our best citizens, and the dangers of banditry from the unhappy country on the other side is our menace and threatening… [T]he country is extremely 75 brushy, which makes it easy for theives [sic] and bandits to hide, and it is unfortunately true that the sympathy that exists because they are of the same race, there are a great many Mexicans on this side of the river who perhaps do not themselves violate the law yet they harbor, or yet it is generally supposed, at least, that they harbor men who are believed to be violators of the law.17 In the case of Florencio García, Rangers Locke and Saddler drew on these tropes and racist associations, first claiming they took García “into custody” for banditry and later claiming that they suspected García of evading Selective Service. During inquiries about García’s abduction, U.S. Secret Service Agent Edward Tyrrell was asked about complaints lodged against the Texas Rangers. The wording of these inquiries emphasized that the legitimacy of complaints was tied to the identity or figuration of the complainant. Tyrrell was asked “[Y]ou ever heard from the source of law-abiding, patriotic citizens a criticism that might be considered serious regarding the conduct of the Ranger force?”18 And “Have there been any complaints filed with you on the part of law abiding citizens?”19 Later, as the Rangers were investigated for multiple killings, Judge Tidwell of the Senate and House Joint Committee would ask a witness about the composition of Cameron County, where García was killed: “About what percentage of that population is Mexican and what Anglo-Saxon or American?”20 Here Tidwell conflates citizenship status with constructed racial categories while investigating the killing of Mexicans. Later local banker B.F. Johnson would estimate Harlingen (also in Cameron County) as “about two-thirds Americans,” with “American” to mean White.21 Although there was full agreement that non-U.S. citizens, for instance U.S. residents who had not naturalized, were not required to register, Florencio García had completed World War I Selective Service Registration at the Cameron County Draft 76 Board in Brownsville.22 Selective Service draft registration cards show that García had presented to the board, along with his brother Pedro. Florencio García is noted to be a “Farmer Laborer” with “sisters under 12.” And in both the cases of Florencio and his brother Pedro, in the handwritten line at the bottom of the registration card, Cameron County Registrar Sam Betts—rather than turn García away with the information that he was not required to register—has written, instead, above García’s name “Not a Citizen of U.S.” Florencio García, twenty-four years old at the time of his registration, would be taken from his home just under nine months later. In January 1919, a Joint Committee of the Texas State Senate and House undertook a series of investigations into the practices of the Texas Rangers.23 The investigation followed nineteen charges filed against the Rangers by Texas State Representative José T. Canales of Brownsville. As Julian Samora, Joe Bernal and Albert Peña explain in Gunpowder Justice: A Reassessment of the Texas Rangers, the inquiry explored charges against Rangers of “murder; intimidation of citizens; threats against the lives of others; torture and brutality; flogging, horsewhipping, pistol whipping, and mistreatment of suspected persons; incompetency; and disregard for the law.”24 The Committee’s purpose was to investigate the charges against individual Texas Rangers as well as Ranger activities in general from 1914 to 1919.25 The taking of Florencio García was among the incidents probed. A member of the Committee, Dayton Moses asked specifically about the unexplained apprehension of Florencio García. Moses, perhaps more appropriately than he realized at the time, referred to the Rangers’ removal of García from his home as the “disappearance of this party.” 26 Though Moses’ inquiry is couched in the passive voice—the “disappearance of this party,” rather than the 77 abduction of this party by Texas Rangers, Moses’ language does help us to identify the practices against Mexicans in this period and to trace an appropriate sociopolitical analogy. Disappearance Lynching Florencio García was one of thousands of Mexicans “disappeared” in Texas at the turn of the twentieth-century. Many scholars have documented the violence against Mexicans and Mexican-Americans in Texas, noting their murders and disappearances.27 Each of these scholars details the murders of Mexican men in Texas; each notes multiple “disappearances.” Contemporaneous with these killings and “disappearances,” were public acknowledgements of these killings. In September of 1911, a political conference of over 400 Tejano leaders was held in Laredo, Texas. This group of Tejano leaders was made up of teachers, journalists, representatives from mutual aid societies, and local Tejano socialites and called El Primer Congreso Mexicanista.28 The meeting was held to address the loss of land to new White migrant-settlers, to address discrimination in the school system, and to clearly “denounce the pattern of officially sanctioned lynchings of Mexicans.”29 Four years after the meeting of Tejano and Mexican leaders, violence against Mexicans had escalated so much so that in 1915 The San Antonio Express reported the “finding of dead bodies of Mexicans, suspected for various reasons of being connected with the [bandit] troubles, has reached a point where it creates little or no interest.”30 The hundreds to thousands of Mexicans killed or “disappeared” in Texas appeared in the brush, on riverbanks, on streets, in newspapers and in the public consciousness.31 78 As early as 1935, these Mexican bodies surfaced in scholarly literature. Walter Prescott Webb—an unapologetic Texas Ranger booster and author of much of the Texas Ranger mythology—noted the scores of Mexican men killed in south and central Texas. In his work Texas Rangers: A Century of Frontier Defense, which has long been considered the authoritative and classic Texas Ranger narrative (J. Frank Dobie, author of volumes on Texas folklore called Webb’s Texas Rangers “The beginning, middle, and end of the subject”), Webb wrote: The Murder Map [of Americans killed in Mexico during the Mexican Revolution] presents with fair accuracy the loss of American life there, but it tells nothing of the economic losses or of the deaths of hundreds of Mexicans, many of them innocent, at the hands of the local posses, peace officers, and Texas Rangers… The number killed in the entire valley has been estimated at five hundred and five thousand, but the actual number can never be known. The situation can be summed up by saying that after the troubles developed the Americans instituted a reign of terror against the Mexicans and that many innocent Mexicans were made to suffer.32 Further, in North from México: the Spanish Speaking People of the United States, one of the earliest comprehensive studies of Mexicans in the Southwest first published in 1949, Carey McWilliams asserted, “more Mexicans were lynched in the Southwest between 1865 and 1920 than blacks in other parts of the South.”33 It is clear these men “disappeared” in Texas were never disappeared at all. Though the language would suggest that these men went suddenly missing—like Florencio García, these scores of Mexican men were actively taken in public or from their homes with witnesses present, with witnesses discussing, inquiring about and reporting their abductions, and with reportage in both English and Spanish language newspapers.34 Much like “disappearances” in Argentina during the period of the Guerra Sucia (The Dirty War, 1976-1983) sixty years later, “the ‘disappeared’ were dragged away in 79 full view of family, neighbors, and other observers.” 35 In Disappearing Acts: Spectacles of Gender and Nationalism in Argentina’s ‘Dirty War’ Diane Taylor calls the process by which a population is both meant to witness and meant to deny violence, “percepticide.”36 The newspapers of the time—both in Spanish and English—the chatter about town, the witnessed abductions, the discovery of remains, the memoirs and travelogues of U.S. Calvary and Texas Rangers, the inquiries and recollections of victims’ families, and the documentation since, all make clear that the lynchings of Mexicans were in plain sight. The phenomenon was never “invisible,” just as these men were never “disappeared.” As Taylor writes, the “goal is to make visible again, not the invisible or imagined, but that which is clearly there but not allowed to be seen.”37 While spectacle lynchings dominate the literature, the lynching of Mexicans in Texas often took a different form. These lynchings that were called “disappearances,” where bodies of Mexicans were found created a different kind of spectacle.38 The killings of Mexican men who were removed by mobs, by small groups, by authorities, were meant to be known of, if not seen. The descriptions, the smell, the stories of these bodies were given to be seen, were meant to circulate. Such spectacles of disappearance and reappearance created events that both resembled theater and evoked the power of magic. Yet as Taylor writes, this does not suggest such violent scenes “were either theater or magic, but they were designed to look that way.”39 The disappearances of Mexican men followed by the magical reappearance of bodies, transmogrified from the living to remnants of life and relocated in space and time by unnamed hands displayed the enormous power of the assailants and multiplied the terror targeting Mexican communities. The spectacle of dead Mexican men irrevocably altered the landscape, 80 which had only seventy years previous, been northern México. The display of brutalized bodies became markers of a new social order, and acted as signpost of the now acceptable violence against Mexican bodies. The bodies became naturalized parts of the landscape— the come upon—that were found as dawn broke, the bodies left in clear view, unhidden, created a new kind of spectacle in Texas. Such bodies evoked the invisible moments of torture and killing that followed the visible abductions of Mexican men. While the active moments of lynching violence may have been hidden from public eyes—though this was not always the case—the killing of Mexican men was not meant to be invisible, but rather transformative. The acts of killing and displaying by assembled lynchers (very often state and local officials) were intended to target not only the victim, but also spoke to the actors and their accomplices, as well as the audience. In a parallel with Argentina’s disappearances, lynchings like that of Florencio Garciá were meant to be seen: The military violence could have been relatively invisible, as the term disappearance suggests. The fact that it wasn’t indicates that the population as a whole was the intended target, positioned by means of spectacle. People had to deny what they saw and, by turning away, collude with the violence around them. They knew people were ‘disappearing’ … And those in the vicinity were forced to notice, however much they pretended not to… T]he theatricality of torture and terror… does not necessarily lie in its visibility, but in its potential to transform, to recreate, to make the visible invisible, the real unreal. Perhaps the fact that we know what is going on and yet cannot see makes the entire process more frightening, riveting, and resistant to eradication.40 The phenomenon of that disappeared lynching victim, later replaced by violated, lifeless remains—this spectacle meant to be seen, and a population “forced to notice” is one that is yet to be explored in lynching scholarship. Although the lynching of Mexicans and the discovery of their bodies in Texas 81 was common, in the century that has followed only one book-length study has concentrated specifically on the lynching of Mexicans. This study Forgotten Dead: Mob Violence against Mexicans in the United States, 1848-1928 written by William D. Carrigan and Clive Webb and released in 2013 aims to “pore over a wide variety of sources to create the first systematic study of Mexican victims of mob violence.”41 Carrigan and Webb’s work is valuable in its ambition—their social sciences approach compiles an “inventory” of what the authors call the “forgotten dead.” These “forgotten dead” constitute 547 confirmable murders of Mexican men nationwide within an eighty- year period.42 The many contemporaneous narratives of Mexicans lynched, and the countless cases documented since make clear, these victims were not and have not been forgotten. The Mexican victims of lynching were never not seen. We must reframe our question of the lynching of Mexicans, asking instead why sustained scholarly attention has not been focused on Mexican victims of lynching, why Mexicans have been removed from the recognized category of lynching victims.43 As Diane Taylor insists, we must ask instead—given the enormous archive available— “What do we learn to focus on? What are we trained to overlook? How do we get the signals?”44 As noted in chapter one, we might begin by attention to the variation in the practice of lynching. As Randall Miller writes in “Lynching in America” There were different kinds of lynching. The most frequent variety was the countless hangings, garrotings, burnings, shootings, or other means of murdering people away from public view. We might discover the body but rarely learn about when, why, and by whom the lynching happened. Rather than conduct their terror in public view, the lynch mob concealed its identity.45 What might we learn about the contours of terror and its effects if we begin to shift our focus from spectacle lynchings? As with studies of mass killings in Latin America, the 82 “emphasis on the visible should not eclipse the power of the invisible, those specters and performances haunting that help shape what we see.”46 In consideration of all that was purposefully “disappeared,” we might foreground the available archive, assessing its provenance as well as what it can it can and cannot tell us. What defines the available archive? What is its logic? At the turn of the twentieth-century, Mexican bodies were FIGURE 6: Dead Mexican Bandits, Runyon (Robert) Photograph Collection, Dolph Briscoe Center for American History, RUN00103. increasingly indexed and surveilled, thus we may draw on census data, draft registration, records of crossing and other formal, official records that tracked Mexican bodies. The more explicit records of the lynchings of Mexicans in Texas appear in formal, official documents—such as the investigations of the Texas Rangers by both domestic and Mexican authorities. We can draw on these investigations and their testimonies for evidence of violence as well as sociopolitical relationships between Mexicans (some self- 83 identified as Tejanos) and those who understood themselves as “white” in Texas. The investigations also contain a surprising amount of contemporaneous analysis. Researchers can also cull evidence of lynchings and other violences against Mexicans from English- and Spanish-language newspapers. In the reportage, representations of lynching display clear references to foundational narratives and visual constructs. Yet, we must also think more deliberately about the “archive.” As Anthony Bogues stresses in “Refiguring Archive: Text, Body, Memory, Working on Alternative Ground,” we must think of the archive “not as a place of storage… or as St. Augustine wrote, images placed on reserve to be recalled,” but rather we must recognize that the archive has a critical role in framing what we think, what it is possible to think, and how we figure a place, a location. Bogues notes that we must “understand the archive as one way in which knowledge itself is constituted and frames how we think of certain things.” 47 This approach is critical to narratives and histories of the U.S.-México borderlands region, which is constructed as a place of expected violence, a place of frontier justice, and a place of necessary border maintenance. In order to track and explore the lynching of Mexicans, we might think of the narrative and visual constructions of the lynching of Mexicans as pivoting representationally between a) the narrative and visual construction of Native massacre, b) the narrative and visual construction of the lynching of African Americans, and c) the genre of war narratives and photography. The “disappeared” and transformed dead have been framed variably. For instance, lynched Mexicans might be framed using the tropes of Texas Rangers and other lynchers as “Indian Fighters,” where the lynchers use narrative and visual conventions that more often suggest Native massacre than what has 84 come to be understood as the more ritualistically and rhetorically orthodox “hanging” lynching photos and postcards seen with African American victims. As scholars expand work on lynching, key tropes, forms, and given understandings that draw exclusively on the expected conventions of the lynching of African Americans must be complicated. Indeed, such an approach allows us to become conscientious that lynching is not a reaction to “race,” but rather that the practice of lynching produces and re-produces “race.” I argue that the Texas-México border is an ideological site of meaning where the bodies of Mexicans become embroiled in a racist panic of invasion, purity, and boundary. The use of the word race is problematic, as Barbara J. Fields indicated in “Slavery, Race and Ideology in the United States of America.” Fields, building on the scholarship, which has deemed race a social construct, explains that racial identity is formed and performed relationally, to and against its structuring opposite, “race is not an idea but an ideology.” She continues, “the notion of race, in its popular manifestation, is an ideological construct and thus, above all, a historical product.”48 I am especially concerned with the constructed categories of race—Native, African American, Mexican—via acts of terror and violence. Because the lynching of Mexicans pivots between various terroristic practices of state and community lynchers, the practice makes visible the narrative and visual racist constructions utilized by lynchers. We must consider the ways in which the lynching of Mexicans was shaped by terroristic violence against Natives and African Americans, and shaped these in turn. Those practicing lynching and those generating the narratives and visual culture of the lynching of Mexicans in Texas made choices in both the terms of 85 action and representation. Lynchers engaged acts of coding; coding that would be legible on multiple registers for de-coding. Thus, analysis is necessary to uncover the practices, rhetoric and representations, marked with an originary logic, which would aim to set the terms for our later encounters of these bodies. It is critical to understand practices of lynching as key in constructing distinctions of “race” for Natives, Mexicans, and African Americans. Indeed, if we understand that lynching is not a reaction to race, we must understand such terrorism as one tool that aids in the creation of race. As Barbara Jean Fields explains in Racecraft: The Soul of Inequality in American Life: Race is not an element of human biology (like breathing oxygen or reproducing sexually); nor is it even an idea (like the speed of light or the value of π) that can be plausibly imagined to live an eternal life of its own. Race is not an idea but an ideology. It came into existence at a discernable historical moment for rationally understandable historical reasons and is subject to change for similar reasons… American racial ideology is as original as invention of the Founders as is the United States itself… Thus we ought to begin by restoring to race—that is, the American version of race—its proper history.49 How might we better understand racist violence if we were to dispose of the long- standing notion of lynching as a negative response to race? How might we better understand racist violence if we were to cease “attribut[ing] the problem to the race of the prey, rather than the racism of the predator”?50 What would it mean if we related—indeed, interlocked—the categories of killing that have separated Natives, Mexicans, and African Americans? Though recent scholarship has increasingly reconsidered violence in the borderlands, scholars generally presuppose the existence of “The Mexican” and consider violence a reaction to the Mexican. Those who work to recognize violence, understand 86 violence as a reaction to difference, rather than a tool in the creation of difference. Thus, I call for a backstep, historicizing the production of the Mexican, understanding the figure of the Mexican as an historical product, and violence as one way in which the Mexican body is marked. The assembly of the figure of the Mexican has been a long, deliberate process, articulated in community narratives, visual culture, media, and structural formations. Mi hijo se murio con un rasgón en su zapato51 On May 22nd, six weeks after his son was taken by Rangers Saddler and Locke, Miguel García stood over the chaparral brush in the noon sun where his son, Florencio was found. Florencio García’s remains were recovered after “somebody found human bones.”52 Locals led authorities to García’s body, which had been largely eaten by coyotes. Although his bones had been scattered in a pasture by scavengers and passing cattle and some of his clothes (along with his flesh) had been eaten by scavengers, Florencio García’s coat, shirt, shoes, and Stetson cowboy hat were found in relatively good condition.53 The Cameron County Attorney Oscar Dancy led Miguel García to his son’s remains, and there Miguel García identified a jacket with silver dollar sized bullet holes, and what Dancy described as “a tuft of black hair.”54 Florencio García’s father also identified Florencio’s shoes and clothes, while the local shop owner, L. Garibeau identified Florencio García’s cowboy hat; the hat was also riddled with bullet holes.55 Miguel García explained, standing over the bones and tattered clothing and pointing to a hole worn in his son’s shoes that “he had been telling the boy to have the shoes mended a few days before he disappeared.”56 87 The group of men who accompanied Miguel García included another of his sons, Mexican Consul Garza, Ranger Sam Roman, two representatives of the Cameron County Sherriff’s Department, the Cameron County Attorney, the Justice of the Peace, and two representatives from the Hinkley Undertaking Company. 57 Cameron County Attorney Oscar Dancy explained that he made the trip to Ray Wait’s pasture to investigate the remains after he was given various reports of a body found, and after he organized the group of men to accompany him to both investigate and to collect the remains. 58 Dancy clearly deduced that the remains found in the pasture matched the reports he had received regarding the disappearance of Florencio García, as he assembled not only local authorities but also Mexican Consul Garza who had been pressing Texas state and county officials on the abduction of Florencio García by Rangers Locke and Saddler. In addition, Cameron County Attorney Oscar Dancy asked Florencio García’s father to accompany the group. Florencio García’s family had proven active investigators in the six weeks since his abduction. They had visited Mexican and Texan officials asking them to investigate Florencio’s whereabouts and to investigate the Rangers who had taken him from his home. Cameron County Attorney Oscar Dancy explained that Miguel García had visited him several times: We went down the morning following the evening I got a report of finding this body… Before I got to that point, the old man, the father of the boy, was at my office. He was at my office two or three times and my residence once. I don’t know how many times he came to see me about it, but I asked the old man to identify the boy.59 Cameron County Justice of the Peace, H. J. Kirk, described the scene at Wait’s Pasture where Florencio García was found: There found what was left of a Mexican—flesh all gone practically, all bones found, some black hair, jacket with three holes, shirt three holes, 88 one handkerchief, small monogram, one pair shoes, one gray felt hat purchased from L. Gariboy [sic], two clasp garters, seven teeth missing front lower jaw and one left back, ten upper front teeth good. 60 Such a scene was meant to be witnessed. Though absent the performative action of a spectacle lynching, the brutalized remains of Florencio García were neither hidden nor suppressed. Indeed, the landscape spoke of brutal abductions and the bodies left decomposing in plain sight were critical maneuvers that created a culture of terror. Terrains of Terror While other scholars have done work on the “lynching culture” that allows for unpunished killing (and focuses on the perspective of the agency and the subjectivity of the lynchers), I choose to also reflect on the effects of such acts on victims and victim communities. Thus, I make central the discussion of cultures of terror, rather than only the “lynching culture” that nurtures and is nurtured by acts of killing. I borrow the phrase “culture of terror” from anthropologist Michael Taussig, as I believe it is a useful construct for examining widespread lynching of Mexicans. Taussig refers to widespread violence as used to construct and reify cultures of terror. In Shamanism, Colonialism, and the Wild Man: A Study in Terror and Healing, Taussig writes that we must attend to “the torturer’s … need to control massive populations, entire social classes, and even nations through the cultural elaboration of fear.”61 African Americans were lynched throughout the United States, and were often—but not always—accused of committing some offense against law or society. These were largely fictional charges, which were equated with guilt (the law was irrelevant) and punishment would ensue to restore the “threatened” white society to its former status of superiority by terrorizing the African American 89 community.62 I contend this function was in place for Mexicans as well. In the case of Florencio García, we both recover the details of his lynching as well as attempt to untangle the meaning and function of his lynching as well as the lynching of scores of Mexican men in Texas. As Jonathan Markovitz asserts in Legacies of Lynching: Racial Violence and Memory, “lynchings were intended to create collective memories of terror and white supremacy,” rather than acting as punishment for real or perceived crimes. 63 Taussig’s ethnographic meditation on colonial cultures of violence in Columbia’s Putumayo region explains acts of violence constitute a discourse of relationality—one that both expresses and constructs “implicit social knowledge.” Taussig’s “implicit social knowledge” does not trade on overt political or social declarations of social domination or hostility. To reiterate my earlier point, “implicit social knowledge” is that which: … moves people without their knowing quite why or quite how, with what makes the real the real and the normal normal, and above all with what makes ethical distinctions politically powerful. [A]n essentially inarticulatable and imageric nondiscursive knowing of social relationality, and in trying to understand the way that history and memory interact in the constituting of this knowledge.64 Taussig insists that rituals of violence and domination are social practices and that individuals participate utilizing an unarticulated implied social knowledge “[a]cquired through practices rather than through conscious learning.”65 Thus, we might meditate on why the remains of Mexican men scattered upon the landscape were neither accidental nor uncommon, and why the remainders of violence— the bodies of Mexican men killed—were purposeful and functional. Justice of the Peace Kirk, who examined Florencio García’s remains and the site where they were recovered described how in the years previous, Mexican families had asked him to help them recover the bodies of their loved ones. In response to questioning by J.T. Canales, 90 Representative of Texas’ 77th District Kirk described the south Texas landscape: Canales: Did you hold inquest on other dead Mexicans in 1915, 1916, 1917, and you helped their parents bury their bodies? Kirk: Well, I cannot say that I did hold a regular inquest, but I went to places, they were lying there, but in such advanced stage of decomposition they were buried there. Canales: Why did you go there? Kirk: At the request of relatives. Canales: Why? Kirk: They asked me to. Canales: I will ask you whether relatives were permitted to bury their people? Kirk: They said not, no, they said they were afraid to. Canales: Whom did they say they were afraid of? Kirk: One afternoon about two o’clock a party came to me and said there were dead bodies in the neighborhood and they were so offensive that they wanted them disposed of and wanted to know why the authorities did not take action… I would go out there with him and relatives to bury these bodies… I asked why don’t you go out and bury them yourself? He said he was afraid to go, and I asked him why, and he said he was afraid that the Rangers would shoot them. Kirk continued to describe finding four bodies in a field, and later twenty more bodies decaying in Brownsville ranch land. He talked of visiting a mass gravesite for fifteen Mexicans.66 Such sites can be understood to amplify terror, “through which twenty victims can paralyze an entire community or country.”67 While the rhetoric of dehumanizing or objectifying victims of terror and murder is often invoked in cases of atrocity, it is the presence of the human body—the tortured, the dismembered, the burned, the abandoned human body—that is critical to acts of terror. Such scenes have an 91 enormous terroristic effect on the community with whom those killed are associated. Awareness of lynching and of the impunity with which lynchers displayed their kills worked to terrorize and police the movement of the communities from which lynching victims were taken. As Richard Wright described of his own experience in Natchez, Mississippi—he was aware of two men who were lynched, his step-uncle and the brother of a neighborhood friend: The things that influenced my conduct as a Negro did not have to happen to me directly; I needed but to hear of them to feel their full effects in the deepest layers of my consciousness. Indeed, the white brutality that I had not seen was a more effective control of my behavior than that which I knew.68 Attending to the life and the lynching of Florencio García is also attending to the effects of his lynching—the ways in which a victim was arbitrarily chosen, a hard worker and “a man of very good character” taken from his home without charges and later exhibited— flesh torn from bones, clear evidence of multiple gunshot wounds and trauma to the skull, eight teeth missing from his lower jaw. Like the conditions described by Wright, such a spectacle was a discursive moment that would function to control the movement of Mexicans, for “[t]orture and terror function most effectively when members of the population feel as if they were the victim, as if they were next on the list. The arbitrary choice of victims serves to strengthen the identification between public and victim by accentuating the random nature of this atrocity (It could happen to us).”69 The feeling of it could happen to us determined even the movement of families afraid to recover the bodies of their loved ones rotting in fields and pastures. The utilization of the broken, lifeless body created the very “transformation of public space,” where fields and pastures were peopled with the dismembered and the decomposing.70 These are, of course, not 92 FIGURE 7: Unidentified young man with the remains of four Mexican men. Men visible in the brush on the road to Donna in south central Hidalgo County. Some men with ropes tied around their neck bones and arms. October 1915. Museum of South Texas History, Edinburg, Texas. merely bodies, not merely remains. The men, once alive, were also members of families, of communities, people who were sought and who were mourned. The accumulative effect of disappearance, reappearance, and the denial, often, of burial reflected not only another functional choreography of a lynching culture, but also for Mexican communities created a terrorscape where extreme and tactically state-sponsored violences are “not limited to prisons and torture chambers but are played out on public streets, in private houses, on human bodies.”71 The mass disappearances and killings of Mexicans in Texas between 1915 and 1917 were so extensive that they have been compared to the Guerra Sucia in two other works of which I am aware: in the dissertation of Richard Ribb “J.T. Canales and the Texas Rangers” and in Benjamin H. Johnson’s Revolution in Texas: How a Forgotten Rebellion and Its Bloody Suppression Turned Mexicans into Americans, the only 93 sustained, book-length treatment of the 1915 Plan de San Diego uprisings of Tejanos and Mexicans in Texas.72 In Ribb’s dissertation, which gives the most thorough treatment of Texas State Representative J.T. Canales from Brownsville who represented the southernmost county in Texas, Ribb details Canales’ attempts at reforming the Texas Ranger force. He creates a compelling comparison between Texas and Argentina during the period of the Guerra Sucia. Ribb writes: The most conservative estimate of Border Mexicans killed by Rangers, vigilantes, deputies, and soldiers between August and November 1915 is 300, while some estimates for the total number of Border Mexicans killed in the 1910s place the number at 5,000. For South Texas, the ratios of victims to total population run from 1:300 at 300 killed, to a more likely 1:30 at 3,000 killed, to a possible 1:18 at the highest estimate of 5,000 Border Mexicans killed in a “reign of terror,” as several witnesses described the decade.73 Continuing in a footnote with actual population figures for both the south Texas counties and Argentina, Ribb calculates that Mexicans—so often figured as “bandits”—like Argentinians—so often figured as “subversives”—were abducted, tortured, and killed at a much higher rate. Ribb also invokes a colloquialism of the time in Texas, a code word for the lynching of Mexicans that was used in narratives, travel diaries, and newspapers: “evaporate.” Census reports show about 90,000 Tejanos in Cameron, Hidalgo, and Starr Counties in 1920 and about 30 million residents in Argentina in 1980… To put the horrific violence of the Border War in context of recent events, 30,000 people vanished in Argentina’s Dirty War of 1976-83. For Argentina the ratio of victims to total population is about 1:1000. These figures indicate that a “bandit” was at least three times more likely to “evaporate” during the Border War than a “subversive” was to “disappear” during the Dirty War.74 In Revolution in Texas, Johnson creates a problematic cause-and-effect scenario, in which 94 the widespread lynching of Mexicans was a response, even a “counterinsurgency,” to the events that began in the summer of 1915 and ended in June 1916 in which several ranches or homes were raided by Mexicans and/or Tejanos.75 While violence saw a peak in 1915-1916, it is clear that lethal violence targeting Mexicans in Texas fell far outside of the events of 1915-1916, and many of the murders of Mexicans cited by Johnson occurred long before and long after 1915-1916. I would suggest that while Revolution in Texas offers a significant history of social movements in the México-Texas borderlands during 1915-1916, the imposition of a grand narrative that constructs the killings of Mexicans in the period largely as punishment, or as activity to suppress what was a series of uncoordinated raids is unsupported. Yet, Johnson’s work is enormously valuable— Johnson impressively aggregates a number of details on the terroristic attacks against Mexicans and his analysis of the transnational nature of violence in the México-Texas border is a key intervention that we might apply to more recent violences.76 Building on his research that documents countless murders of Mexicans and echoing Ribb, Johnson concludes: The fragmentary nature of the surviving accounts and the discovery of skeletons even decades later suggest that a number [of killed] in the low thousands is probable. If this is in fact the case, then several percent of the population of deep south Texas died during the Plan de San Diego uprising, for the 1910 census counted about forty thousand in Cameron and Hidalgo counties. Even a lower death toll would mean that a Tejano in south Texas was more likely to “disappear” than a citizen of Argentina during the country’s infamous “Dirty War of the 1970s. 77 Thus, it is clear that although scholarship has not focused on the disappearance lynchings of Mexicans, such lynchings were widespread and unhidden. The narratives of abductions and killings and the exhibition of the human remains of Mexicans were manifest regularly in Texas. The blatant displays remind us that the 95 unspeakable isn’t, the unimaginable isn’t. While today’s scholars (myself included) make arguably presentist analogies with disappearance atrocity in Latin America, the function of widespread disappearances followed by displays of remains—the positioning, the constructed narratives, and the constructed visual representations of Mexican bodies strewn in the field, on the landscape—draw potently on earlier constructed narratives and images of Native massacre that had profound power in the Texian/Texan imaginary.78 Foundational narratives and representations of violence against Natives would come to parallel the narratives and representation of violences against Mexicans. These cases fit neatly with Grace Elizabeth Hale’s formulation of the script of law officers “giving up” victims to mobs. The same may be true of the lynching of Florencio García—Rangers Saddler, Sittre, and Locke would later explain that they were not responsible for the killing of Florencio García, but rather, that “unknown assailants” killed him. San Antonio Police Captain Chas Stevens said he had investigated the matter after “affidavits were filed by some Mexicans,” and found that the Rangers had “arrested several men in connection with this [slacker] investigation and delivered them to military authorities and they claimed they had taken Florencio García to Point Isabel and investigated him and turned him loose.”79 Ranger Saddler explained that he joined up with Sittre and Locke near point Isabel, where Sittre and Locke first took Florencio García and left him overnight with the Sherriff’s deputy at the local jail. The next morning, he and five other men (three may have been soldiers) removed García from the jail “to try to get information out of him… we wanted to take him out of his range and out of his beat so maybe he would talk.” Saddler explained that they took García on a walk of five or six miles total, the Rangers and soldiers on horses and García on foot, 96 while they interrogated García about cattle rustling.80 Eventually the soldiers broke away from the Rangers. After García was unable to give any information on any wrongdoing by him or others, Saddler, Locke and Sittre “turned him loose at a ranchman’s house by the name of Mr. Scott.”81 Florencio García’s forced walk of over two hours yielded no information according to Ranger Sittre who explained that the group of Rangers let Florencio García walk away after “he didn’t tell us what we wanted him to.”82 Yet, during the course of the testimonies of the Rangers regarding the day of García’s open-air interrogation, several questioners on the Joint Committee Investigation of the Texas Rangers returned to the public nature of this mobile interrogation: the two hours of García on foot while Rangers loudly questioned him from above on horseback; the march in no particular direction (towards Harlingen, on the San Benito road, according to Sittre, but not on the way to either), the examination within the hearing of a group of men in a car parked nearby, and in front of “a ranchman’s [house] by the name of Wood Scott.”83 When asked why the Rangers had not taken Florencio García home, Saddler replied curtly, “Why, he didn’t insist.”84 Perhaps, however, the Rangers were advertising García as a suspect, calling out allegations, demonstrating García’s insolence for any local rancher or watcher, who might take advantage of the two hours to judge and decide a course of action. After which, Saddler, Sittre and Locke left the exhausted Mexican man to negotiate his way through the rural, back road community suspicion they had effectively stimulated. Responding to the charges that three Rangers kidnapped and killed Florencio García (or led him to his killers), Texas Ranger Company G Captain Charles F. Stephens, who had been commissioned to lead his Company into the Lower Valley near the 97 Brownsville area just six months earlier replied, “These Rangers are all good men, and I do not think they are guilty.”85 He continued his comments on the murder of García—“It seems to me that there is not so much in finding a dead Mexican.”86 Though Captain Stephens is careful to deny the guilt of the Texas Rangers of any crimes, he refers to Florencio García’s murder in passive voice, García is just one of many Mexicans “found dead.” When questioned, the Rangers all admitted there was no reason to take García into custody and there was no evidence that García had committed any crime. This was not then a revelation—the lynchings of Mexican men like Florencio García were not about perceived crimes, but rather, these were acts of torture and acts of terror. As Diane Taylor writes, [terror] functions like a social transformer… Cultural norms enter and come out skewed. The innocent are called enemies. People disappear. Mothers are raped. And the transformation is real, not illusory. It actually changes society. In this nation-house, new creatures are being brought into existence… The general public does in fact become complicitous and guilty by participating in the transformation. The victims are found guilty; the torturers are acquitted.87 Captain Stephens’ denial of the killing of Mexican men as a crime, and their killers as criminals perfectly captures the ways in which the construction of lawlessness is inverted. The inversion of law and lawlessness is seen often in cases of the lynching of Mexicans in Texas. Such inversions have also solidified in scholarship, where causality for the killing of Mexican men is inferred. For instance, in Ben Johnson’s Revolution in Texas: How a Forgotten Rebellion and Its Bloody Suppression Turned Mexicans into Americans, Johnson constructs a narrative of Florencio García’s abduction and murder. However, in a narrative trick of cause and effect, Johnson chooses to create possible grounds for the killing of García by creating a rhetorical link between Florencio García with “suspected 98 former Sediciosos” [Seditionists], “raiders,” “a band of robbers,” and “cattle rustlers.”88 Johnson classifies García’s lynching among the “swift reprisals against those suspected of property theft” and peoples his narrative leading to the killing of García with seditionists, raiders, robbers, and rustlers, yet he does not articulate any actual link between the constructed criminal bodies and García, the well-regarded foreman of the milch herd.89 In this, Johnson follows the media accounts of the time as well as the logic of the lynchers. The lynching of Florencio García is representative of how the figure of the Mexican was constructed contemporaneously as both bandit and slacker. Yet these constructions would be repeated by historians to come. Further, the language of disappearance, rather than lynching would be adopted though these abductions were witnessed. As historians, we must return to primary documents and re-evaluate the conditions of their production. We must work to recognize the ways in which discursive formations, such as the figure of ‘the Mexican’ as bandit, criminal, slacker, seditionist, were produced. The disappearance of Mexican men from their homes and communities and the disappearance of the lynching of Mexican men from scholarship should be juxtaposed against the observable evidence of these murders. The contemporaneous accounts confirm that Mexican men were murdered regularly—often tortured and dismembered. Yet, because the Mexican men were staged as bandits, criminals, slackers, and seditionists in both media accounts and visual representation, the lynching of Mexican men was a widespread practice disguised in plain sight. The terms set by lynchers who relayed accounts of banditry and criminality have become the very terms by which we continue to understand the Mexican men’s bodies. As Russ Castronovo 99 urges in Necro Citizenship: Death, Eroticism, and the Public Sphere in the Nineteenth- Century United States, we must be attentive to “the public sphere—and the forms of personhood it creates.”90 I consider the meeting place of the lynching a neglected annex of our U.S. public sphere—a sphere in which assailants demarcate, dominate, and construct race and racist figurations. 100 Notes to Chapter Two 1 Walter Prescott Webb, The Texas Rangers: A Century of Frontier Defense (Austin: Univ. of Texas Press, 1993 [1935]), 252. 2 The story of Florencio Garcia was relayed to local, state and Mexican authorities by his surviving family—his wife and his father, Miguel Garcia. Their accounts appear in “The Joint Committee of the Senate and House in Investigation of the Texas State Ranger Force, 36th Legislature, Regular Session, Legislative Papers, 1918” in The Texas State Archives, Austin (accessible via the Henry Warren Papers, Archives of the Big Bend, Sul Ross State University). References to Florencio Garcia’s “disappearance” can also be found in reports and correspondence filed with the Texas Adjunct General and the Mexican Consulate in Brownsville (accessible via Company C, Ranger Force, Ranger Force military rolls, Ranger military rolls, Military rolls, Texas Adjunct General’s Department. Archives and Information Services Division, Texas State Library and Archives Commission). In addition, Florencio García is mentioned by Benjamin Johnson in Revolution in Texas: How a Forgotten Rebellion and Its Bloody Suppression Turned Mexicans into Americans (2003), 163; Charles H. Harris and Louis R. Sadler in The Texas Rangers and the Mexican Revolution: The Bloodiest Decade, 1910-1920 (2004), 378-379; and Robert M. Utley in Lone Star Lawmen: The Second Century of the Texas Rangers (2008), footnote 24, Chapter Five. For the narrative of the events outlined here, I have drawn on the primary sources, where available, and indicated secondary references where appropriate. 3 The 1918 Joint Committee Investigation Transcripts on the Texas Rangers was a Texas State investigation that covered the years between 1914 and 1918. The transcripts are also known as “The Canales Report,” after Texas State Representative José T. Canales who led the investigation into Ranger misconduct. The transcripts consist of testimonies of witnesses and survivors, as well as perpetrators of lynchings in Texas. They total over 3,000 pages. “The Joint Committee of the Senate and House in Investigation of the Texas State Ranger Force, 36th Legislature, Regular Session, Legislative Papers, 1918, Vols. I-III” in The Texas State Archives, Austin. Accessible via the Henry Warren Papers, Archives of the Big Bend, Sul Ross State University (hereafter TRI), 1056-1061. 4 The Stetson of Florencio García came to be critical in identifying his remains. This Stetson, purchased for $5.50 from L. Garibeau and Sons in Brownsville proved important in various ways. Witnesses sympathetic to the García family would note the Florencio García wore a “cowboy hat… a light hat, as distinguished from a black hat.” Later, popular culture and film would adopt the visual trope of the white hat as worn by the virtuous hero—particularly in Western films. In these films, the hero character wears a white cowboy hat in contrast to the villain’s black hat. This visual shorthand was particularly potent during the U.S. film industry’s black and white period. Examples of Western heroes in white Stetsons include Tex Ritter, Tom Mix, Buck Jones, Hopalong Cassidy, the Lone Ranger, Red Ryder, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Marshall Matt Dillon, Hoss & Li’l Joe Cartwright, Paladin, Maverick, and Rawhide’s Rowdy Yates. 101 5 TRI: Volume II, Testimony of Oscar C. Dancy, 555 and H.N. Gray, 1059-1060. 6 TRI: Volume II, Testimony of H.N. Gray, 1061. 7 TRI: Volume II, Testimony of H.N. Gray, 1058-1061. 8 For the full details of Texas Ranger Captain W.M. Hanson’s positions held during his career, see Darren L. Ivey, The Texas Rangers: A Registry and History (MacFarland Press, 2010), 184 and Hanson’s testimony to the Subcommittee of the Committee on Foreign Relations, 20 May 1920 in the United States Congressional Serial Set (United States. Congress, Reprint Nabu Press, 2010), 3223. 9 Letter from J.Z. Garza to Captain W.M. Hanson, 2 May 1918, Departmental Correspondence II, 1906-1943, Texas Adjutant General’s Department. Archives and Information Services Division, Texas State Library and Archives Commission. 10 Chemist George Pichl of the Ohio and Texas Sugar Company judged Piper’s sugarcane 1st in the 1909 Midwinter Fair Competition, determining that Piper, only two years in production of sugarcane, could yield more tonnage per acre than its closest competition—the Brulay Plantation—a thirty year-old operation. Further, Piper’s cane yielded a purity higher than the local Garza Plantation. This nearly immediate yield in addition to its cattle operation gave the Piper Plantation an enormous advantage over area Rio Grande Valley plantations and ranches. See “Analysis of Sugar-Cane: Samples from Valley Plantations at Fair,” Brownsville Daily Herald, Vol. 17, No. 175, Ed. 1, 22 January 22, 1909, 2. In the late 1880’s, “Texas Fever,” thought to originate in South Texas longhorn cattle, began to kill cattle in the Midwest who had been exposed to cattle driven north from Texas. The spread of “Texas Fever” resulted in cattle trail quarantine laws and a full ban of driving Texas cattle across the Kansas border in 1885. These quarantines and bans, along with restrictive legislation passed by other states, nearly ended the Texas cattle- trailing industry that had been highly profitable for two decades. In 1889, Dr. Mark Francis of the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas [now Texas A&M University] began research that led to the immunization of cattle and delousing of infected ticks, this largely eradicated “Texas Fever” in South Texas (though it still exists in many under-developed countries). For more on the economic consequences of the “Texas Fever” outbreaks, see: J. Evetts Haley, “Texas Fever and the Winchester Quarantine,” Panhandle-Plains Historical Review 8 (1935). Miodrag Ristic and Julius P. Kreier, Babesiosis (New York: Academic, 1981) and Tamara Miner Haygood, “Texas Fever,” Handbook of Texas Online http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/awt01 11 Robert M. Utley, Lone Star Lawmen: The Second Century of the Texas Rangers: The Second Century of the Texas Rangers (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2007), 80. 102 12 In his testimony, Saddler hedges on whether or not language was a barrier to communication that necessitated removing Florencio García and taking him about thirty miles away from the Piper Plantation, toward Point Isabel. In one instance Saddler explains “I couldn’t talk Spanish very well and had to talk to him through other parties,” TRI: Volume III, TRI: Volume III, 1539. In another he describes he and others who talked to García “for about thirty minutes,” 1535. When Saddler explains that the Rangers took García toward Point Isabel for questioning with an interpreter, he is interrupted by Senator Page, a member of the Committee, who asks “Isn’t there anybody in Brownsville who speaks Spanish? Why didn’t you take him into Brownsville to get an interpreter?” TRI, Testimony of George Saddler, TRI: Volume III, 1531-1546. 13 At the request of the War Department, Congress amended the law in August 1918 to expand the age range to include all men 18 to 45. 14 The Selective Service Act, also known as the Selective Draft Act (Pub. L. 65- 12, 40 Stat. 76) was enacted May 18, 1917. The Act authorized the federal government to raise a national army for the American entry into World War I through conscription. The Act, sign into law by U.S. President Wilson was upheld by the U.S. Supreme Court in the Selective Draft Law Cases in 1918, a decision based partially on Vattel’s The Law of Nations of 1758. See Jack Franklin Leach, Conscription in the United States: Historical Background. (Rutland.: C.E. Tuttle Publishing Company, 1952), vi. 15 “Take Slackers Into Army; Many at Camp Dix Welcome Induction Into Military Service,” The New York Times, 10 September 1918, 6. In addition, concerned that wealthy men would be able to evade conscription, U.S. President Wilson carefully explained his concept of “selective conscription” in early 1917. As The Galveston Daily News summarized: [T]he President has made a statement showing just what the administration means by the term. In short, it means that the war will have to be fought by the nonproducers as far as the army obtains, and that the eligible more useful at home in making sure productiveness of the fields and the factories will not be taken away from those pursuits. The loafer will find himself with a full-time job on his hands, and due to get a post-graduate course in nationalism. On April 20, 1917, the U.S. War Department announced that any weddings that had been conducted since the declaration of war against Germany would explicitly not excuse the newly married from military service. The Galveston Daily News published the notice in full: “The war department announces that all men married since the outbreak of war will be treated upon the same basis as unmarried men, in so far as their military obligations are concerned. It is declared that the utmost publicity be given to this announcement.” The newspaper continued, summarizing in layman’s terms “The department was moved to this action so all men might understand exactly what is contemplated in the organization of an army to fight Germany. It was desired that there should arise no 103 question of ‘slackers.’” “Marriage No War Excuse Now: War Department Makes Announcement to Forestall Any Arising of Question of Slackers in America,” The Galveston Daily News, 20 April, 1917, 1. 16 Carlysle Graham Raht, The Romance of Davis Mountains and Big Bend Country: Edition Texana, A History (Odessa: The Rahtbooks Company, 1963), 361. 17 TRI: Volume I, Testimony of Dayton Moses, 100. 18 TRI: Volume I, Testimony of U.S Secret Service Agent Edward Tyrrell, of the San Antonio, Texas Division, 206. Italics mine. 19 TRI: Volume I, Testimony of U.S Secret Service Agent Edward Tyrrell, of the San Antonio, Texas Division, 207. Italics mine. 20 TRI: Volume I, Testimony of William G.B. Morrison, Judge Tidwell cross- examination, 21. 21 TRI: Volume I, Testimony of B.F. Johnson, 56. 22 Registration State: Texas; Registration County: Cameron; Roll: 1952399. United States, Selective Service System. World War I Selective Service System Draft Registration Cards, 1917-1918. Washington, D.C.: National Archives and Records Administration. M1509, 4,582 rolls. 23 The Investigation was prompted by Texas State Representative José T. Canales of Brownsville in 1918, as requested by Mexican Ambassador Ygnacio Bonilla. The killing of Florencio García would become “Charge Five” of five charges presented against the Texas Rangers by J.T. Canales. TRI, Charges Against the State Ranger Force, 30 January 1919, 5. 24 Julian Samora, Joe Bernal, and Albert Peña, Gunpowder Justice: A Reassessment of the Texas Rangers (Norte Dame: University of Norte dame Press, 1979), 12. 25 The committee took testimony for two weeks, beginning January 31, 1919. Extensive work on the committee and the outcomes of the investigation has been done by Richard Henry Ribb in his dissertation “José Tomás Canales and the Texas Rangers: Myth, Identity, and Power in South Texas, 1900-1920” Dissertation, University of Texas at Austin (August 2001). See also Journal of the House of Representatives of the Regular Session of the Thirty-sixth Legislature. Austin, Texas, Von Boeckmann-Jones, 1919. [Contains the Committee Report to the Legislature]. 26 TRI: Volume III, Testimony of H.N. Gray, 1059. 104 27 Critical works in the field include Arnoldo De León’s They Called Them Greasers, William D. Carrigan’s The Making Of A Lynching Culture: Violence And Vigilantism In Central Texas, 1836-1916, and Ben Johnson’s Revolution in Texas: How a Forgotten Rebellion and Its Bloody Suppression Turned Mexicans into Americans. These authors and cultural critics join scholars Julian Samora, Joe Bernal, Albert Peña, José Davíd Saldívar, Américo Paredes, Tomas Rivera, Rudolpho Acuña, Jovita Gonzales and Rolando Hinojosa in re-assessing the violence against Mexicans in Texas. As I have pursued the lynching of Mexicans, Samora, Bernal and Peña’s Gunpowder Justice: A Reassessment of the Texas Rangers has been always within reach—Gunpowder Justice soberly considers Texas Ranger actions and activities as co-contaminant with Texas Ranger myth-making. I also draw on Samora, Bernal and Peña’s work because they look at the Texas Rangers as part of the larger machinations of power in the southwest—going beyond a litany of Ranger cruelties on Mexican bodies and instead focusing on the ways in which the Rangers have created a culture of dominance so successful that it has continued to be expressed in strike breaking, anti-“Communist” activity and border enforcement through the 1960s. 28 The Idar family, owner and publishers of the Spanish language newspaper La Crónica, invited Tejano lodge and mutualista society members along with the Mexican consuls statewide and other Tejano journalists. The meeting, which also sought participation of Tejanas and Mexicanas specifically from both sides of the border sought “to advance education, culture, and civil rights for Mexican Americans… The congreso established the Gran Liga Mexicanista de Beneficencia y Protección and the Liga Femenil Mexicanista to promote cultural and moral values among Texas Mexicans, provide protection from abuse by public authorities, and combat segregation of Texas Mexican students.” Teresa Palomo Acosta, “Congreso Mexicanista,” Handbook of Texas Online http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/vecyk For more on El Primer Congreso, see also José E. Limon’s “El Primer Congreso Mexicanista de 1911: A Precursor to Contemporary Chicanismo,” Aztlan (Spring-Fall 1974), 85-117. 29 David Montejano, Anglos and Mexicans in the Making of Texas, 1836-1986 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1987), 116. 30 The San Antonio Daily Express, 11 September 1915. 31 Interestingly, another word used contemporaneous with the killings of Mexicans in Texas was “evaporated.” Just as “disappeared” was used, many referred to the “evaporation” of Mexican men. In the case of Florencio García, one investigator notes that “sixty days had intervened between the time of his evaporation and the discovery of those white bleached bones.” TRI, 555. 32 Walter P. Webb, The Texas Rangers: A Century of Frontier Defense (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1993 [1935]), 478. 33 According to William D. Carrigan, between 1848 and 1870, “Records indicate 105 473 out of every 100,000 Mexican migrant workers during this time period died as victims of a lynching” (Winter 2003). 34 While lynching occurred widely in Texas, I have chosen sites that are largely unexplored in scholarship. As Carlos Monsiváis has noted in “Interacción Cultura Fronteriza,” most scholars on both sides of the U.S.-Mexican border reduce the discussion of this nearly 2,000-mile international border to its two largest cities—El Paso/Cuidad Juárez and San Diego/Tijuana. While these are the most well-recognized border cities, the border region is vast and its diversity of communities, economies, and histories merit closer attention. Carlos Monsaváis, “Interacción Cultural Fronteriza,” in Reglas del Juego y juego sin reglas en la vida fronteriza: III Reunión de Universidades Mexicanas y de Estados Unidos, 23-25 de Octubre, 1983, Tijuana, B.C., Marion Miranda and James W. Wilke, eds. (Mexico City: Asociación Nacional de Universidades e Instituciones de Educación Superior, 1985), 222-227, 222. 35 Diana Taylor, Disappearing Acts: Spectacles of Gender and Nationalism in Argentina’s ‘Dirty War’ (Durham: Duke University Press, 1997), 10. 36 Ibid. 37 Taylor, 27. 38 My special thanks to Dr. Stephanie Morimoto at the University of New Mexico whose work focuses on representations of the spectacle lynching of Jessie Washington in Waco, Texas, 15 May 1916. She carefully reviewed my work several times, helping me to probe the phenomena. 39 Taylor, 125. 40 Emphasis mine. Taylor, 123, 132. 41 William D. Carrigan and Clive Webb, Forgotten Dead: Mob Violence against Mexicans in the United States, 1848-1928 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 7. 42 Carrigan and Webb’s work is valuable for its data, which make available data for future scholarly analysis, however, beginning with their title, these scholars reinforce the narrative of invisibility labeling the murdered Mexican men on which their work focuses the “forgotten dead” (2013), 5. 43 Even in their path-breaking study, Carrigan and Webb problematically insist on using the more ambiguous term “mob violence” rather than “lynching.” A point that I also discuss in depth in Chapter 1 - “Word Becomes Flesh.” 44 Taylor, 121. 106 Randall M. Miller, “Lynching in America: Some Context and a Few 45 Comments,” Pennsylvania History, Vol. 72, No. 3 (Summer 2005), 278-279. 46 Taylor, 30. 47 Anthony Bogues, “Refiguring Archive: text body memory working on alternative ground,” talk as part of the Centre for African Studies’ seminar series, “Undisciplining Knowledge: Theories, Practices + Imaginaries” (CAS 25 August 2011). Available: http://shelf3d.com/aEckP35LTa0#UNDISCIPLINING%20KNOWLEDGE:%20Tony%2 0Bogues,%20Refiguring%20Archive Barbara Jean Fields, “Slavery, Race, and Ideology in the United States of 48 America” in New Left Review 181 (1990), 95-188, 150. 49 Karen E. Fields and Barbara Jean Fields, Racecraft: The Soul of Inequality in American Life (London: Verso, 2014), 121. The ideology of race, explains Fields, is distinct from ‘ancestry,’ as everyone has ancestry, while race is “a neutral-sounding word with racism hidden inside… the attachment to fellow human beings of a stigma akin to leprosy,” 102. 50 Ibid, 106. 51 Translation: “My son died with a hole in his shoe.” Miguel García, father of Florencio García. TRI: Volume III, Testimony of H.N. Gray, 1061. 52 TRI: Volume III, Testimony of H.N. Gray, 1058. 53 TRI: Volume II, Testimony of Louis Brulay, 553-555. 54 TRI: Volume II, Testimony of Oscar Dancy, 548, 551, and testimony of Louis Brulay, 553-557. 55 TRI: Volume II, Testimony of Oscar Dancy, 543-544, 555 and H.N. Gray, 1060. Dancy testified that he had confirmed with the local store, Garibeau & Son that Florencio García had paid $5.50 for his Stetson and was still paying it off at the time of his lynching. 56 TRI: Volume III, Testimony of H.N. Gray, 1061. 57 TRI: Volume II, Testimony of H.J. Kirk, 597 and testimony of Oscar Dancy, 543. 58 Dancy would later become the Cameron County Judge. He died in 1976. 59 TRI: Volume II, Testimony of Oscar Dancy, 543. 107 Kirk noted that Ray Wait’s Pasture was a spot twenty-three miles from 60 Brownsville northeast and eight miles northwest of Port Isabel, Texas. TRI, Testimony of Cameron County Justice of the Peace H.J. Kirk, 597. 61 Michael Taussig, Shamanism, Colonialism, and the Wild Man: A Study in Terror and Healing (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 8. 62 The foundational work of Ida B. Wells in The Red Record: Tabulated Statistics and Alleged Causes of Lynching in the United States, 1892-1893-1894 began the work of unraveling crime and punishment causal links. 63 Jonathan Markovitz, Legacies of Lynching: Racial Violence and Memory (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004), xxvi. 64 Michael Taussig, Shamanism, Colonialism, and the Wild Man: A Study in Terror and Healing (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 366-367. 65 Taussig (1987), 393. 66 TRI: Volume II, Testimony of H.J. Kirk, 599, 601. In his examination of William G.B. Morrison, J.T. Canales refers to “bodies left unburied [in Brownsville] until the Brownsville citizens raised sufficient funds to have them buried.” Morrison confirmed, “there were some bodies found around Brownsville at different times” but could not confirm the later burials. TRI: Volume I, Testimony of William G.B. Morrison, 30-31. 67 Taylor, 130. 68 Richard Wright, Black Boy: A Record of Childhood and Youth (Harper Perennial Modern Classics; Anniversary edition, 2007). 69 Taylor, 130. 70 Taylor, 126. 71 Taylor, 127. 72 Important earlier work on the Plan de San Diego is Juan Gomez-Quinoñes’ “Plan de San Diego Revisited,” Aztlán 1 (Spring 1970), 124-130. 73 Ribb (2001), 1. 74 Ribb (2001), footnotes 1, 2. Ribb also notes that his figures for Argentina’s los desaparecidos (“the disappeared ones”) appear in Marguerite Feitlowitz, A Lexicon of Terror: Argentina and the Legacies of Torture (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1998), 108 note 1, 257. 75 In a similar mode, Arnoldo De León asserts that violence against Mexicans in the period was caused by the Mexican Revolution, writing: Behind almost every act of cruelty committed upon Tejanos (at least between 1915 and 1918, the highpoint of the border war) lurked the shadow of the Mexican Revolution. For Anglos who felt the brunt of attacks from Mexican raiders and marauders, violence seemed a necessary means to defend their lives and property. Ranch owners, businessmen, and law officials saw no alternative but to take the offensive in the crisis of the moment. “The Mexican Revolution’s Impact on Tejano Communities” from War Along the Border: The Mexican Revolution and Tejano Communities (Houston: University of Houston—Center for Mexican American Studies, 2012), 42. 76 Johnson, 2, 37. 77 Ibid, 120. The claiming of identity as “Texian” has a distinct history. The linguistic study 78 of “Names for Americans” in 1947 explains the origin of Texian as: [S]how[ing] the bloom of antiquity, for it was in general use in Texas in the days of the republic (1836-45), with Texican, probably suggested by the Spanish Texicano, as its only rival. But even before Texas was admitted to the Union some of the later settlers began to use Texan. The old-timers and their descendants, however, clung sentimentally to Texian, and it survives in consciously archaic use to this day. According to the Dallas News Almanac for 1945-46 it enjoyed a revival after the nostalgic Texas Centennial celebration of 1936, and that revival seems to be still under way. So long ago as 1858 The Texas Almanac advocated the retention of Texian on the ground that it had ‘more euphony’ and was ‘better adapted to the convenience of the poets who shall hereafter celebrate our deeds in sonorous strains than the harsh, abrupt, ungainly appellation Texan, impossible to rhyme in anything…’ I reflect on the sentimental and nostalgic use of “Texian” because as the 1947 study noted, it seems to come back into wider use in particularly melancholic moments. In 2007-2008, the use of the word Texian had resurgence, with no fewer than three books coming out with Texian in the title (including Stephen L. Harding’s Texian Macabre). So, to reflect on this resurgence of Texian—its meaning and its melancholy—I consciously, though not longingly, adopt it. 109 79 TRI: Volume III, Testimony of San Antonio Police Department Captain Chas F. Stevens, 1432. 80 TRI: Volume III, Testimony of Ranger John Sittre, 1548. 81 TRI: Volume III, Testimony of Texas Ranger George Saddler, 1531-1540. 82 TRI: Volume III, Testimony of Ranger John Sittre, 1545. 83 TRI: Volume III, Testimony of Sitter 1547; Saddler 1532. 84 TRI: Volume III, Testimony of Saddler 1537. 85 Letters from Captain Charles F. Stevens to Assistant Attorney General Walter F. Woodhul, 23 May 1918. Departmental Correspondence II, 1906-1943, Texas Adjutant General’s Department. Archives and Information Services Division, Texas State Library and Archives Commission. 86 Letters from Captain Charles F. Stevens to Assistant Attorney General Walter F. Woodhul, 23 May 1918 and 25 May 1918. Departmental Correspondence II, 1906- 1943, Texas Adjutant General’s Department. Archives and Information Services Division, Texas State Library and Archives Commission. 87 Taylor, 131-132. 88 Johnson, 156-159. 89 Johnson, 163. 90 Russ Castronovo, Necro Citizenship: Death, Eroticism, and the Public Sphere in the Nineteenth-Century United States (Durham: Duke University Press, 2001), xi. 110 The Mexican race now see, in the fate of the aborigines of north, their own inevitable destiny. They must amalgamate and be lost, in the superior vigor of the Anglo-Saxon race, or they must utterly perish. They may postpone the hour for a time, but it will come, when their nationality shall cease. -Democratic Review, February 1847 I thought I could shoot Mexicans as well as I could shoot Indians, or deer, or turkey; and so I rode away to war. -Creed Taylor1 CHAPTER THREE: MASSACRE RESURGENT Contemporaneous reports, constructed narratives, and visuals representations of Native massacre proliferated in the Texas imaginary. The Texas rhetoric of the virile Indian fighter was deeply entrenched from the earliest days of the white immigrant wave into Tejas y Coahuila.2 The Indian fighter has been staged as heroic and necessarily brutal, clearing the land for appropriate settlement. The Native, in turn, would be figured as savage, and as the first bandits of the Texas landscape. These constructions of the Texan Indian fighter and the Native bandit foreshadow figurations of Mexican bodies and violences against Mexicans. Natives were the first constructed “bandits” in the Texan imaginary and this narrative construction has been utilized as a basis for the understanding of Mexicans in the Texas landscape. Native peoples and Mexicans, are not, of course, distinct “racial” groups—Lipan and Mescalero Apache, Atakapan, Caddo, Carrizo, Coalhuiltecan, Comanche (both 111 northern Comanche, Yamparica and Southern Comanches, Penateka), Huichole, Jumano, Karanakawa, Kickapoo, Kiowa, Otomi, Patarabueya, Tarahumara, Tigua of Ysleta del Sur, Tonkawas, Yaqui, and other Native peoples have been variously understood as “Mexican” and their communities have crossed the U.S.-Texas border traditionally and cyclically for millennia for the purpose of trade, farming, hunting, environmental and spiritual health.3 Indeed, in the debates regarding the U.S. southern and western expansion, the matter of México’s majority Native population was called upon scornfully by U.S. political leaders. The invention of Native peoples and Mexicans as distinct “racial” groups is taken up by Martha Menchaca in Recovering History, Constructing Race: The Indian, Black, and White Roots of Mexican Americans, as well as Laura E. Gómez in Manifest Destinies: The Making of the Mexican American Race. Both scholars trace the social advantages of self-fashioning as Mexican rather than “Indian” as Native communities were attacked with violent repression, relocations, and killing campaigns. In his work on relations between Tejanos and white immigrant settlers into Coahuila y Tejas cum the Republic of Texas (1836) then the State of Texas (1845), Arnoldo de León notes the U.S. immigrant fixation on identifying, describing, and cataloguing the Mexican body. This body would be constructed as an amalgam of the Spanish Black Legend and the “savage” Native. The mixed-blood body would come to be largely described as “mestizo,” drawing on the taxonomy of New Spain’s casta system.4 In Foreigners in Their Native Land: Historical Roots of the Mexican Americans Daniel Weber describes the construction of Mexicans thus: American visitors to the Mexican frontier were nearly unanimous in commenting on the dark skin of Mexican mestizos who, it was generally 112 agreed, had inherited the worst qualities of Spaniards and Indians to produce a ‘race’ still more despicable than that of either parent.5 Unraveling the historical constructions of indigenous and Mexican bodies as specifically ‘raced and therefore invented as naturally imbued with a set of diminished characteristics is key to an understanding of ritual public violence. Recent projects on violence in the México-Texas borderlands have driven a new and critical centering of indigeneity in understanding the settler colonialism that has violently transformed the borderlands. Jodi A. Bird specifically calls for theoretical work that recognizes indigeneity and its foundational place in U.S. national imperial and colonial projects. Such work, explains Bird in The Transit of Empire: Indigenous Critiques of Colonialism, grounds displacement, removal, and violence against Natives as precedent for U.S. imperial engagements; instructive as we reconsider the destiny that would manifest across what would become the Republic and State of Texas. Significantly, launching our understanding of violence against the first constructed state enemies—the Indian—helps us in understanding the underpinnings of violences to come, for, as Bird writes: As a transit, Indianness becomes a site through which U.S. empire orients and replicates itself by transforming those to be colonized into “Indians” through iterations of pioneer logics, whether in the Pacific, the Caribbean, or the Middle East… Bringing indigeneity and Indians front and center to discussions of U.S. empire as it has traversed across Atlantic and Pacific worlds is a necessary intervention at this historical moment, precisely because it is through the elisions, erasures, enjambments, and repetitions of Indianness that one might see the stakes in decolonial, restorative justice tied to land, life, and grievability.6 Following Bird, we witness the marking of colonized and raced “Mexican” bodies as “Indian” via public violence. The recirculations of violence and terror would be used to articulate boundary lines and to consolidated White settler colonial control while also 113 instantiating a categorical racialization. The making of the “Indian” has been accomplished through rhetorical strategies and an emergent complex visual culture that serves as instruction about how to recognize, regulate, discipline and dominate those bodies. It is critical to resist the scholarly imposition of borders and periodization when theororizing the colonial body versus the raced body. The current periodization enforces a distinction; as though colonial constructions have not underwritten raced constructions. It is in the bodies of the “Indian,” the “Mexican,” the “African American” that we can trace the continuity of the colonial body into the raced body. The white immigrant culture that settled Texas is a culture with deep roots in the so-called Indian Wars, which were savage attacks of U.S. military forces as well as assembled vigilante groups that resulted in the murder and displacement of hundreds of thousands of natives. The Texas Rangers were the first organized fighting force in Tejas y Coahuila. They took form during the establishment of U.S. immigrant colonies in Northern México and were assembled specifically for the purpose of “Indian fighting.” Indeed, the very purpose of the Mexican colonization plan was to encourage white settlement to create a buffer from Native groups on their nation’s periphery. The white immigrant settlers who would locate to the Northern Mexican colonies would attack Native settlements; would initiate war with México during their own war for “Texas Independence”; would supply filibusters for the U.S. Invasion of México (also known as the Mexican-American War of 1846); and would by large majorities join the Confederacy during the U.S. Civil War. All of these vicious engagements would draw upon and reproduce a nostalgic militarism that would be articulated on raced bodies—the Native, the Mexican, and the African/African American. 114 At the turn of the nineteenth century, settlers from the southern and eastern United States increasingly moved into Tejas y Coahuila, México after the passage of the General Colonization Law by México. The Mexican Colonization Law granted land rights in Northern México to “foreign citizens,” mostly U.S. whites who quickly came to far outnumber Mexicans/the indigenous in Coahuila y Tejas—by 1834 over 30,000 U.S. whites had settled in Coahuila y Tejas as compared to approximately 7,800 Mexican citizens.7 México had invited settlers to its northernmost lands for the purpose of creating a safeguard for Mexican citizens against indigenous peoples, the Comanche in particular. Stephen F. Austin, who had inherited his father Moses’s Mexican land holdings, was authorized by the newly independent México to recruit European and U.S. immigrants into Coahuila y Tejas and he was sanctioned under Mexican law to form a militia against indigenous peoples—most markedly the Tonkawa and Karankawa on the Texas coastline. Austin called for “ten men...to act as rangers for the common defense,” and it is from this appeal that the Texas Rangers took their name.8 During the period of white colonization in Coahuila y Tejas, the immigrant settlers constructed narratives of multiple menaces. As a result, the tradition of White military volunteerism began to emerge. The development of the revered Texas/Texian Indian fighter archetype in this period would become a recurring trope that continues through today. This archetype would not simply be a regional rhetoric; it would stretch across the contours of the nation. Brian DeLay’s War of A Thousand Deserts: Indian Raids and the U.S.-Mexican War and Pekka Hämäläinen’s The Comanche Empire both understand Native peoples in the México-Texas borderlands as historical agents, rather than peoples disappeared to Westward Expansion. Both explore the long histories of intricate raiding cycles—rather 115 than warring practices. This distinction becomes important as immigrants into Comanche lands misunderstood the long-standing Comanche raiding episodes into weaker, mostly Tejano/Mexicano communities that were explicitly not declarations of war. Gary Clayton Anderson’s The Conquest of Texas: Ethnic Cleansing in the Promised Land, 1820-1875 rejects recent invocations of indigenous “genocide” in Texas explaining: [T]he situation in Texas fails to rise to the level of genocide, if genocide is defined as the intentional killing of nearly all of a racial, religious, or cultural group. I seek to draw an important distinction from it. Rather, Texas gradually endorsed (at first locally and then statewide) a policy of ethnic cleansing that has as its intention the forced removal of certain culturally identified groups from their lands. These target groups included Indians, especially, and to a smaller degree Tejanos.9 Anderson further submits that the Texas Rangers first assembled by Stephen F. Austin became agents of “ethnic cleansing.”10 As the immigrants—Scots, Irish, Italians, and others—worked to consolidate a new identity of Texian whiteness, they viciously attacked the Native against whom they contrasted themselves. Anderson justifies his move to the language of “ethnic cleansing” over massacre or genocide, by referring to the orders given to Ranger Captain Jack Hays, taken from the Republic of Texas’ third President Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar’s orders to Captain Hays. Lamar issued instructions following devastating Texas Ranger attacks on the Anadarko band of the Caddo from 1839 to 1841, writing that the wish of the Texas Republic was “to have the entire western country cleared of the enemy.”11 Reflecting on the afterlife of the attacks on Natives, Anderson writes The legacy of Lamar’s war would carry Texas into new decades of violence; the lessons learned by the rangers, the glories of their “victories,” the fireside stories told of them, and the trophies—human scalps especially—that they brought back only solidified the Texas creed, further entrenching their hatred for people of color.12 116 Anderson gives evidence of the categorical difference now inscribed on Native peoples. Put simply, the enemy. Without pause for specificity of human activity, such as raiding, or killing, and allowing for reactions of equal scale, the new Texas doctrine would be to define all Natives as enemy, and thus killable. Further, the Texas Republic and later State of Texas would continue the long tradition of rewarding citizen-settlers for their engagement in expansionist violence.13 Indian Killers In addition, we note that for Anderson the trajectory from violence against Native, colonized bodies to raced bodies is clear. I argue that the racist violence in Texas has always been relational. For instance, Texan lynchers—like those who killed Florencio García in 1918—drew on recognized tropes of Native warfare and massacre and worked to construct a narrative and visual record of themselves as Indian fighters. Drawing on Native massacre and the history of annihilation of Natives, lynchers would veil their acts in rhetoric and representation that was meant to appear as Native massacre. For instance, in figures six and seven, titled “Dead Mexican Bandits,” and “Unidentified young man with the remains of four Mexican men,” the lynchers are removed from the scene, and the lynched men are the massacre come upon. The killing of Mexicans in Texas would become prosaic, as had been the killings of Natives. The staging of both Mexicans and Natives as leavings on vast terrain, dotting an undeveloped topography plays a rhetorical purpose. The visual rhetoric transforms the scene into a meaningful geography that evokes the past and future simultaneously. For, “[t]he notion that Indians are historical features of an American landscape” had fully taken hold by the 117 late nineteenth century, and the killing of both the Native and the Mexican would work to mark the progress-minded emptying of the landscape.14 In his twenty volume set The North American Indian, which was produced from 1907 to 1930, and was meant to document Native peoples before their final and inevitable “disappearance,” Edward S. Curtis made sarcastic mention of Texas’ treatment of Natives in particular, writing: Texas was generous in respect to the aboriginal inhabitants, being ever willing to give its Indians to any one [sic] who might want them. In fact, the Texas mandate, though not recorded in the statutes, was, ‘Go elsewhere or be exterminated.’ The state was so successful in its process of Indian elimination that whenever its citizens now contemplate a frontier celebration and an urge for local color, they are compelled to borrow the needed Indians from the sister state of Oklahoma.15 The Native Karankawas of the Gulf Coast—whose traditional hunting, fishing, and migration grounds stretched from what we today call the Bay of Galveston to Houston— were one such Native group said to be hunted to near extermination during the 1840s and 1850s, both white colonists and the Mexican government. Yet, according to 71-year-old Enrique Gonzáles, the Karankawa were not killed off completely. Gonzáles emerged in 2009, maintaining his Karankawa ancestry (his grandparents were both Karankawa) and explaining that his family escaped the brutal killing parties with a small band of their tribe “into a secluded area called El Gato, south of what is now Alamo and Donna... while some of the Karankawas in Mexico went west into the Rio Grande City area.”16 Throughout his life, Gonzáles would be most often identified as Mexican. Gonzáles would explain that his ancestry and the ancestry of other surviving Karankawas went purposefully hidden due to the attacks of the mid-1800s. In the century that followed, many Karankawas spread into small villages, yet according to Gonzales they “still 118 congregated around a huge mesquite tree for mitotes, the Karankawa version of a pow- wow. Gonzáles remembers his father taking him to these mitotes when he was just a boy, and he’d watch as between five and ten Karankawas danced.”17 Gonzáles would be recognized as a Karankawa by some museum officials, such as Elizabeth Ellis, a park specialist at the Texas Parks and Wildlife department, who received Gonzáles’s donation of a traditional Karankawa fishing bow at the Mission at Espiritu Santo on Goliad State Park. The Mission also opened an exhibit on the “near extinction” of the Karankawas and featured Gonzáles’s stories and recollections.18 Yet, anthropologist and retired professor from the University of Texas at Brownsville Antonio Zavaleta doubted Gonzáles’s claim: Karankawa Indians were gone for the most part in the early historic period. Gone, disappeared. What information does he have to lead him to believe that he has a direct connection? There are no pictures of Karankawa Indians… I don’t believe it and I don’t think he can prove it.19 We might note Zavaleta’s need for visual evidence—throughout my exploration of the lynching of Mexicans, I point to the ways in which visual “evidence” is used to both disguise and erase. Zavaleta’s own history in Texas as a descendant of Juan Cortina, who famously led raids on the Karankawa in 1858 and whose killing party was thought to have killed the last of the Karankawas on Padre Island likely shape Zavaleta’s insistence on the “extinction” of the Karankawa and other Natives in Texas.20 Gonzáles’s family history may prompt the questions: What were Gonzáles’s grandparents fleeing? Why were communities broken into smaller, more secluded villages? What terror were they attempting to escape? As colonial settlers migrated into Coahuila y Tejas, they encountered the indigenous of the land, many mobile but within boundaries near waterways as hunting 119 and fishing areas. As early as 1836, the Nashville Tennessee Banner was publishing narrative accounts of white settlers accompanied by approximate census numbers for Native tribes.21 By 1851, a volume of letters was published in Kentucky, said to detail the years between 1832 and 1845.22 In these early narratives, the colonists begin to develop the figure of the “Native bandit,” which would be the precursor to the Mexican bandit. Though the white immigrants were encroaching en masse on long settled lands, they would invert the relationship, positioning Natives as trespassers and aggressors and emphasize the suffering of the white settlers—“The Carancahaus were both treacherous and troublesome, often stealing from the settlers and often firing upon them from ambush.”23 Such inversions helped to shape a logic that would argue a need for violence on the part of settlers, indeed, an inevitability. We also see the settlers establishing practices of terrorism as they encountered Native peoples. They often sought groups of Natives for attack, with no cause and effect related to guilt or innocence—without precise charges of raiding or banditry. Negotiation of shared land and resources use was simply not conceivable, and accusations of banditry would be met with brutality. Settlers into to Texas would explain: [T]hose savages of the coast, the Carancahuas, had visited the immigrants, professed friendship, and entered into a verbal treaty of goodwill. But, in keeping with their instincts, as soon as the families and main strength of the party had been gone sufficiently long, they clandestinely assailed the camp—the guard escaping more or less wounded—and seized its contents. On learning this a party marched down and chastised a small encampment of the Indians, giving them a foretaste of what they realized, when too late, that they must either in good faith be at peace with the Americans or suffer annihilation.24 We note that the immigrant settlers “chastised a small encampment of the Indians,” not going after any specific, alleged bandits. The white settlers would, time and again, find 120 Native home encampments and would seek to punish Natives for their presence (rather than real or invented raiding involvement) enacting their “distaste for Indians as Indians.”25 The aim of the settler Indian killers was to produce not only death, but also terror. The narratives that would circulate regionally and nationally would emphasize the functionality of terrorism against Native peoples and would create the shape for killings to come—killings that would be imbued with the mythos of the revered Indian fighter. Helen McClure’s work that seeks to focus on the lynching of women most forcefully addresses the “mass murders of nonhostile, even acculturated, Native men, women and children.”26 McClure argues that mob killings of “nonhostile Native Americans” must be included in official tallies of U.S. lynchings, writing: Scholars have usually subsumed these episodes under the rubric of warfare, but in at least a few cases, they are better understood as ‘lynchings’ or collective murders according to contemporary legal statutes as well as the definition of lynching relies upon by most modern U.S. historians. Antilynching activists finally agreed in 1940 that a homicide constituted a ‘lynching’ if there was ‘legal evidence that a person has been killed…and that he met his death illegally at the hands of a group acting under the pretext of service to justice, race, or tradition.’ Under the construction, lethal crowd attacks by Euro-Americans on Indian men, women, and children that provoked a response from local authorities could also be characterized as lynchings because they constituted clearly illegal attacks on nonwarring Indians.27 McClure’s work importantly challenges the historian’s habit of a racial categorical imperative that situates the mob murders of women and of Native peoples as something other than lynching—in the case of the lynching of Natives, as excesses of Westward expansion.28 In histories of Texas, violence against Natives would be bracketed, periodized, as the surplus bloodshed in the initial settling of the land. Yet, the killers would make clear that their Native targets were often arbitrary—any Indian would do—the purpose of such 121 killings was uncoupled to raiding and banditry, to logics of crime and punishment. In a description of Stephen F. Austin’s general practice of assailing Native home sites, Missourian narrators describe using canoes on the banks of the Brazos River to seek out Native peoples for the purpose of attack. Though the new settlers describe being raided by Karankawas prior, the settlers make clear they are not seeking exact targets for punishment or retaliation. Instead, in 1824, led by Austin, “A party of settlers, numbering fourteen or fifteen, by a cautious night march arrived at the Indian camp in time to attack it at dawn on the following morning. Completely surprised, the Indians fled into the brush, leaving several dead… Austin determined to chastise and if possible force them into pacific behavior.”29 Such attacks on Native settlements were not based on judgments of guilt or innocence, but rather were campaigns of brutal killing conducted for the purpose of producing terror. The killer settlers would even come to anthropomorphize anti-Indian sentiment and action, imbuing the livestock in their tales with the ability to become willing participants in the aggressive attacks against Native peoples. Describing Thomas Glascock, a Virginian who migrated to the Republic of Texas in 1837 and who became infamous for Indian killing, his biographer explains of Glascock: He owned a horse that seemed as aggressive and as much absorbed in the warfare against the Indians as its owner, and never flinched when duty demanded action. It is said to have been the only horse in all the surrounding country that would allow a lifeless form of a man to be laid across its back.30 Thus, the project of Indian killing and its associated heroism would be bestowed even upon beasts. Emboldened by their campaigns of terror that removed large numbers of Native peoples, and hungry for additional lands without concessions to the Mexican government, 122 white settlers declared themselves an independent “Texas Republic” in 1835. After many conflicts between the white immigrant squatters who refused to comply with Mexican colonization laws. In 1836 white immigrant settlers in Coahuila y Tejas petitioned for annexation. This fight for “Texas Independence” from México included the legendary battles at the Alamo, Goliad, and San Jacinto. The first battle was a loss for white migrants, who would fail to fight off Mexican General Santa Ana and his troops, and the latter two battles, ruthless campaigns of revenge where “Remember the Alamo!” would be shouted as Mexicans troops were killed. In these battles with Mexicans, the practices and ideologies formulated around the Native would be overlaid on the Mexican body. As W.W. Newcomb concludes, “We may say that Texans came into being with the victory at San Jacinto. They came to regard themselves as a breed apart, perhaps, too, a chosen people in a chosen land. Their belief in themselves could not be matched by Mexicans and probably not consciously by any Indians.”31 Killers and those sympathetic to them would add to this narrative tradition of Indian fighter/Indian killer and adopt the emerging technology of visual cultural production—photography—to encourage the misrecognition of lynchings as Native massacre. The ubiquitous murdered bodies would be staged like the constructed category of Indian massacre. An entire subset of lynching photographs, not yet recognized as such by scholars, would be staged (as in the case of Florencio García) as disappearance… then reappearance in fields. Like constructed images of Native massacres taken during U.S. anti-Indian campaigns, Mexicans would be displayed often in multiples, strewn on the landscape, in natural light, remains bleached by sun, picked upon by predators. Such visual representation would be distinguished from the conventions of the photographic 123 tradition of African American lynching victims. Whereas the representations of lynched African Americans would be full space, crowded with a number of assailants and participants assembled around a single victim, often hanged, plucked out or extracted from that crowd, representations of Natives would be characterized by a relative emptiness, a vastness marked by multiple bodies naturalized onto the landscape. Such a vastness would indicate an emptying of the land—a clearing, with the bodies of Natives and Mexicans strewn like felled trees. In discussions of the visual representation of Diné or Navajo peoples, James Faris notes that there are two “registers” in 19th and 20th century photography. They include first the photography of surveillance: documentary and anthropological, along with the second humanist register that constructs sentimental images of a “vanishing race,” “lost culture,” “family of men,” or victims. These victim photographs include “dead, dying, nonfunctional, misfunctional” Natives.32 In the case of massacre images, taken for evidence and reportage, rather than assessed as constructed and staged, the collapse between registers must be explored.33 One of the attacks on Natives most narratively and visually recirculated was the massacre at Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála (Wounded Knee Creek) in South Dakota, which resulted in the killing of between 200 and 300 Lakota. The attack on the Lakota was described as a “battle.” U.S. Indian agents and the 7th Calvary had assembled to escort the Lakota to the Pine Ridge Agency, where they were to be relocated. During the removal, the Calvary were heavily armed with rifles and mounted Hotchkiss guns. Indeed, almost half of the Infantry and Calvary of the entire U.S. Army was assembled at Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála. This force was a part of the largest military operation since the Civil War with 124 3,500 soldiers in the area and 2,000 removed only a short distance.34 The U.S. military force far outnumbered the Lakota—at least a third of the Lakota were women and children—began to fire upon the assembled Native community. The reportage of the Calvary’s killing of 200 to 300 Lakota was widespread with Calvary and U.S. Indian accounts accompanied by constructed images of the aftermath. News of potential violence during the planned Indian removal had been widespread; many journalists congregated at the Pine Ridge Indian Agency. Indeed, one journalist, William Fitch Kelley of the Nebraska State Journal, not only witnessed the attack of the Lakota, but he also boasted that he “killed at least three Indians.”35 Special correspondents circulated descriptions of the killings throughout the country—with reprints and quotes from the assailants published in Chicago, New York, Lincoln, Los Angeles, Rapid City, South Dakota, and Washington, D.C. The narratives and visual representation of the attack at Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála would become archetypal of the discourse that would stage mob attacks and lynchings as “battles,” and that would enshrine the characters of the U.S. social drama of conquest and expansion. The Native would be constructed as the absolute non-agent, inevitably progressing to a now-motionless, grotesque feature of the landscape, his movement and life force a remnant of the past, positioned against the Indian fighter looming above— virile, alive, erect above the panoramic scene on horseback. Many of the iconic images of Native massacre originate with photographers C.H. Cressey, William F. Kelley, Clarence Grant Moreledge, Ernest and George Trager, and illustrator Frederic Remington. These photographers and illustrators constructed images of the killings at Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála “to feed the news-hungry public” that had long heard reports of escalating 125 tensions at various Indian Agencies.36 Photographer George Trager (né Gus Trager) born in Germany in 1861, arrived in the Unites States in 1876 and by 1890 had opened a FIGURE 8: Lakota Sioux Killed at the Battle of Wounded Knee, 1890. National Archives. studio in Crawford, Nebraska. Once situated, Trager and his partners nephew Ernst Trager and Frederick Kuhn focused on Plains peoples, including those at the Pine Ridge Reservation. Trager, along with Cressey, Kelley, and Morledge photographed the weeks and days leading up to the brutal mass killing at Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála and the aftermath of the attack. The photographers sold these images widely in local stores and to media outlets.37 Though today most historians call upon these images as exhibits, evidence, of the events, a close inspection of this visual production unmasks the layers of constructedness of the commercial photography. These are not documentary or journalistic images. The representations of the Pine Ridge Agency before the attack and images of the aftermath were assembled by commercial photographers who were working to satisfy the emerging 126 market for Native representations and who heeded the call to capture the violence of Native people, especially as accounts of Ghost Dance ceremonies spread panic. The commercial media saturation is clear when looking closely at the images produced. In several, photographers are present. In “Two Strike and Crow Dog’s Camp, Pine Ridge South Dakota,” the right middle ground shows one of the Trager brothers, as captured by another photographer, Clarence Moreledge (figure 9). The military buildup along with FIGURE 9: Two Strike and Crow Dog’s Camp, Pine Ridge South Dakota. T765-9 and T765-9 detail. Nebraska State Historical Society, Lincoln. the commercial frenzy greatly influenced the events at Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpálaand and the U.S. public’s interpretation of those events. Dennis Shaw writes: [T]he press “created” an Indian war… Newspapers around the country made preparations to cover the “war,” and reporters began flooding into Pine Ridge At one time or another there were twenty-five correspondents at Pine Ridge. Many were experienced reporters, but many were not, and some had no previous reporting experience… All these journalists were under pressure to send in exciting news to their home offices. As a result, they began relating rumors, half-truths, and sometimes lies to their papers and periodicals.38 Visual representations were part and parcel of the fabricated narratives. The Tragers, for instance, worked with other photographers to stage photographs of Native threat. 127 Photographer-reporters Cressey and Kelley created a mock combat scene featuring themselves fighting off a Native, who they asked to pose as if he was attacking them with a knife. Cressey kneels behind a tipi with a rifle, while Kelley holds back a knife- FIGURE 10: C.H. Cressey (kneeling) and William F. Kelley (standing) in mock combat. FIGURE 11: Engraving, “NO REPORTERS NEED APPLY.” Denver Public Library, F8852-5. Reprinted Eyewitness at Wounded Knee, 46. wielding Indian with a pistol. The photo would appear as an engraving in the Chicago Daily Inter-Ocean with the title “NO REPORTERS NEED APPLY.” The mock combat 128 images were published the year before the attack at Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála.39 Kelley who holds a pistol to the mouth of the mocassined Native in “NO REPORTERS NEED APPLY” would be the photographer who joined the attack, boasting of killing at least three Indians during the attack at Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpálaand. Adding to the already widespread sale of photos and the coverage in nationwide dailies, weekly magazines such as Harpers and Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper published extensive stories of the attack with sketched depictions by illustrators such as Frederic Remington, adapted from Trager and Morledge’s photographs.40 The agents of the nation—and of nation building—as heroic Indian killers would be enshrined by the work of Remington. His visual rhetoric was widely circulated, along with the constructed battle narratives. The perceived “authenticity” of Remington’s representation of “The Battle of Wounded Knee” was furthered by his reportage for Harper’s Magazine. To emphasize the accuracy of Remington’s work, Harper’s Weekly would make special note that Remington’s cover illustration was “from a sketch taken on the spot” and that the issue’s additional illustrations of fighting were “drawn by Frederic Remington from a description by the Seventh Cavalry engaged.”41 In addition, Remington sought out and interviewed the assailants in the 7th Calvary and would use their tales to describe a brave struggle of U.S. forces against an overwhelming foe. Remington would report that during the battle “Indians worked Winchesters beautiful.” 42 Remington also reported large numbers of Native combatants, who he claimed far outnumbered the assembled U.S. military. The narrative and visual rhetorics of Remington and others would emphasize the heroics of the horse-mounted Indian fighter, and the Calvary to the rescue. J.M. McDonough wrote for Frank Leslie’s Illustrated 129 Newspaper that the U.S. Calvary were victorious in spite of the overwhelming force of the Lakota: In the annals of American history there cannot be found a battle so fierce, bloody, and decisive as the fight at Wounded Knee Creek between the Seventh Cavalry and Big Foot’s band of Sioux… This affair at Wounded Knee was a stand-up fight of the most desperate kind, in which the entire band was annihilated, and, although the soldiers outnumbered their opponents nearly three to one, the victory was won by Troops B and K, about one hundred strong, at least twenty less than the warriors in front of them.43 McDonough’s article also contained several illustrations from photographs “taken FIGURE 12: The Sioux War, Final Review of General Miles’ Army at Pine Ridge, The Cavalry, 1891, Frederic Remington. Ink wash on paper (en grisaille) Army Art Collection, US Army Center of Military History. exclusively for Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper.”44 While the dailies and illustrated weeklies labored to stress their evidence based reportage of the events, most of the descriptions and depictions were produced by those who had not seen the attack or the 130 aftermath. As William Huntzicker of the South Dakota Historical Society writes, “the demand for exciting pictures… fueled an active, conscious search for stories that could be dramatically illustrated. [I]llustrations of events and the people involved hostile Indians, for example—tend[ing] to reinforce old stereotypes.”45 The productive power of such images would be the assembly and re-assembly sites of categorical difference, setting the rules for violent engagement. As Faris concludes, the photography of Natives are active “imaging devices for the maintenance of a specific and shaped difference... another ordering, normalizing catalogue.”46 In this case, the circulated photographs worked to normalize the violence as well as normalize the raced body as an expected artifact of violence. The construction of Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála as a hard-fought battle against Indian warriors circulated well into the mid-twentieth century. In Texas, the reports and constructed visual representations would be on the front pages of The Fort Worth Gazette and The Galveston Daily News.47 The reports would emphasize the danger of the assembled Natives while also embedding them in the landscape. The narrative trick of being besieged and threatened by a force that was at time described as overwhelming, at other times described as inferior is perfected during the Indian “Wars” and recirculated in racist attacks and lynchings of African Americans and Mexicans. Newspapers reprinted the telegraph from General Brooke, contemporaneous with the attack, which emphasized the U.S. Calvary as men mounted on horses, while Natives scrambled on foot: “The Indians are being hunted up in all directions. None are known to have gotten their ponies.”48 A special correspondent described Natives as seated on the ground, surrounded by Hotchkiss guns before the 131 attack. Once the attack began, the Natives are again importantly described as beneath the U.S. Calvary, lodged in the landscape. [T]he mounted troops were after them, shooting them down on every hand. The engagement lasted fully an hour and a half. To the south many took refuge in a ravine, from which it was difficult to dislodge them... The soldiers are shooting them down wherever found. 49 In one of its final scenes, Major Whiteside was said to pursue “Big Foot’s band” with his assembled mounted Calvary. “[H]e ordered four troops of the Seventh cavalry into the saddle, and marched to the point indicated by the scout… Whiteside brought his men up into line, and when they came within rifle shot, Big Foot came forward, on foot and unarmed.”50 The Calvary soldiers are described as controlled and well ordered above the understood leader of the Lakota—who surrenders without weapon, on foot. Captain Edward S. Godfrey, who participated in the attack and gave the first order to fire explained: I]t seemed to me only a few seconds till there was not a living thing before us: warriors, squaws, children, ponies, dogs—for they were all mixed together—went down before unaimed fire. 51 The narratives of Natives as synonymous to nature, the land, in life and in death would be augmented by the visual representations of the attack at Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála, showing the dead as pointing back to the landscape. The Indian fighter, however, would be depicted as well-dressed or uniformed, sitting stoically atop horses, the killers sometimes staring directly into camera with a forward gaze that would assert a degree of concurrence between the assailant, the photographer, and the expected viewer. Another layer of explication would be added as new technological advances allowed for text to be added to photographic images. Martha Sandweiss writes of the period, “the newfound capacity to inscribe the photographs with descriptive words meant 132 they could impose narrative meanings on their still images, much as printmakers did, and reach out to their public with stories that appealed to and reinforced popular sentiment.”52 Thus, the images would be stamped with the authority of “real-time” contemporaneous inscription—a language designed to conceal. Narrating the attack as “battle,” instructing viewers to come. Texas lynchers who would consciously seek to construct themselves not as the lynchers they were, but as heroic Indian killers would adopt the conventions seen in the representations of Native massacres. Staging Evidence A series of images taken outside the Norias Ranch in 1915 by Robert Runyon is a powerful example of this adoption of the visual lexicon of Native massacre. The conventions of Native massacre that Runyon implemented have helped to disguise—in plain sight—the lynching of Mexicans. Runyon, a commercial photographer originally from Kentucky, relocated to Brownsville in 1909 and began working as a photographer the next year, traveling extensively and selling photos and postcards while also cataloguing Texas flora and fauna.53 Runyon’s influence on reading the border in this period is difficult to overstate, though a sustained treatment of Runyon’s life and work have yet to be accomplished.54 Runyon’s photographs—often referred to as “documenting” the border—helped to establish a visual lexicon for the U.S.-México border that would shape the figurations of Mexicans and the expectations of violence in the area. In addition, Runyon had extraordinary access to U.S. military personnel as well as to Tejano and Mexican elites (his second wife, Amelia Leonor Medrano Longoria, was from a well-respected middle-class Tejano family who had connections in northern 133 México). The full collection of Runyon images consists of over 14,000 items including glass negatives, lantern slides, nitrate negatives, prints, and postcards.55 Runyon has most often been framed as a documentary photographer—a man whose itinerant commercial enterprises, such as family portraiture, gave way to his documentary impulses. Roy Flukinger, Senior Research Curator of Photography at the University of Texas at Austin’s Harry Ransom Center explains of Runyon, “He was a naturalist. … He was fascinated by what was going on around him and trying to make some record of it.”56 Runyon’s relocation to the México-Texas border would be coincident with the Mexican Revolutions, the mass killings of Mexicans throughout Texas, the U.S. military buildup at the border, Pershing’s Expedition into México, and the beginnings of the domestic front of World War I. In spite of Runyon’s commercial motives and the regular staging of his subjects, however, Runyon’s reputation for a naive naturalism continues. Flukinger explains that Runyon lacked formal training and was not an “art photographer,” thus, today’s viewer and researchers might better understand Runyon’s images as: interesting documentary work that exists of a place and a time that few other photographers were documenting… [Runyon] continued practicing devotion for that decade he was photographing. That’s important probably because of its naturalness.57 The approach to Runyon’s work as “documentary” and “natural” has thus far prevented a critical reading of the thousands of images Runyon is responsible for producing and disseminating. Runyon’s prolific work focusing on south Texas and northern México, for instance, emphasized the Mexican body as combatant and “bandit.”58 Images like Runyon’s would help the work of camouflaging Mexican victims of lynching as dead combatants and bandits. 134 In addition to local and state press outlets, national publications like Leslie’s Weekly and the The New York Times, republished Runyon’s photographs. This was coterminous with the sale of his series of widely distributed postcards that displayed “bandit border violence.”59 Runyon was the only photographer known to have captured images of two significant events—the Olmito Train Wreck and the events at the Norias Ranch.60 The photographs taken by Runyon at Norias are a strong example of his development of visual tropes that would nationalize combatant/bandit rhetoric around the Mexican body. When Runyon visited the Norias site, he took a number of photographs with assembled white men posed on horseback above the dead Mexicans from several different angles. Runyon’s Norias images include men posed with Mexican bodies— these men are mounted on horses, at times playfully mocking the dead Mexicans by holding up a white flag of surrender above their bodies.61 The men’s poses, encouraged, or at least indulged by Runyon, are self-consciously modeled on the images of Native massacre that had been widely circulated in national and local press. Runyon’s white subjects would mimic Indian fighter images, like those staged at the attack at Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála. Interestingly, Runyon’s posed souvenir photographs (later postcards) would be examined more carefully in the period of their production than by later historians, who continue to present the images as “evidence,” or “illustrations of the past.”62 Instead, these are visual practices and aesthetic patterns that, as Shawn Michelle Smith establishes, “produce subjectivities.”63 Calling forth ‘massacre’ representations, Runyon’s Norias series begins with a group of the come upon dead. Though the confrontation in at the Norias Ranch had occurred on August 8, 1915, the Runyon photos are dated two months later in October 135 1915, when Runyon returned to the scene of the August events. There he found Mexican bodies lying in the field, lined up purposefully and carefully for display. As in Native massacre scenes, the Mexican victims are leavings in the vast landscape. Their bodies are horizontal, parallel to the fields—rather than the more commonly expected staging of a lynching as vertical or “hanging”. This group of Mexican men, instead, has been clear-cut and left to rot, like the killed Natives before them. The lynchers have displayed FIGURE 13: Dead Mexican Bandits, October 8, 1915, Runyon (Robert) Photograph Collection, Dolph Briscoe Center for American History, RUN00103. the dead bodies purposefully, a practice that serves a dual function: murdered bodies as sign and terroristic warning, as well as an announcement of a successful clearing— indeed, cleansing—of the terrain. These stagings would become part of the ritual cleansing of the Texas landscape. Runyon, using the new technology of the time also carefully inscribed his photographs—many of which he would later sell as postcards. 136 Several of the images from the Norias series are inscribed with the words “Dead Bandits” and “Texas Rangers with dead bandits.” Runyon’s inscriptions, a causal narrative imposition, continue to be taken for fact by historians though the photographs were taken months after the confrontation at the Norias ranch. The Texas Rangers were uninvolved in the confrontation (instead it was local ranchers and the U.S. Calvary), the dead Mexican men are “bandits” only by the word of their killers; and the men who posed in the photographs are said to have been locals uninvolved in the confrontation at Norias. The image titled by Runyon “Norias Bandit Raid: Dead bandits,” helpfully, gives visual evidence of the photographer, the shadow of his equipment also looming above the bodies. All of Runyon’s equipment—whether he chose to use his Korona, Cirkut, Seneca or Century studio cameras—weighed at least seven pounds and in some cases up to thirteen pounds. Regardless of his equipment choice, with each use Runyon would have to assemble and disassemble his equipment.64 In order to produce his thousands of images of south Texas and México, commercial photographer Runyon selected the most favorable hours for photographing in the landscape. During the process of the painstaking assembly of his equipment, Runyon would frame his foreground and background; would select his shooting angles carefully; and would pose his live and dead subjects. Runyon would also keep his national audience and customers in mind when selecting and fashioning his subjects. The shadow in “Norias Bandit Raid: Dead bandits,” lays bare the photographer as a participant in the reproduction of violence, a co-author of the narrative of murdered Mexicans as “bandit” bodies. Seeking to be memorialized by Runyon as the Buffalo Bills and General Mills of their time, men gathered for the creation of photographic souvenirs of Mexican 137 massacres. Such souvenir trophy images would later be taken as documentary evidence— an error repeated by most historians today. Like the 7th Calvary at Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála (Wounded Knee Creek), the men in Runyon’s photographs have assembled themselves carefully—orderly along the horizon line—handsomely attired on horseback. Indeed, they are so collected, so unmoved by the engagement with an inferior combatant, that FIGURE 14: Las Norias Bandit Raid: Dead bandits, October 8, 1915, Runyon (Robert) Photograph Collection, Dolph Briscoe Center for American History, RUN00099. their hats have remained firmly in place. The images of Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála and Norias, whose compositions are separated by twenty-four years, share the concern for portraying dominance. In the Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála landscape scenes of 1890, the photographer has used the ground plane and the horizon to produce assailants seemingly greater in height, due to the relational perspective. The viewer adopts a viewpoint of gazing upward at the 7th 138 FIGURE 15: “Scenes of 1891 - Battle of Wounded Knee.” Buffalo Bill, Capt. Baldwin, Gen. Nelson A. Miles, Capt. Moss, and others, on horseback, on battlefield of Wounded Knee, 1891. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division LC-USZ62-116946, Lot #5638. FIGURE 16: Las Norias Bandit Raid: Texas Rangers with dead bandits, Runyon (Robert) Photograph Collection, Dolph Briscoe Center for American History, RUN00098. 139 Calvary. Conversely, Runyon crafts the dominance of the assailants by contrasting the vitality of the men on horseback against the Mexican bodies. Runyon has shot from a lower angle to make the assailants appear taller. Further, though Runyon’s perspective would place the camera lens (and thus the viewer) closer to the dead subjects, enlarging the image size of the dead subjects, the men on horseback rise above the dead Mexicans. The viewer’s gaze, their prolonged visual encounter, acts to interpret the scenes—in both cases, one set of subjects encountered has been composed as clearly having more power than the other. In both images, the photographer has embedded a power relationship. The photographer and his posed subjects are participating in aesthetic patterns borrowed from Native massacre imagery. Runyon’s images, like those of the massacre at Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála, create a topography of absolute exclusion via terror, where the lifeless body signals the emptying of the landscape—a colonial triumphalism. Though Runyon’s images are a representational rhetoric, constructing relations of dominance and a causal narrative, contemporary historians continue to read the Runyon photographs as evidentiary truth—exhibits A and B. For instance, Charles H. Harris and Louis R. Sadler, who have authored several texts on the institutional history of the Texas Rangers, describe the Runyon photographs of Norias showing “[Ranger] Fox and the two other men [who] had roped the bodies of four of the dead raiders and were dragging the bodies back to Norias.”65 Yet the 1919 Joint Investigation of the Texas Rangers displays important interrogations regarding the Runyon photographs. When asked about the Norias killings and the images produced of “certain rangers [who] had some of these corpses lariated,” Ranger Captain W.T. Vann explained that he knew of three bodies, collected together for the purpose of keeping the Mexicans’ relatives from retrieving 140 them. Vann articulated a telling narrative parallel, “I think that is all that were found. Those Mexicans are like an Indian about moving them out. If you don’t find them right now they will move them out.”66 Customs Inspector Joe Taylor, who was aware of the many charges against Rangers Saddler and Sittre was called to testify during the Joint Investigation and was questioned about the Runyon photographs by Judge McMillin. McMillin insisted the images were not documentary, but instead staged. The exchange in full is telling: McMillin: In regard to the picture [Figure 10], you say there was nothing staged in that. Is it customary for them to back their horses when they are drawing these dead men we have seen in the picture? Taylor: Yes. McMillin: The heads of the horses are towards the body, aren’t they? Taylor: I don’t remember. McMillin: I want to know whether it is the custom for a man to back the horse, or whether he drags him in front of his horse—Well you say there is nothing staged about that? Taylor: I don’t think so; they just dragged them up there. Senator Page interrupting: You say that was not staged? Taylor: I don’t think it was, no sir. McMillin: You don’t think, though, it is customary for them to drag them in front of their horses and back their horses all the time? Taylor: No, they don’t do that. McMillin: Then that picture is not a true picture then?67 Customs inspector Taylor refused to state what was clear to the investigating Committee—that Runyon and the men in the photographs composed the scenes. Rangers and their supporters would claim the Runyon images were simply documents of the 141 leavings of battle, where Rangers were dragging the Mexican bodies to be buried. Instead, it was clear to McMillan and Page that the men on horseback in Runyon’s photographs had moved the Mexicans bodies into place and choreographed themselves and their horses, even lassoing the Mexican bodies for greater effect, though such an act served no practical purpose. The bodies of the Mexican men, as McMillan points out, are in front of the men on horseback, in no position to be dragged. Runyon’s presence on the scene as photographer no doubt invited such scene composition. Further, the trade in photographic realism and documentary visual language that characterizes the Runyon images has allowed viewers to mistake the constructed drama for real. These posed FIGURE 17: Las Norias Bandit Raid: Texas Rangers with dead bandits, October 8, 1915 Runyon (Robert) Photograph Collection, Dolph Briscoe Center for American History, RUN00101. 142 scenes were intended to be trophy photos, and would be used as both souvenir and postcard. Such representations would visually construct the hierarchy of a social world that could be nostalgically revisited by the expected white viewer. Souvenir Ritual Practice Molly Rogers, in the History of Photography journal, writes about photographs as key souvenirs of modernity. Rogers, defining souvenirs not as objects, but rather “signif[ying] site[s] of meaning” explains: The souvenir is an unusual object; one that is invested with an aura of actuality even as its meaning is constructed by elements unrelated to the original experience. The souvenir is a visual record of a singular experience, but it is not evidence of what one saw, it does not encapsulate the experience of an event, but its meaning… The photograph as an object of nostalgia, particularly lends itself to the role of souvenir… The subject of the souvenir photograph becomes imprisoned in an idea, forced to play a part imposed upon it.68 Postcards and photographs—as representations of social dramas and souvenirs of border violence attempted to construct White dominance over Mexican bodies and the Mexican nation. Importantly, lynching is profoundly connected with the modern, rather than what has come to be the more common understanding of lynching as primitive, ignorant, lawless, and characteristic of an undeveloped frontier. Runyon’s series on Norias gives us further substantiation of the U.S.-México border’s technological modernity and infrastructure, in what is so often characterized as the lawless, pre-modern frontier. In an image of a large two-story home at the Norias site, Runyon shows the telegraph and telephone lines that had been developed in the area by 1915. Countless lynchings in Texas were accomplished on power lines, telegraph and telephone lines. Runyon gives us 143 ample evidence that lynchers in south Texas had access to pragmatic structures—poles, trees, bridges. Following a local symbolic logic, the lynchers in Norias chose a mass lynching that would best match the Indian Fighter massacre ideal. I identify the tradition of calling forth Indian fighting as an act of nostalgic militarism, a concept that receives sustained attention in Chapter Six “Bodies of War.” I argue that lynchers have long marshalled military and militia histories, and frame their killings as a necessary fight against their constructed enemy. Like the attack at FIGURE 18: Las Norias Bandit Raid: Las Norias ranch house, October 8, 1915 Runyon (Robert) Photograph Collection, Dolph Briscoe Center for American History, RUN00106. Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála, the U.S. forces commemorated their kills and clearing of the land with photography. They constructed their lynchings of Mexicans in Texas as Indian killing—a practice long valorized in Texan rhetorics and U.S. narratives of colonialist expansion. As with the attacks during the “Indian Wars,” photographs were but one mode 144 of souvenir taking. Souvenirs of lynchings—as described in the voluminous scholarship of the lynching of African Americans—has consisted as frequently of photographs, postcards, body parts—teeth, bones, hair—, and objects belonging to the victims. As George Harries, a correspondent from Washington D.C. described of the scene a month after the attack at Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála: The relic hunter has been all over the battlefield and has taken away everything of value and interest that was above the surface. Occasionally one will find a memento worth taking away but not often. Whatever was beautiful or odd in the clothing of dead or wounded Indians was taken by the victors and either kept for personal gratification or sold for cash.69 Harries seems to indicate that he himself might have taken from the leavings of the dead, writing, “Occasionally one will find a memento worth taking away but not often.”70 Photographs at the Nebraska State Historical Society dated days after the killings show unidentified men searching through grounds; the dead still laying in bundles surround them. Two of the eight men pictured are the holding moccasins and other objects taken FIGURE 19: January 1st 1891. Photographer unknown. Nebraska Historical Society, Lincoln, Nebraska W938-64/44A. 145 from the dead. Texas lynchers similarly had a long tradition of taking mementos of those they killed—Native and Mexican. In his autobiography Cowboys and Cattleland, H.H. Halsell described, “I have seen white people in Wise County [Dallas-Fort Worth area] at picnics exhibiting Indian scalps as trophies of conquests, and some of the scalps were of Indian women.”71 As late as the 1870s and 1880s there are documented reports of Texas officials and citizens taking souvenirs of those they had killed. In Frontier Justice, Wayne Gard traces murders and memento-taking. Gard describes several instances of the killings of Natives followed by the removal of their body parts. In Milam County just east of Austin, a group of Texans attacked a group of Natives eating by their campfire and “clubbed to death all the Indians and took their scalps to carry home.” 72 Curly Hatcher, a Texas Ranger who joined in 1874 boasted that he was the first in his battalion to slaughter a Native and his Captain, Jeff Maltby, rewarded him for the scalp. Maltby took the scalp back to Austin.73 In 1875, Texas Rangers described trailing a group of Lipan Apaches. Ranger Ed A. Sieker killed and scalped a Lipan person and gave the human scalp to a young Ranger recruit, James B. Gillett, who was nineteen at the time. Gillett “used the scalp to cover his pistol holder.”74 The same year, Ranger Captain McNelly described moving with a company of Rangers with orders to “deal with these bandits and thieves in the same way Major Jones dealt with the Indians.”75 McNelly described tracking a group of Mexican men and opening fire. After killing a number of Mexican men, in a letter to Walter Prescott Webb, William Callicot explained, We dismounted and ran to find the Captain standing over the bandit who had already checked up and breathed his last. The Captain took his knife and pistol. I untied his sash from around him, tying it around myself. It was the prettiest one I had ever seen, having the colors of México, red white and green… we mounted our horse and started back over the trail of dead… As we passed by I happened to come upon a dead bandit lying in 146 the grass flat on his back… His shaggy black beard was blood-stained and the bow flies were swarming over his face after blood and brains. Just back of his head, in the grass, lay a fine Mexican hat, bottom up.76 Callicot continues, describing his collecting of the hat to add to his newly acquired sash. Callicot describes feeling haunted in the days after; being unable to sleep, worried that they might “take me out to hang me as they had the bandit spy the evening before. To tell the truth, I looked like one with one dead bandit’s hat on my head and another’s sash around my waist.”77 After a series of killings of Mexican men, McNelley ordered the U.S. troops, who had a six-mule wagon to collect the Mexican bodies and pile them in the Brownsville town square. McNelley “Sent word for all to come to see how the Texas Rangers dealt with cow thieves.” Captain McNelly reassured Callicot regarding the taking of souvenirs from the Mexicans they had lynched together, assuring Callicot “that hat was about the best advertiser I could wear, and a fair warning to all bandits not to cross to the Texas side after Texas cattle.”78 The taking of scalps and other objects from the killings of Natives and Mexicans is both a signal of victory and a souvenir that scales the perceived threat of Natives and Mexicans. As Padma Maitland writes: In her text On Longing Susan Stewart discusses how the diminutive perception of things elicits pangs of nostalgic longing, for a childhood past, say, when objects felt larger, or the schoolyard that seems out of scale when we visit it as adults. Nostalgia’s relationship to scale is part of what makes it such a powerful emotion for souvenirs, and the huge draw for carrying an object that represents something that was previously experienced as monumental. 79 The monumental threat constructed around the figures of the Native and the Mexican, and the perceived necessary but monumental task of colonial expansion is abated by objects that the lynchers have collected. These objects, including Native and Mexican scalps, were displayed as recently as 1936 during the Texas Centennial Exhibition in 147 Dallas in 1936. Over six million people visited the Centennial and Gard notes “the most popular exhibit in the Texas Ranger building was a display of scalps.”80 In case images of Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála and its aftermath, and in the representations of “bandit bodies,” in the taking of souvenirs, we witness the choreography of lynching, of U.S. racist and ritual murder. These moments point us to our work—a relational analysis that explores the invention of the Native and the Mexican as figures and forms of personhood. 148 Notes to Chapter Three 1 Taylor is quoted in Arnoldo De León’s They Called Them Greasers: Anglo Attitudes toward Mexicans in Texas, 1821–1900 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1983), 11. 2 Here I am thinking specifically beyond structuring these narrative formations as “mythic.” Though this is framing common in discussions of the U.S. West, most famously in Richard Slotkin’s trilogy Regeneration Through Violence: The Mythology of the American Frontier, 1600-1860 (1973), The Fatal Environment: The Myth of the Frontier in the Age of Industrialization, 1800-1890 (1985) and Gunfighter Nation: The Myth of the Frontier in Twentieth-Century America (1992). I move away from the language of myth and draw instead on the work of Phillip Fisher, who powerfully insists on a framing our inquiries around rhetorics. As Fisher explains, Myth in this perhaps too simple formula is always singular, rhetorics always plural. Myth is a fixed, satisfying, and stable story that is used again and again to normalize our account of social life. By means of myth, novelty is tamed by being seen as the repetition or, at most, the variation of a known and valued pattern… Rhetoric, in contrast, is a tactic within the open questions of culture. It reveals interests and exclusions. To look at rhetorics is to look at the action potential of language and images, not just their power or contrivance to move an audience but the location of words, formulas, images, and units of meaning within politics. Rhetoric is the place where language is engaged in cultural work, and such work can be done on, with, or in spite of one or another group within society. Rhetorics are plural because they are part of what is uncertain or potential within culture. Phillip Fisher, “American Literary and Cultural Studies since the Civil War,” in The New American Studies (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 27-44, 28. 3 This list is not exhaustive, but a sampling of the diverse Native peoples in the México-Texas borderlands. Currently in México, the cultural-racial category of indigena/indigenous is defined narrowly by linguistic criteria. To be considered Native, individuals must speak one of sixty-two indigenous languages, based on a scale developed by the National Mexican Institute of Statistics. In the United States, few “Mexican” Indians have been granted Federal Native status—among these are Apache, Comanche, Kickapoo, Tohono O'odham and Yaqui. See Federico Navarrete Linares, “Los pueblos indígenas de México: Pueblos Indígenas del México Contemporáneo,” (México: CDI, 2008). Available electronically at: http://www.cdi.gob.mx/index2.php?option=com_docman&task=doc_view&gid=62&Ite mid=24 4 Interestingly, in either assignment or ascription, the category of “mulatto,” which would also be comprised of African ancestry, did not gain favor. The blackness was, thus erased, as noted by Menchaca. 149 5 David J. Weber, Foreigners in Their Native Land: Historical Roots of the Mexican Americans (Albuquerque: University of New México. Press, 1973), 59. 6 Jodi A. Byrd, The Transit of Empire: Indigenous Critiques of Colonialism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 2011), xiii. 7 Josefina Zoraida Vazquez, “The Colonization and Loss of Texas: A Mexican Perspective,” in Rodriguez O., Jaime E.; Vincent, Kathryn, Myths, Misdeeds, and Misunderstandings: The Roots of Conflict in U.S.–Mexican Relations (Wilmington: Scholarly Resources Inc., 1997), 53. For more on the racial regime in Texas during the colonization period, see Martha Menchaca’s Recovering History, Constructing Race: The Indian, Black, and White Roots of Mexican Americans (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2002), 172, 201. 8 Mike Cox, “The Texas Rangers: From Horses to Helicopters,” Texas Almanac 2000–2001 http://www.texasalmanac.com/topics/history/texas-rangers-horses- helicopters Cox is also the author of three books on the Texas Rangers and was formerly the Chief of Media Relations for the Texas Department of Public Safety. For more on Austin’s adversarial relationship with the Karankawas and the devastating massacres against the indigenous populations between 1821 and 1859, see Kelly F. Himmel’s The Conquest of the Karankawas and Tonkawas (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 1999). 9 Gary Clayton Anderson, The Conquest of Texas: Ethnic Cleansing in the Promised Land, 1820-1875 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2005), 7. 10 Ibid. 11 Lamar to Hays, 2 October 1841, Messages and Proclamations of the Presidents, LS, Secretary of State Records. Quoted in Anderson, 194. 12 Anderson, 194. 13 For instance, in 1801, the U.S. Congress passed a land act giving pre-emption rights to citizen-settlers. This act insured land rights for citizen-settlers, allowing for acquisition of “public lands” without prior purchase. In 1855, the federal Bounty-Land Act was passed. This Act conjoined land acquisition with military service, mirroring the long tradition of the British Crown and its colonial governments that began to give land in the Americas for military service as early as 1646—most famously during King Philip’s War (1675-1676). The federal government granted acres of land in exchange for service in the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, the U.S.-Mexican War, the so-called Indian Wars, and myriad Native removals. Bounty Land claims were common until 1855, but continued to be received as late as the 1960s since these lands could be passed on to veteran heirs. 150 A comprehensive study of the Bounty Land claims has been lacking, especially given the enormous amount of primary source documentation available. While many scholars have explored the Bounty Land records, usually by region or period—a sustained study focusing on only the Bounty Land records that works to analyze the social history of violent settlement, has yet to be published. For more on the more than six million acres of Bounty Land granted, see John F. Callan, The military laws of the United States relating to the Army, volunteers, militia, and to bounty lands and pensions, from the foundation of the government to 3 March, 1863:to which are prefixed the Constitution of the United States (with an index thereto) and a synopsis of the military legislation of Congress during the Revolutionary War, 1863; Sarah Carter, Lost Harvests: Prairie Indian Reserve Farmers and Government Policy (McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1990); James L. Davenport, Laws of the United States Governing the Granting of Bounty-Land Warrants: Together With the Regulations Relating Thereto (Forgotten Books Classic Reprint, 2015); Christine Rose, Military Bounty Land 1776-1855 (Cr Publications, 2011); and James Warren Oberly two key texts Sixty Million Acres: American Veterans and the Public Lands before the Civil War (Kent State University Press, 1990) and Military Bounty Land Warrants in the United States, 1847-1900 (Inter-University Consortium for Political and Social Research, Ann Arbor, Michigan). 14 David R.M. Beck, “The Myth of the Vanishing Race,” from Edward S. Curtis’s The North American Indian, Volumes 1-20 [digital edition] at Northwestern University. Available at: http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/award98/ienhtml/essay2.html 15 The North American Indian: Being a Series of Volumes Picturing and Describing the Indians of the United States and Alaska, Volume 19 (J. Pierpoint Morgan, 1907), 36. The twenty volume series included a forward written by Theodore Roosevelt. 16 Travis M. Whitehead, “Calling all Karankawas: Man Claims to be Descendent of Native Tribe,” The Brownsville Herald,7 September 2009. Available at: www.brownsvilleherald.com/article_9b66dad3-ec2e-5a39-bac7-1d13850da762.html 17 Ibid. 18 “Goliad State Park to Host New Exhibit this Month,” My South Tex 8 July 2009. http://www.mysoutex.com/view/full_story_landing/2904574/article-Goliad-State-Park- to-host-new-exhibit-this-month 19 Whitehead. 20 Biography of Tony Zavaleta by Juan Montoya available online: http://rrunrrun.blogspot.com/2011/01/tony-zavaleta-says-he-will-run-for.html For more on the killing raids led by Juan Corina, see Carol A. Lipscomb, “Karankawa Indians,” 151 Handbook of Texas Online http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/bmk05 21 John Henry Brown, Indian Wars and Pioneers of Texas (Austin: L.E. Daniel Publisher, 1880); digital images, http://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth6725/ University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, UNT Libraries, Denton, Texas, 8. 22 Ibid, 6. 23 Ibid, 6. 24 Ibid, 6. 25 Peter Rhoades Silver, Our Savage Neighbors: How Indian War Transformed Early America (New York: W.W. Norton, 2008), 273. Quoted in Helen McLure’s “‘Who Dares to Style This Female a Woman?’” Lynching, Gender, and Culture in the Nineteenth-century U.S. West,” in Lynching Beyond Dixie: American Mob Violence Outside the South (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2013), 21-53, 25. 26 Ibid, 21. 27 Ibid, 25. 28 It is critical to follow McClure’s lead as we re-categorize and de-categorize a history of ritual murders in the United States. 29 Brown (1880); digital images, http://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth6725/ University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, UNT Libraries, Denton, Texas, 7. 30 Ibid. 31 W.W. Newcomb, Jr. The Indians of Texas: From Prehistoric to Modern Times (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1961), 338. 32 James Faris, “Navajo and Photography” in Photography’s Other Histories, Christopher Pinney and Nicolas Peterson, eds. (Chicago: Duke University Press, 2003), 85-99, 86. 33 One significant collection on the textual and visual narratives is Eyewitness at Wounded Knee (1991), edited by Richard E. Jensen, R. Eli Paul, and John E. Carter. This book is part of the University of Nebraska’s Great Plains Series and includes over 100 images, along with John E. Carter’s commentary on various photographers and souvenir takers during and after the events at Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála. In addition, Robert Utley’s The Last Days of the Sioux Nation (1963) and George E. Hyde’s A Sioux Chronicle 152 (1956) and Red Cloud’s Folk: A History of the Oglala Sioux Indians (1957) are both thoroughly researched, while Dee Brown’s Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee (Albany: Picador, 1970) includes the signature re-evaluation of both the motives of the U.S. officers and the after-effects of the massacre. Charles Alexander Eastman’s From Deep Wood to Civilization: Chapters in the Autobiography of An Indian (1916) details his personal witness of the aftermath and attempts to aid survivors of the massacre. 34 Robert M. Utley, The Last Days of the Sioux Nation (Yale University Press, 1963), 231-270. 35 The other two of the twenty-five assembled journalists who witnessed the events were Charles W. Allen of the Chadron Democrat (Nebraska), and Will Cressey of the Omaha Bee. William E. Huntzicker, “The ‘Sioux Outbreak’ in the Illustrated Press” in South Dakota History (Pierre: South Dakota State Historical Society, 1990), 299-322, 314. For an in-depth discussion of the contemporaneous media coverage, see Jerome A. Greene’s American Carnage: Wounded Knee, 1890 (University of Oklahoma Press, 2014). John E. Carter, “Making Pictures for a News-Hungry Nation” in Eyewitness at 36 Wounded Knee (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1991), 39. 37 John E. Carter, “The Image Makers.” Nebraskaland (Oct. 1987), 34–41. 38 Dennis Edward Shaw “The Battle of Wounded Knee: Myth versus Reality,” (University of Miami Dissertation, 1981), 58. 39 Carter (1991), 46-47. 40 Peggy and Harold Samuels, Frederic Remington: A Biography (Garden City: Doubleday & Company, 1982),151; “The Sioux Outbreak in South Dakota,” uncolored relief halftones, Frederic Remington, Harper’s Weekly, 24 January 1891, 57, 65; and William E. Huntzicker, “The ‘Sioux Outbreak’ in the Illustrated Press” in South Dakota History (Pierre: South Dakota State Historical Society, 1990), 299-322, 314. Remington’s illustrations in Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper included a “battle” scene, Natives constructed feathered hostile chiefs, and the body of Big Foot. Leslie’s Illustrated noted that the illustrations were from photographs of the events. Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper, 24 January 1891, 476, 484. 41 Harper’s Weekly, 24 January 1891, 57, 65. 42 Remington, 61. See also: Huntzicker, 314; Shaw, 35. J.M. McDonough, “The Recent Indian Troubles,” Frank Leslie’s Illustrated 43 Newspaper, 24 January 1891, 479. 153 J.M. McDonough, “The Recent Indian Troubles,” Frank Leslie’s Illustrated 44 Newspaper, 24 January 1891, 479. 45 Huntzicker, 320-322. 46 Faris, 87. 47 “Indian treachery. A Bloody Engagement With Big Foot’s Band. Captain Wallace and Five Soldiers Killed. Lieutenant Garlington and Fifteen Men Wounded. The Troops Taken by Surprise While Disarming the Hostiles—Not a Redskin Will be Left,” Los Angeles Herald 30 December 1890, Vol. 35, No 7, First Edition. 48 Ibid. 49 Ibid. 50 Ibid. 51 Edward S. Godfrey, “Calvary Fire Discipline,” Journal of the Military Service Institution of the United States (1896), 259. 52 Martha A. Sandweiss, Print the Legend: Photography and the American West (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), 9. 53 Runyon was originally hired by the Gulf Coast News and Hotel Company as a vendor of snacks and cigarettes to passengers on the St. Louis, Brownsville, and Mexico Railways between Houston and Brownsville. Steve Hathcock, “Robert Runyon and His Camera,” The Coastal Current 2 October 2014 http://www.valleymorningstar.com/coastal_current/news/laguna_madre/article_883db672 -4a45-11e4-bd6c-0017a43b2370.html 54 Biographical information on Runyon that includes his work as a botanist and curio shop owner as well as photographer can be found in The Center for American History, Robert Runyon Photograph Collection, 1907-1968: A Guide (Austin, Texas: The Center for American History, 1992). A selection of his work that focuses on the Mexican combatant, “bandit” and the military buildup prior to World War I in Texas is available in War Scare on the Rio Grande: Robert Runyon’s Photographs of the Border Conflict, 1913-1916 compiled and edited by Frank N. Samponaro, Frank N. and Paul J. Vanderwood (Austin, Texas: The Texas State Historical Association, 1992). 55 This collection was donated by Runyon’s family to the University of Texas at Austin Dolph Briscoe Center for American History in 1986. In addition, Runyon’s 8,750 botanical specimens were donated to the University of Texas at Austin, while Runyon’s 1,000 botanical volumes was donated to Texas A&I University at Kingsville. The Barker Texas History Center at the University of Texas at Austin was the recipient of samples 154 from his photographic collection as well as his business files. Significant collections of his photographs are also housed in the Brownsville Historical Association and the Hidalgo County Historical Museum. Smaller collections can be found at the University of Texas Institute of Texan Cultures, San Antonio; the Special Collections of the Library of the University of Texas of the Permian Basin, Odessa; and the Central Power and Light Company, Corpus Christi. Joe Ideker and Kendall Curlee, “Runyon, Robert,” Handbook of Texas Online http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/fru37 56 Laura Marina Boria, “Robert Runyon: Texas Photography’s Best-Kept Secret?” Reporting Texas 10 September 2015 http://reportingtexas.com/robert-runyon-texas- photographys-best-kept-secret/ 57 Ibid. 58 Runyon’s photographs were so widely known that they were entered as exhibits in the TRI Joint Hearings and very specifically referred to in the examination of Customs Inspector Joe Taylor, TRI: Volume III: 1452. 59 Ideker and Curlee. 60 The events at Olmito receive attention in Chapter Four –Awful Lawful Texas. 61 Captain W.T. Vann would identify the men in the photographs as Captain Fox and Tom Tate was perhaps a “special Ranger,” TRI, Testimony of W.T. Vann, 576. Big Foot was said to have carried a white flag as he met with Major Samuel Whitside of the 7th Calvary at the Čhaŋkpé Ópi Wakpála attack. Donald F. Danker, “Wounded Knee Interviews of Eli S. Ricker,” Nebraska History 62 (1981): 151-243, 118, 170-189. 62 Alan Trachtenberg, Reading American Photographs: Images as History Mathew Brady to Walker Evans (New York: Noonday Press, 1989), xiii. 63 Shawn Michelle Smith, American Archives: Gender, Race, and Class in Visual Culture (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1999), 7. 64 Boria. 65 Harris and Sadler (2004), 241. 66 TRI: Volume I, Testimony of W.T. Vann, 571. 67 TRI: Volume I, Testimony of Joe Taylor, 1452. 68 Rogers 2006, 51. 155 69 George H. Harries, Washington [D.C.] Evening Star, 26 January 1891. Reprinted: “The Photographs: Battlefield” in Eyewitness at Wounded Knee (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1991), 108. 70 Ibid. Emphasis mine. 71 H.H. Halsell, Cowboys and Cattleland (Wilkinson Printing Co., Third Edition, 1944), 180. 72 Frontier Times, January 1924. Cited in Wayne Gard’s Frontier Justice, (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1949), 10. Gard is quick to claim that lynching is the natural outgrowth of a lawless West. This claim is the subject of Chapter Four – Awful Lawful Texas. 73 Ibid. 74 Raht, 250-251 and James B. Gillett Six Years with the Texas Rangers (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1925), 33-44. 75 Webb, (1993[1935]), 242. 76 Ibid, 246-247. 77 Ibid, 250. 78 Ibid, 250-251. 79 Padma Maitland, “RM1000: Souvenir Nostalgia,” Room One Thousand 2, 2014, ii-xi; iv-v. 80 Gard, 10 [note 10]. The Texas Centennial Exposition—advertised as “An Empire on Parade”—ran from June 6 to November 29, 1936, was visited by six million people. See The Dallas Museum of Art Uncrated Blog, Hillary Bober, “A Gem of A Diamond Anniversary” https://uncrated.wordpress.com/tag/texas-centennial-exposition/ 156 I live about one half mile from where my husband was killed… I went to the place where all these men had been killed and saw them well; that they were all killed by bullets… I moved across the river with my family the same day. –Felipa Mendez Casteñeda1 CHAPTER FOUR: AWFUL LAWFUL TEXAS2 At the age of 101, Juan Bonilla Flores died in his home of Odessa, Texas. Throughout his life, Juan Bonilla Flores attempted to suppress memories that would wake him, startled and screaming. Flores suffered sleep terrors throughout his life, his granddaughter Vicki Belen explained, “He’d either have them in the daytime or the night time, it didn’t matter. He would tell us to wake him up because he was hollering and screaming and mumbling things and we didn’t understand what was going on. Only he knew what was going on.” 3 As his great-niece, Elisa Pérez describes, “The child and man suffered horrible nightmares that left his children doubtful of his sanity… it was impossible for them to make sense of the raving screams that went on nightly. Eventually Juan was taken to a State Hospital where electric shock was performed. He was to remain silent for years.”4 Perhaps Flores was haunted by the same trauma as his mother Juana Bonilla Flores? The Flores family could only guess—Juana had committed suicide, shooting herself in the chest, after experiencing similar, mysterious outbursts. 5 157 Just a few years earlier, Juan Bonilla Flores agreed to talk with his family— including his great-nieces Elida Tobar and Elisa Pérez about his family’s past in Texas. Flores described their farming village, a cooperative of Mexican and Mexican-American farmers and ranchers, and he took his descendants and filmmaker Gode Davis to the site of the village of Porvenir, now abandoned. Though he was too weak to climb the rocks leading to the place where his village once was, after telling the story of Porvenir, Flores pointed toward the desert plain, where the home his family built once stood—his finger extended like an accusation. Porvenir, the home of the Flores family at the turn of the twentieth century, was a small settlement of Mexican farmers situated in one of the far southwest counties of Texas. The Rio Grande snakes through the otherwise parched area, its nutrients traveling through arid land. Its banks offered water to wildlife and small goat and cattle herds, and at the turn of the twentieth century local farmers drew from the rio using hand-dug irrigation canals. Though it was relatively isolated, the community was surrounded by larger ranches and plantations where some of Porvenir’s Mexican residents also worked. The Mexican settlers of Porvenir lived in small jacales—mud and wood homes—within shouting distance of one another. Invited by landowner Manuel Morales, many of Porvenir’s residents were part of a refugee wave that moved north as the series of Mexican Revolutions destabilized northern México. Indeed, by some accounts, Porvenir was primarily a refugee community.6 In the first two decades of the twentieth century, Presidio County saw a massive increase in its population as a result of those moving north from villages or large haciendas that had been disrupted by the fighting between the revolutionary socialist land movements and Mexican Federales (the Mexican Federal 158 Army) throughout México. As Glenn Justice writes in Revolution on the Rio Grande, while Francisco Villa’s armies fought Mexican Federales in Ojinaga in 1914, A flood of refugees crossed the Rio Grande to Presidio. Some forty-five hundred of them, including many Federal soldiers and civilians… The refugees came from every segment of Mexican society. Mixed among the Federal soldiers and the peasants were the elite of Chihuahua, including Luis Terrazas, the millionaire cattle baron and head of a wealthy family.7 Many in the Porvenir area, along with Juan Bonilla Flores’ family, were part of that refugee wave, arriving in 1914.8 FIGURE 20: Mathilde Martinez & Children, undated, Mutual Film Company. Library of Congress. Manuel Morales, a U.S. citizen of Mexican descent, purchased over 1,600 acres and was engineering irrigation into the grassy but often dry land from the Rio Grande in the hope of raising cotton and building a cotton gin. 9 As Francisco Natera writes in his Chihuahua regional history Coyame a History of the American Settler, “due to good cotton prices in the early 1900s, it was established as a quiet happy cotton farming 159 community.”10 Morales married and brought his wife from México in 1910, just as the revolutionary movements were being initiated by Francisco I. Madero, who declared from exile in San Antonio, Texas in the Plan de San Luis Potosí, that the 1910 Mexican re-election of Porfirio Díaz was illegitimate.11 The newlyweds would settle on the U.S. side of the river to develop their land and invite others to join them. In 1913, Morales hired Juan Bonilla Flores’ father, Longino, to supervise the extension of irrigation ditches from the banks of the Rio Grande to Morales’ Porvenir Ranch. Longino Flores, able to successfully widen and extend the irrigation, stayed on Morales’ ranch as a sharecropper. He then settled his family. Longino and his wife Juanita built a home at Porvenir for themselves and their three children—daughter Benita, and sons Narcisco and Juan.12 With families like the Flores sharecropping and cultivating the land, and with Morales supporting and funding the overall project, the community grew to about one-hundred and forty people.13 Juan Bonilla Flores would experience boyhood in this community, herding goats for the family on both sides of the river, in Porvenir and Chihuahua, leading the livestock to patches of grass where it emerged during dry seasons.14 The community, straddling the porous U.S.-México border, joined Mexicans on both sides of the border with a small wooden bridge. Crossing between Texas and México, grazing the family’s goats at the riverbank, Juan Bonilla Flores said he “always believed he belonged as much in Texas as he did in México.”15 The fluidity of movement in south Texas and northern Chihuahua was not yet proscribed by border walls and fences. The development of the Porvenir community continued over years, with Mexican families improving irrigation and fields—embodying the very Jeffersonian democratic ideal of yeomen farmers, creating the very American homesteads that the national imagination had 160 valorized. Yet in spite of their exemplar practice of the U.S. progress and development ideal—transforming otherwise arid landscapes into productive agriculture through the investment of their labor—the Mexican community of Porvenir would be violently erased. Ninety-seven-year-old Juan Bonilla Flores described one of the largest known mass lynchings in U.S. history to an assembly of family, filmmaker Gode Davis—who was working on a documentary project on violence in the United States—publishers of La Voz de Uvalde County, and author José Angel Gutiérrez.16 Juan Bonilla Flores’ children and grandchildren first heard of the now-erased community and the terrorism inflicted upon it eighty years later. Until that point, as Gode Davis explained, “most details of what had happened were barely uttered, and the snippets [Juan Bonilla Flores] did reveal in his nightmares were considered dark fantasies by his children and descendants.”17 On the day they gathered, Pérez noted, “He recalled everything that happened clearly.”18 A frail Flores spoke softly in Spanish describing the cold January night when his father, twelve men, and two boys were kidnapped from their farming village of Porvenir and killed en masse.19 In his talk with his family and filmmaker Davis, Flores explained that just after two in the morning on January 28, 1918 he heard gunshots. Eleven-year-old Juanito was rousted from sleep and he watched as Porvenir’s villagers came out of their homes to plead with an assembled group of Texas Rangers, U.S. Calvary, and local ranchers. Flores identified U.S. Calvary soldiers specifically as the assailants and recalled how the men ripped through the village charging from house to house on horseback, rounding up Mexican men including his father, Longino Flores. 161 Pérez writes: It was a bitterly cold night with a moon that lit the area like daytime. He did not see a single Texas Ranger. What he did see were about ten ‘ARMY SOLDIERS’ who went into the jacales, dragging boys and men out. Two men who Juan clearly could identify, despite kerchiefs that hid their faces, were part of the group. One of them entered the Flores Jacal [sic] and took a rifle from the wall. It was a rifle that Texas Ranger River Guard Joe Sitter had given his father, and one that the ‘taker’ had always wanted. When Juan asked why he was taking the rifle, the individual (who spoke Spanish) said: “Tu callate,” “you shut up!”20 The group pulled thirteen men and two boys from their beds and marched them to a moonlit bluff just outside the village. In his softly spoken testimonio as his family looked on and as Davis filmed, Juan Bonilla Flores told how his father and others were led away in the cold January night by men on horses—some masked—and shot. Looking sideways into the camera, taking pauses between words and stroking his large straw cowboy hat, the ninety-seven-year-old Flores described, “All of them had been left headless. All of them were torn to pieces. Everyone torn to pieces. They were unrecognizable.”21 The mob of civilians, Texas Rangers, and U.S. Calvary soldiers shot and stabbed the men of Porvenir, resulting in one of the largest mass lynchings in the United States— a lynching that would be investigated and well-documented in its time, but later circumvented in histories of lynching, Texas, and the United States.22 Key in Flores’ recollection and in the affidavits and testimonies of community members is the evidence that the mass lynching was not the first terroristic violence against the Mexican village. As the men overran the homes in Porvenir, Flores heard the members of his community—Mexican women and elderly men—crying and yelling in terrified anticipation, “Why should they kill them, we’ve done nothing to anyone!”23 They had reason to be alarmed. The terroristic invasion of their village and homes was not singular. 162 Her X Mark Sixty-six-year-old Juan Mendez would discuss the terrorism of Porvenir that pre- dated the mass lynching during the 1918 investigations of the Texas Rangers. His account included the harassment and abductions of Mexican men beginning as early as ten- months prior to the mass lynching. Mendez spoke of home searches for arms and stolen goods (with none ever found) and he described the gathering up of Mexican men from their homes.24 As Warren would describe in an unpublished manuscript, On Saturday, Jan. 16, 1918, the State Rangers visited the small village of Porvenir in Presidio County and arrested the men folks and boys there, standing them up in a row before day in the bitter cold January morning and searching them for arms; they also roughly and unceremoniously entered the houses, turning over beds, and forcibly looking into trunks and boxes searching for arms. They found only two arms in this peaceful hard- working village of one hundred and forty souls; only a pistol belonging to John Baily, the only white man living at Porvenir, which John kept in his house hanging over his cot and the other was a Winchester of a special make belonging to Rosendo Mesa... Both arms were taken and neither ever returned…25 Warren uses the word “arrest” to describe the lining up of the men of the village, though no arrests were made. Warren, however, fails to mention that the mob that entered the homes at Porvenir took three men by force. Manuel Fierro, Eutemio Gonzales, and Román Nieves were removed from their homes and led on a forced walk in the darkness as a group of men on horseback tortured and beat them. Mendez tells of the search where thirty men invaded the homes of the villagers at three in the morning and gathered him and his neighbors outside. The group ultimately abducted three Mexican men who returned two days later, exhausted and brutalized. Fierro, Gonzales, and Nieves explained how they were carried through the mountains and threatened with death.26 The Nieves family, including Alejandra Lara Nieves and her husband Román, 163 owned three hundred and twenty acres at Porvenir and had lived and farmed there for seven years. Given the tortures Román and the other villagers had suffered the previous week, as described by Juan Bonilla Flores and other witness-survivors, the group of attackers pulling Mexican men and boys from their homes was met by the entire community. Many rushed from their beds to confront the assembled men on horseback. Eulalia Gonzáles Hernandez woke when three masked men broke down the door to her home—her husband Ambrocio jumped out of bed and was met with a pistol-whipping to his ribs. Eulalia searched for help as two U.S. soldiers stood guard outside her home.27 Alejandra Lara Nieves was able to follow her husband Román out the door as the mob removed him—she noted soldiers outside her home, but was undeterred. Months after that night, from the relative safety of México, Alejandra would describe the disruption and terror of her family’s last night in the United States together. [O]n a date which I do not remember two masked American men came into my house at night; the hour I do not know jerked my husband out of bed and pushed him out of the door without his clothes… I followed him out of the door and saw that my house was surrounded by many soldiers who followed the civilians and my husband away…28 Román Nieves and Eutemio Gonzáles had survived their forty-eight-hour kidnapping and torture only to be murdered during the mass lynching.29 The descriptions of the home invasions, abductions, and the mass lynching at Porvenir were recorded in the days and months that followed the events—from elderly male survivors, from widows, from a grandmother who lost three of her grandsons, and from advocates such as Henry Warren. Felipa Mendez Castañeda, whose husband was killed, joined with her father who owned a Pilares, Chihuahua newspaper petitioning Mexican ambassador Ygnacio Bonilla for assistance to the witness-survivor families. The 164 families from the refugee community had now fled south, abandoning their homes and fields. Nine Porvenir widows provided sworn statements regarding the night of the mass lynching and the terrorism that preceded it.30 The survivors from Porvenir, including Flores’ mother, would detail to both Mexican and U.S. authorities the events of the January 28, 1918. Flores’ mother Juana named names and identified lynchers as she courageously and carefully reported the killings in a signed statement to 1st Calvary Lieutenant Patrick Kelley: [F]our masked men—American civilians, two of whom I recognized as Ben Frazier and his brother, the other two I could recognize should I see them again, came into my house and took my husband out, struck him with guns, and took him away… my house was surrounded by soldiers… about one hour after my husband was taken away I heard two volleys fired by many guns.31 Juana Flores explained that the bodily damage to her husband Longino and other men of the village was so gruesome she was shielded “from going to see the remains of my husband, who Mr. Warren told me had been shot and chopped up with a knife.” 32 Henry Warren, a local school teacher whose father-in-law, fifty-year-old Tiburcio Jáquez, had also been lynched that night, telegraphed the Colonel in charge of the Big Bend district, giving an account of the murders, the names and ages of the victims, and the survivors.33 Warren hoped to provoke an investigation and punishment for the assailants.34 After seeing his father-in-law murdered and placed in a line of thirteen dead and mutilated men and two dead and mutilated boys, Warren shielded many of the wives and families of the lynched men from going to see the bodies as they lay just outside Porvenir. 35 Librada Montoya Jáquez and Juana Bonilla Flores explained how Warren spared them the sight of their husbands, who had been both shot and stabbed. But more recent additions to the community, like Felipa Mendez Casteñeda who had only lived in Porvenir for three 165 weeks, were not similarly sought out and blocked before witnessing the full brutality of the mass lynching.36 Felipa had experienced three masked “American citizens” enter her home and strike her husband Antonio with their rifles. She described his abduction and its aftermath: When they took my husband out I saw many soldiers and civilians around my house… I did not know where they took my husband… I live about one half mile from where my husband was killed… I went to the place where all these men had been killed and saw them well; that they were all killed by bullets… I moved across the river with my family the same day.37 Statements were also taken from seven Mexican men who survived Porvenir—Cesario Huerta, sixty-six, Gorgonio Hernandez, sixty, Luis Jimenez, thirty-four, Pablo Jimenez, fifty-five, Rosenda Mega, forty-seven, Juan Mendez, sixty-six, and Seberiano Morales, sixty-eight. Of the seven witness-survivors who gave statements, each at some point in their testimony refer to Henry Warren, the U.S. citizen school teacher and U.S. citizen John Baily (also a resident of Porvenir), hoping that the invocation of the two white U.S. citizens might legitimize their Mexican voices and testimony. Five of these Mexican men who gave statements were selected out by the lynching group and allowed to live— presumably their threat lessened by their advanced age. Rosenda Mega survived because he had been in Candelaria, Texas on the night of the murders, and Luis Jimenez was not killed, though his brother, Pedro and cousin Juan, along with his brother in-law, Albert Garcia were all killed.38 Henry Warren, the aforementioned school teacher who lost his father-in-law in the mass lynching also prepared a statement and continued to agitate for an investigation and punishment for the killers. After collecting accounts from witness-survivors and proceeding with his own elementary—and he hoped initiating— investigation, he 166 prepared the following summation. Some time [sic] in the night [of January 28, 1918] the Rangers again made their appearance at Porvenir accompanied by four ranchmen… and twelve U.S. soldiers…. Capt. Anderson threw a cordon of U.S. soldiers around the houses while the Rangers went in and took the men and boys out of their warm beds, they making no resistance whatever. Having the men and boys in their possession, the Rangers started off down the road, the soldiers accompanying them a part of the way to where the soldiers’ trail left the main road leading back up to Camp Evetts. After the soldiers left them, it was only a few minutes before the latter heard a fusillade of shots. One of the soldiers rode back and seeing what the Rangers had done, (the moon was shining nearly as bright as day), cursed them, and told them “what a nice piece of work you have done tonight.” The killed were fifteen…. All the bodies were found lying together, side by side…. The Rangers and four cow-men made 42 orphans that night. 39 Detailed statements—including the widows’ affidavits and Warren’s narrative—would be forwarded to a grand jury in Presidio, Texas, which took no action for the killings. Warren continued his advocacy, even seeking to recover damages for Eulalia Gonzáles Sánchez, who upon fleeing to México gave Warren her power of attorney.40 The mass lynching at Porvenir would constitute one of the charges in the investigation of the Texas Rangers in 1919, where supporting evidence was heard. The victims, assailants, and witness-survivors of the mass lynching at Porvenir all engaged myriad levels of local and state authorities as well as legal systems on both sides of the U.S.-México border. Though the construction of the lynchings of Mexicans in Texas and the great U.S. West have purposefully called back “Indian Wars” and “frontier justice,” the socio-political context of theses lynching was not, of course, the lawless west (as suggested by Walter Prescott Webb and others).41 Though the concept of “frontier justice” in the absence of functioning legal systems has been repeated by historians of Texas and the U.S. West, the lynchings at Porvenir illustrate the powerful counter- 167 narrative, giving clear evidence for legal systems firmly in place alongside the unrestrained practices of state-sponsored terror and violence. Critical to analysis of the lynching of Mexicans and others in the U.S.-México borderlands and the U.S. West is the rooting out of persistent cause and effect narratives that propose lynchings are the result of a lack of court systems. Such cause and effect narratives are demonstrably false. In addition, as Lisa Cook writes, “It is often suggested in the literature that lynchings in the West were ‘frontier justice’ and that such executions would have been legal if the institutions were developed enough to carry them out.”42 Indeed, the narrative that these lynchings have occurred in a lawless place not only allows, but assists, the lynchers. The actual layers of law and government power that exist are disallowed acknowledgment because then they may be used to expose the actual crimes. Their very presence would expose the lyncher. If it were positively asserted that there were laws, that there were officers of that law, that there were court systems, that there were possibilities for investigation, that there were witnesses, that there were swearings in, that there were affidavits—then we would be compelled to pursue justice. Instead, the place of atrocity, the site of terror, has been—and continues to be—constructed as the frontier of lawlessness. What the mass lynching at Porvenir confirms is that such violence could not be accomplished without layers of legal systems allowing and assisting lynchers. Many historians of the U.S. borderlands and U.S. West position violence and lynching as inevitable historical products of westward expansion. The works that have examined violence against Mexicans in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries often conflate lynching murders with generalized stories of “frontier violence” and “local vigilantism,” suggesting the West as a lawless land with rampant vigilantism in the 168 service of order. Wayne Gard’s Frontier Justice is one such study. Gard’s work, published in 1949, has since been used as a model for understanding “frontier” violence in the Midwest and West. Gard was one of the first to seriously consider violent “vigilante” movements in the United States, but in so doing, his work also installed the idea of violence as reactive to lawless conditions.43 Gard established much of the lawless west narrative, though—importantly—lawmen populate his richly annotated work. Examining the Plains, the southwest, and what would become west coast mining towns, Gard formulates lynch mobs as unavoidable given the circumstances. He writes, [O]n the prairies and in the mining camps, orthodox law enforcement often lagged behind the need to punish troublesome offenders. Where officials were helpless and jails were far away, citizens had to work together as vigilantes… They made their own laws on the spot, caught horse thieves and other outlaws, and hanged them to the nearest cottonwood. Sometimes they imposed overly severe penalties or executed the wrong men; but usually they were fair, and their activities discouraged crime. The work of the vigilance committees was a form of social action against bad men and a step toward the setting up of statutory courts.44 Like historians before and after him, Gard explains, “order often came before the law.”45 Gard illustrates the violent bringing of order to “the frontier” with chapters such as “Scalp for A Scalp,” and “Prairie Necktie Parties.” Gard is enormously important to historiographies and histories of violence because of his extensive treatment of what he calls “committees of vigilance.” I echo his faulting of historians for giving vigilante activities “little attention.” However, as I have posited in the introduction, the category of “vigilante violence” requires sustained analysis and unraveling. For instance, Gard stakes out several clear erasures in his study, writing: Space limits the scope of this work not only to the West but to those forms of conflict that grew out of frontier conditions. The activities of the Ku Klux Klan, original and revived, and other discriminations against Negroes, Mexicans, Chinese, and Japanese, which sometimes resulted in 169 violence, have no place here.46 Gard’s delimiting to only violence caused by “frontier conditions” that excludes discussion of racist violence and any consideration of the categorizing and attacking of colonized and raced bodies indeed underscores a key, though often unarticulated, cataract in the study of U.S. violence. By creating a formula of “frontier conditions” met with “vigilante violence,” Gard and other historians effectively erase racist practices of violence and sever attacks from the colonial-settler imperatives. A corollary to Gard is Clement Eaton, a U.S. historian of the South. Eaton spent much of his career psychoanalyzing the actors in southern history, most markedly in The Mind of the South (1967). Eaton insisted racist violence in the U.S. West is distinguished from racist lynch mobs who killed African Americans in the U.S. South—these are for Eaton fundamentally different types of violence. Easton writes in “Mob Violence in the Old South” that the widespread lynching of African Americans in the South must be differentiated from the “frontier violence” seen in Texas and the Southwest. Eaton suggests that these regional violences were dissimilar in their aims and causes. [I]n the land of Dixie mob violence attained a greater significance than in the other sections of the country… These mobs of the middle period of Southern history [1831-1861] should be clearly distinguished from the vigilantes or regulating bands of the frontier who developed lynch law because of the lack of adequate courts and jails.47 Eaton repeats the construction of areas west of the Mississippi as lawless and orderless. Much like those who would figure the frontier as places of vacancy—virgin land—in their quest for expansion, historians like Gard, Eaton, and Webb, continue to figure the U.S. West and borderlands as vacant of legal systems—effectively no places—to be tamed by vigilante violence until legal systems are put into place. 170 A parallel tradition to the “frontier violence” theory that had helped to erase the lynching of Mexicans in the U.S. is that which positions all violence in Texas at the turn of the twentieth century as an outgrowth of the Mexican Revolution.48 I have come to call this the Spill-Over Theory. Interestingly, this theory has been promoted by traditional and revisionist historians alike. Indeed, as scholarly interest in the U.S. borderlands has increased, the Spill-Over Theory has gained a hold on regional, national, and transnational histories. In 2013, Nicolas Villanueva argued that there was rampant lawlessness in the México-Texas borderlands that led to violence, specifically due to the Mexican Revolution. In “No Place of Refuge: Mexicans, Anglos, and Violence in the Texas Borderlands, 1900-1920” Villanueva writes, “By 1918 escalating violence on both sides of the border had rendered the borderland lawless and violent.”49 A recent collection edited by Arnoldo De León, a prolific scholar on the U.S. West and national racial constructions, breathed new life into the Spill-Over Theory, and helped to fuel the cause and effect conclusions posited by Villanueva.50 War Along the Border: The Mexican Revolution and Tejano Communities grew from a symposium at the University of Houston’s Center for Mexican American Studies in 2010 and developed into the collection of thirteen essays exploring the economic, political, and social effects of the Mexican Revolution on Mexicans in Texas.51 The symposium and resultant collection are enormously valuable as the first dedicated scholarly gathering and compilation deeply focusing on the relationship between the Mexican Revolution—political movements, print culture, migrations—and the lived experience of Mexicans in Texas.52 However, throughout the works, De León, and many of the scholars represented, strain to argue a cause and effect that would position México and its revolutions as an origin point for 171 brutality. Framing the collection, De León writes, “what unfurls in one nation can likely spill over into an adjacent land, as in the example of the violence that accompanied the Revolution and in the case of people escaping the war zone into Texas.”53 This Spill- Over Theory has long been used to explain the level of brutality of Texas Rangers and the massive military buildup of the U.S. on its own border. In its “Evolution of the Texas Rangers, 1836-1920” exhibit that includes Ranger artifacts and photographs dating from the Texas Republic to the 1920s, The Texas State Library and Archives Commission frames causality bluntly: The 1910s ended this quiet period and ushered in an era of conflict between the United States and México. The start of the Mexican Revolution in 1910 launched Mexico into a decades-long civil war. At first, border disturbances between the United States and Mexico were few and isolated. When this upheaval spilled over the border, the ranks of the Texas Rangers increased to improve law and order.54 The taking of Ranger rationale as history, and the mistaking of chronology as causality are the most consistently vexing issues in untangling Texas narratives. The Texas Rangers and the Mexican Revolution: The Bloodiest Decade, 1910- 1920, a highly celebrated and deeply researched historical project by Charles H. Harris and Louis R. Sadler, similarly argues that violence in the México-Texas border originated in largely México, with Texas actors as secondary. Of the killings of Mexicans in this period, Harris and Saddler write, “The Mexican Revolution was continuing to generate ethnic animosity.”55 Harris and Saddler thus articulating the same ideological Spill-Over position as the De León collection, identify México as the origin point for racist violence. Just as the “frontier violence” began to lose its narrative power, the Spill-Over Theory gained renewed strength. In his otherwise excellent work on the killings of Mexicans in Texas, Richard Ribb writes plainly, “The Mexican Revolution spilled violently into 172 Texas in 1915 with the Plan de San Diego” and claims “[t]he role of the Texas Ranger as a counterrevolution force” in response to the Plan de San Diego.56 Behind almost every act of cruelty committed upon Tejanos (at least between 1915 and 1918, the high point of the border war) lurked the shadow of the Mexican Revolution. For Anglos who felt the brunt of attacks from Mexican raiders and marauders, violence seemed a necessary means to defend their lives and property. Ranch owners, businessmen, and law officials saw no alternative but to take the offensive in the crisis of the moment. Few-modern day historians, of course, would attempt to justify their criminality.57 Setting up the same cause and effect where the Plan de San Diego caused the murders of Mexican men as Benjamin Johnson in Revolution in Texas, De León writes, “The Mexican Revolution brought terrible times to border Mexicans as a consequence of the murder of Anglos and the destruction of their properties.”58 Ribb and Johnson echo the earlier work of Samora, Bernal and Peña, who, writing of the same period (1915-1920) explain “[t]ension along the border was aggravated by México’s internal struggles. The turbulent conditions were primarily caused by the Mexican Revolution of 1910… In retaliation for crimes against Americans, Rangers and local posses lashed out against border Mexicans.”59 Though sensitive to the brutality and injustice of the killings of many Mexicans, De León, Johnson, Ribb, Samora, Bernal and Peña all reinstitute the Mexican bandit as the central ground for racist anti-Mexican violence. Villanueva’s work takes direction from these pre-eminent historians of Texas and Mexican/Mexican-American/Chicano Studies by narrating the tragedy of Mexican lives lost, but also locating the origin of racist violence as raiding Mexicans and Revolution spill-over. He sets forth a causal argument like those before and after him: Border raids in Texas by Mexicans became more frequent by mid decade. While the press continued to publish reports of a growing foreign threat along the border, Texas Governor Oscar B. Colquitt wrestled with the 173 federal government over who would be physically and fiscally responsible for policing the border. When neither the state nor federal government responded swiftly to border violence, civilians formed posses to pursue suspected criminals.60 A close reading of the works on violence in Texas at the turn of the twentieth century reveals a strange puzzle. While actors in lynching and mob violence continue to be recorded as mobs of citizens or vigilantes, our historians simultaneously invoke clear and established facts of organization and participation in lynchings by persons holding legal authority—U.S. soldiers, Texas State Rangers, local sheriffs and deputies. Even while labeling violence “vigilante,” our authors make manifestly clear that “civilian posses” most often included legal authorities and officers. There is a curious but persistent discursive dualism embedded in these narratives. The invention of the Mexican bandit was coterminous with the invention of the citizen vigilante. In his memoir Trails and Trials as a Texas Ranger, William Warren Sterling remarked he never killed a man “during his Ranger service.” Indeed, his historic grave marker at Corpus Christi reads specifically that Sterling “never killed a man as a Ranger.”61 Sterling, was, however implicated in the killings of many, including the lynchings of sixty-seven-year-old Jesus Bazan Villarreal and his forty-eight-year-old son-in-law Antonio L. Longoria in 1915. Both Villarreal and Longoria were landowners and neighbors to the McAllen Ranch and had resisted losing their land, which had been in the family since 1870.62 Witnesses in the community explained that Sterling, then a Special Ranger, along with Paul West and Henry Ransom lynched Villarreal and Longoria for not aiding in their pursuit of Mexican bandits who they believed attacked the McAllen Ranch. Though Villarreal and Longoria were never suspected of banditry themselves, they were shot multiple times—their bodies laid as warning to “anyone showing sympathy to the bandit cause.” After “the stench of 174 human scent” was too much to bear, the lynchers finally buried Villarreal and Longoria two days later.63 Like other lynchings of Mexican men, these would be labeled vigilante killings in retaliation for an unrelated crime committed by “Mexican bandits.” However, all of the agents of murder were law enforcement officials. The findings throughout the works on anti-Mexican violence by Villanueva, Harris, Saddler, Ribb, and De León’s— likely unintentionally—echo Special Ranger Sterling’s bifurcated narrative. Officers of the law and other legal authorities are transformed into civilian vigilantes in the commission of torture and murder. Villanueva, Harris, Saddler, Ribb, De León, and others continue to identify officers of the law in instances of anti-Mexican violence; yet, somehow, widespread anti-Mexican violence in Texas has continued to be categorized as lawless, extralegal, or vigilante violence. Even as the texts announce this reality, they unsteady it—listing the participation of legal officers and authorities. In the case of the mass lynching at Porvenir there was never any doubt that it was organized and accomplished with State and Federal authorities. As Glenn Justice writes in the excellent regional history Revolution on the Rio Grande, in an effort to remove blame from the U.S. Calvary forces, “[Captain] Anderson said he sent twelve men with the Rangers. But they waited below the ranch, Anderson said, ‘not knowing that the Rangers and ranchmen were going to murder the men.’” Press reports also explained “the army had nothing to do with the affair and that ‘a number of Mexicans sought and received protection from the military.’”64 Librada Montoya Jaquez recalled the four soldiers, with whom she made eye contact; Juana Bonilla Flores offered to name their name; Felipa Mendez Casteñeda saw many soldiers around her family’s house as her husband Antonio was punched with a rifle and dragged away; Estefana Jaso Morales, 175 whose three grandsons were lynched, counted three soldiers outside their home; Alejandra Larez Nieves followed her husband Román—who was jerked out of bed and pushed out their door unclothed—past the U.S. soldiers outside their door; Eulalia Gonzalez Hernandez saw many civilians, Rangers and soldiers together the night their front door was broken down; and, two U.S. Calvary soldiers stood guard at her house that night as her husband Ambrocio was pistol-whipped in the ribs.65 Lynching Within the Law Throughout my explorations, I write against the understanding of lynching as extralegal. The long history of anti-Mexican violence in Texas demonstrates a foundational truth: that lynching is quite often within the law. It is clear that acts of lynching are committed by or made possible by officers and authorities of legal structures. Such acts simply do not equal violence that is “extra legal” or “vigilante.” Whether dragging the men out of bed themselves or supervising the abductions, tortures, and killings, all the witness accounts at Porvenir point to the active participation of Texas Rangers and U.S. Calvary. The widespread violence allowed by the officers and authorities of legal structures is not “extra-legal” or “vigilante.” Instead lynching must be understood as an often state sponsored violence—violence that could not be accomplished successfully and with impunity in the absence of governmentality. Perennial violence accomplished and allowed by white supremacist legal structures does not equal a “lawless frontier.” Yet, the lawless frontier idea has stayed in circulation. Discussing the opening of an ambitious historical recovery project and exhibit called “Refusing to Forget,” whose museum exhibit Life and Death on the Border, 1910-1920 176 opened in 2016 at Bullock Texas State History Museum in Austin, The Guardian noted the number of “vigilante” groups held responsible for killings initiated and accomplished by federal, State and local authorities. In fact, it pointed specifically to “The Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum website [that] acknowledges that some ranger companies ‘acted as vigilante groups.’”66 A careful reader of historical narratives might ask: Who are these “extralegal vigilantes”? And, where did they all get these badges and uniforms? Certainly, scholars, such as Ken Gonzales-Day and Mari Matsuda, have carefully established the existence of sophisticated legal systems in the U.S. southwest and west at the turn of the twentieth century.67 In her analysis of south Texas in 1877, where a confrontation between Mexicans and white immigrants into Texas would end with twelve dead and over forty wounded in El Paso, Mari Matsuda catalogues the layers of legal structures in addition to legal traditions and “legal consciousness” in the area. Matsuda’s overview points to a “hybrid legal system” in south Texas that would draw on Spanish traditions, Mexican legal systems, and “elements of the newly arrived Anglo-American system.”68 In contrast to the assertion of frontier chaos and lawlessness, legal historians have long pointed to the layers of governmentality on the U.S.-México borderlands.69 In addition to the foundation of laws for northern México and its citizens and colonists, as early as 1840, the Texas Legislature would adopt common law, and “by the 1870s and the 1880s, there were state district courts established, stone courthouses built, and Anglo bar associations formed in some border cities.”70 Though the thick layers of legal structure would be shaped by white supremacy and re-produce conditions for white supremacy, there was no absence of law. 177 Certainly, if accusations of criminality and the pursuit of justice were intended, as Matsuda, Carrigan and Gonzales-Day have all noted, lynchings in the México-Texas borderlands or the West were never caused by a lack of courts and jails. Instead, the courts and jails, along with other law enforcement officials (such as the Texas Rangers in south Texas) often became instrumental in lynchings, as seen so clearly in the mass lynching at Porvenir. The violent regulation of the tenuous U.S.-México border and the violent disciplining of raced bodies in Texas included several official layers of federal law enforcement: the U.S. Department of Justice and the U.S. Secret Service (both investigated anti-American activities), the U.S. Army, the U.S. Customs Border Service, U.S. Calvary Companies, the U.S. Army Intelligence Department, the U.S. Border Guard, the U.S. Draft Boards in each county, and the Texas State Council of Defense, a branch of the National Council of Defense.71 In addition, law enforcement included local authorities: State Attorneys General, State, County and local Judges, State Police, County Sheriffs and Deputies, the Sheriff’s Association, Loyalty Rangers and Special Rangers (citizens deputized on demand), local militias made up FIGURE 21: Texas Rangers and River Guards, Lower of Sheriffs and Rangers like the Rio Grande Valley, Roma, Texas, 1917. 178 Brownsville Rifles, local police departments, and men who called themselves “Texas Rangers.”72 As Mike Cox writes, “the late Col. Homer Garrison, Jr., long-time director of the Texas Department of Public Safety, once described the men who have worn the silver or gold star of the Texas Rangers, the oldest state law enforcement agency in North America.”73 In 1901, the Texas State Act gave the Rangers and the Frontier Battalion the power “to make arrests and to execute all process in criminal cases in any county in the State.”74 The Texas Rangers were comprised of several branches—formal and informal. Formally sworn-in Rangers paid by the state of Texas included the Regular Rangers, the Frontier Battalion, the Frontier Forces, the Minute Men, and the Mounted Volunteers. Further, informal groupings of Texas men were organized as Railroad Rangers, Loyalty Rangers (who were inducted during the World War I period), and Special Rangers. As the Texas State Archive of Ranger service explains, the latter group of informal Texas Rangers, conjoined the interests of the State with private interests and the interest of private capital. These men “were issued Special Ranger commissions as a convenience to give them state authority and wide geographic jurisdiction. Cattlemen’s associations, oil companies or railroads privately paid the majority. They had no company assignments or place in the regular Texas Ranger chain-of-command.”75 Throughout Texas, the citizenry further established organized committees that included formal membership rolls and oaths of duty, such as The Texas Cattle Raisers Association (which utilized its own inspectors and investigators in pursuit of “cattle rustlers”). Thus, the layers of governmentality and the legal structures in Texas at the turn of the twentieth century were not lacking—they were thick. Texas lynchings have been arranged and accomplished in areas where legal systems were firmly in place. 179 We can clearly demonstrate that lynching is not “frontier violence” or “vigilante violence,” but rather a ritual that seeks to construct and articulate the borders and boundaries of the Mexican body. The lynching of Mexicans was not about crime and necessary punishment in absence of established law. The refusal of citizens and officers of the law to act lawfully does not equal an absence of law. Instead, it is clear that lynchers clearly recognize and violate established laws and legal structures. In fact, in the commission of lynchings, these actors disallow recognized legal constructs, officers, and court systems to act with due process. After accomplishing lynchings, these actors are then set outside of legal structures that could investigate and punish kidnapping, torture, and murder. In spite of its constant invocation, the category of “frontier violence” is simply false. In the evolution of “frontier violence” to Spill-Over Theory, we see not only individual inversions of guilt and innocence, but a whole nation—México—named guilty as bringer of violence, while another—the United States—is inverted to passive receiver of violence. In a truly brilliant re-reading of the relationship between the Mexican Revolutions and the lynching of Mexicans, Travis Taylor argues that the lynching of Antonio Rodríguez in November of 1910 in Rock Springs, Texas contributed to the Mexican Revolution, sparking actions against Mexican President Porfirio Diaz. Twenty- two-year-old Rodríguez was burned to death, mid afternoon, outside the local police station. He was surrounded by a crowd who watched as he “struggled a few minutes, but never whimpered.”76 The details of the gruesome lynching were widely reported and outrage was expressed on both sides of the U.S.-México border. The burning alive of Rodríguez made visible Mexican President Diaz’s ineffectiveness in protecting Mexicans on both sides of the border. Taylor writes, 180 For the Mexican Revolution, one of the most important events that stirred ordinary Mexicans to action was the lynching of Antonio Rodríguez. If not for Rodríguez’ gruesome death and the subsequent publicity it received, Madero’s November 20th call to overthrow President Díaz may have failed for lack of popular support.77 In Taylor’s intervention, it is the brutal violence against Mexicans that becomes a catalyst in the overthrow of the Mexican President. Taylor’s work convincingly reverses the causality narrated by most historians. His work points to the way in which the Spill-Over Theorists very simply dehistoricize perennial anti-Mexican violence in Texas. Demonstrably, anti-Mexican violence emerged at least as early as the 1820s, and to point to the Mexican Revolutions (nearly 100 years later) as the originator of anti-Mexican violence is to ignore a century of attacks on Mexicans (as well as Natives). In their century-long gap, Spill-Over Theory proponents fail to be attentive to the “nostalgic militarism” of those who would lynch Mexicans in Texas and throughout the U.S.-México borderlands. In their over-emphasis of the Mexican Revolutions and the Plan de San Diego, Spill-Over Theorists fail to note the critical import of Manifest Destiny logics, and the Civil War and Reconstruction-period expressions of racist violence.78 In a transnational trend of understanding state-to-state relations between the U.S. and México as the key operator of violence in the area, scholars have neglected the very function of violence in constructing and articulating national borders. By positioning violence as the Spill-Over of another nation, scholars have taken the national boundary for permanent and concrete. Further, they embed a war of national races—Mexican versus “American”—without historical consideration of how violence has worked to construct these bodies moving across fluid, unfixed national and social borders. The 181 Spill-Over Theory ignores the ways in which daily anti-Mexican violences were utilized in an effort to solidify borders of national belonging using the bodies of Mexicans. As Michael Hatt writes in “Race, Ritual, and Responsibility: Performativity and Southern Lynching,” the act of lynching inverts the criminals, the murderers; “the spectacle theater of lynching reverses the justice of innocent until proven guilty; indeed, the act is nearly complete before an accuser steps forth.”79 The Spill-Over Theory allows the nation of México and Mexicans themselves to become the bringers of violence, inverting the anti- Mexican aggression of U.S. policy and U.S. citizens. In resistance to “frontier violence” and Spill-Over Theory perspectives, we must specifically point to the various layers of legal structure on both sides of the México-Texas border—they are traceable. The multiplicity, the excess, in lynching Mexicans hint that legal systems were not only helpful, but key, in performing large anti-Mexican actions that sought to articulate the racist borders of U.S. national belonging. As seen with Porvenir (and in the Norias killings discussed in Chapter Three – Massacre Resurgent), Mexicans have often been murdered in multiples—as if to suggest that killing one is not enough. The ritual need for more than one lynching victim harkens back to the myth of “gangs” of Mexican bandits. Narrative reports and images of lynched Mexicans often portray more than one victim. Danalynn Recer’s “Patrolling the Borders of Race, Gender, and Class: The Lynching Ritual and Texas Nationalism, 1850-1994” has done the most to document the ritual of multiple lynchings in Texas. Discussing Mexicans lynched in the 1840s to 1860s, Recer outlines the place of multiplicity. Though she keeps the questions of crime and punishment in place by calling victims “outlaws,” her work’s other insights remain valuable. Recer writes: 182 Early Texas outlaws were often hanged by small posses, but occasionally before large crowds. Four men were hanged together for murder in South Sulphur Texas on August 24, 1844 “before a large crowd of persons.” Multiple lynchings were common. One traveler to Texas reported to the Liberator having seen twelve bodies in one tree and five in another. On May 29, 1858, Felipe Lopez, Nicanos Urdiales, Pablo Longoria, and Francisco Huizar were hanged, and Teodoro Garcia was shot at the Mission of San Jose, near San Antonio, by a group of thirty armed men disguised in black and white masks. The men were “said to be horse thieves,” but the author of a dispatch sent to the New York Times were careful to note that “of their guilt or innocence we know nothing,” and condemned the lynching as a “violation of the laws of God and man.”80 Embedded in Recer’s assembled group lynchings are a pattern of characteristics—armed posses, unproven accusations of thievery, multiplicity—that suggest little interest in due process, though it was available. The so-called pursuit of criminals did not result in proper legal proceedings, but rather acts of torture and murder. If such posses intended to pursue criminals, their actions resulted only in inverting criminality as the lynchers committed acts of murder. For instance, in December of 1881 Texas Rangers pursued migrant worker Onofrio Baca into México. Though there were no criminal charges nor an extradition authorization, Rangers dragged Baca across the México-Texas border. The Rangers claimed they had a lawful reason for doing so: they were arresting Baca for murder. Several Rangers captured and arrested Baca as they were transporting prisoners to Austin—after kidnapping him, they delivered Baca to a mob, who lynched him. Baca’s body was left to hang for days in front of the courthouse.81 The Baca lynching did not happen in the absence of legal institutions, in fact, it was a state sponsored violence, accomplished utilizing the existing legal institutions and officers of the law. In addition, the Baca lynching included a terrorizing public display of the man’s body in front of the presiding court of law.82 Five years later, forty miles west of Corpus Cristi, in Collins, 183 Texas, Andres Martínez and Jose María Cordena were lynched after being “arrested for horse theft.” 83 Martínez and Cordena were shackled together and brought twenty miles into Collins by a Deputy, who took them to the local Constable’s house. After dropping them off, the Deputy “retired to the tavern.” That Deputy may have boasted of his catch to the locals in the tavern, or not—but soon after, ten masked men arrived at the Constable’s house to collect Martínez and Cordena. A witness of the gathering at the Constable’s home described the events to follow: The poor fugitives begged piteously for their miserable lives. During this scene half a dozen men stood in the doorway…. While on their knees frantically praying for mercy the leader stepped back, raised his Winchester, and gave the word ‘Fire,’ at which five Winchesters belched forth their deadly contents, blowing the tops of the prisoners’ heads off and scattering their brains about the place.84 Of course, Martínez and Cordena were not at all “fugitives.” They had been accused and then “arrested,” in a procedure that included being both captured and shackled by a local Deputy. Further, if we are to believe the local Deputy, the two Mexican men suspected of thievery were being kept securely at the home of a high-level legal authority. As was the case with Baca, these two lynchings occurred where legal structures were firmly in place, where victims were taken from the custody of the authorities (most often jail cells and courtrooms). These lynchings were accomplished without arguments or assessments of guilt or innocence. The men were stripped from the very institutions that could have administered just punishment, if necessary. Indeed, of the lynching cases that were recorded between 1848 and 1920 many of Mexican lynching victims were already “in custody” when they were taken and murdered. Randall Miller notes that the coupling of legal structures with so-called vigilante lynchings was not only frequent, but purposeful. A given script could often be 184 played out in the drama of officials “giving up” victims to lynchers—as in the Baca, Martínez, and Cordena cases—and such theater served important purposes. Miller explains that the participation and authorization by officials, …reaffirmed their own authority by respecting and acceding to the will of the people demanding the death of the accused… if the crowd insisted on having the body, the leader(s) must yield to the people in good grace. After the crowd had taken the victim from the official holding place, the community leaders validated the action by refusing to condemn the subsequent lynching or to prosecute anyone for engaging in it… Their actions, if not also their public declamations, thus endorsed the result.85 The act of “arresting” Mexicans only to transport them to an assembled mob was not meant to judge guilt or innocence or to punish perceived crimes, but to mark and to race the Mexican body, as well as to terrorize Mexican populations in Texas. The effects of the theater of lynching would be delivered powerfully. The trophies of kills would be displayed with complete impunity—exhibited for days—and stamped with the authority of law officers, jails, courthouses. Terrorized Mexicans would register the display with their five senses: the smell of decomposition, the sound of horse flies gathering, the satisfaction on the faces of the approving community as they walked past and under a hanging body, and the weight, the gravity of their own Mexican body, as they were forced to witness state-sponsored lynchings. Baca, Martínez, and Cordena were all lynched not only in the presence of legal systems, but with their lynchers utilizing legal systems. They are all lynched outside of the fictional “frontier conditions,” and long before the Spill-Over period of the Mexican Revolution. Indeed, the key historical condition that our authors often neglect by defaulting to either frontier or Spill-Over theories of anti-Mexican violence is the long period of the Reconstruction, which would be violently resisted in Texas and included 185 racist acts in response to the perceived white power loss due to the U.S. Reconstruction Amendments. In 1881, when Onforio Baca was lynched and hanged at the courthouse, Texas citizens and officials were working daily in tandem fighting Reconstruction reforms, making this one of the most brutal periods for racist violence in the previously Confederate State. Removing the usual category of frontier violence allows us to understand the lynching of Mexicans as specifically racist violence. For instance, at Porvenir, the single white resident of the village, John J. Bailey (who was found to have a firearm) was spared.86 Frontier violence, vigilante violence, and Spill-Over Theory are simply layers of camouflage over state-sanctioned lynching, demonstrating that, as Colin Dayan writes, “[i]n the South, terror and legality went hand in hand.”87 In the period nearer Florencio García’s lynching and the mass lynching at Porvenir, the tradition of state-sanctioned and state-sponsored lynching continued. In 1913 in San Antonio, for instance, General Bliss ordered all troops between Eagle Pass and Laredo to capture “Mexican outlaws.” Citizen posses, U.S. troops, the local Sherriff, and over one hundred ranchers heeded General Bliss’s order. The New York Times reported that “[t]he ranchmen assert they will lynch the outlaws when captured.”88 It is clear that the hunting party was called to action against a raced group by a U.S. General, and included the active participation of Calvary troops as well as local authorities, who partook in and sanctioned the hunting and killing of Mexicans. Indeed, lawmen and peace officers would in many instances cite the lawlessness of the México-Texas borderlands, and in the next, cloak themselves in the law. For instance, in 1914, when lynching—midday—Carlos Morales Wood. Morales Wood was the editor of Valentine’s Patria Mexicana published in Valentine, Texas. Texas Rangers 186 Ira Cline and H.L. Roberson shot the editor between five and nine times with their pistols outside of the Palace Drugstore. They called their attack a response to “resisting arrest.”89 The two Texas Rangers explained they had an arrest warrant for Morales Wood as he had “accused rangers, soldiers and Americans . . . of being murderers, cut throats and thieves” in Patria Mexicana. Another local paper, The Alpine Avalanche argued that Morales Wood’s journalistic work “incited riot and created prejudice.” The justification of lynching as response to refusing arrest became common, especially as explained by J.T. Canales, when confronted by authorities. Many Mexicans simply would not give themselves up, “knowing they would not get Constitutional protection.”90 Certainly, those who were taken into custody found themselves easy targets for lynch mobs as they were locked in jails or shackled. In August of 1915, two Mexicans were taken from the San Benito city jail “by a small number of unknown Americans and shot to death. Their bodies afterward were burned on the roadside.” The same day, four Mexicans who were being held in the Mercedes jail, twenty miles west of San Benito, were removed from the town’s jail and lynched. The article would conclude of the lynchings, “There have been no arrests.” 91 As the lynching of Mexican men in Texas flourished between 1915 and 1918, many reporters took great pains to exonerate U.S. authorities in lynchings and to construct every killed Mexican as a seditionist, a draft dodger, a bandit/thief—one or more. In October of 1915, four Mexicans were hanged to trees, four others were shot, and two were found dead—all killed in a single night near Olmito (six miles north of Brownsville) after a train robbery. The derailment and robbery of the southbound passenger train was suspected to have been orchestrated by Luis de la Rosa, a Mexican 187 who had been a peace officer in Brownville, and was thought to support the Plan de San Diego.92 Four unmasked train robbers boarded the train, killing two of the passengers, identified as Corporal McBee and Dr. F.S. McCain (the train’s engineer H.H Kendell was pinned beneath the cab of the engine train and died there). The unmasked and clearly identifiable train robbers were not sought in an organized fashion, though several passengers recalled and described their faces.93 Instead, during the night, ten Mexican men were killed—none of whom were shown to have had a hand in the train robbery. The commemorative tome celebrating one-hundred years of Texas history, which was released in 1937, uses celebratory active voice, explaining, “the Rangers were not idle. They were in the saddle day and night and, aided by local authorities and ranchmen, exacted full compensation for the depredations committed.”94 Two of the Mexican men lynched that night had actually been passengers on the train who had also been robbed and threatened. Yet, newspaper reports following their killings maintained that by virtue of their “Mexicanness,” they became accomplices of the train robbers, though they themselves had been robbed and threatened.95 U.S. newspapers took pains to deny any involvement of U.S lawmen or U.S. military in the lynching of the ten Mexican men around Olmito and Brownsville. The Boston Daily Globe reported the mass lynchings with the headline “Texans Lynch 10 Mexicans: Due to Train Robbery by La Rosa’s Band: U.S. troops on Border Have No Part in Executions.” However, after describing the four Mexican men hanged from trees and four other Mexican men shot, The Boston Daily Globe describes that after the first eight lynchings, 1,500 members of the U.S. Calvary joined hundreds of civilians searching for more Mexican “bandits.” After five Mexican men were taken to the 188 Brownsville jail and more were being hunted, reporters suggested the inevitability of more lynchings, explaining that the Mexican prisoners were believed to be safe from violence, but the Brownsville jail is the only institution of its kind in this valley and the chances of a suspected Mexican reaching here as a prisoner from any distance during the present degree of excitement are small. 96 Although over 1,500 members of the U.S. Calvary were involved in hunting and rounding up Mexican men in the wake of the train robbery, reporters were confident in claiming, “It is known that none of the Mexicans was killed by soldiers and that so far there have been no encounters between the soldiers and Mexicans as a result of last night’s affair.”97 The mass lynchings of Mexican men in the Olmito/Brownsville area were reported locally and nationally. The Detroit Free Press expressly noted in its headline “Lynch Law Rules; Civil and U.S. Army Officials Helpless.”98 Such articles made the multiple acts of lynching visible nationwide, yet reporters fed the myth of lawless mobs and vigilante posses although Mexican men were being hunted by large groups of assembled men that included—and were possibly led by—U.S. Calvary, Texas Rangers, and local authorities. The Boston Daily Globe reporter wrote: Civil officers here were in most cases powerless to prevent summary executions of Mexicans, for many of the posses were composed of mostly men who worked independently of civil or military authority… The military authorities under their present instructions have no power to act, except in cases of actual fighting on the river front, in which case they may temporarily direct the operations of civilians.99 Further, the media reports use of the word “execution” would rewrite the lynchings as lawful judgments and responses to criminality, though no due process had been attempted or applied. While framing the lynchings and the displays of Mexican corpses as acts in the 189 pursuit of bandits or as retaliatory acts against criminality, the reporters also gave evidence that the days following the train derailment became a terrain of racist violence and terror. “Peace officers said tonight they had clews [sic] to other Mexicans connected with the robbers. No secret was made that more would be killed if civilian posses catch them.”100 Accentuating Mexicanness as an offense—rather than robbery—the newspapers both reported on and enflamed the racist terror that would result in the known lynching of ten Mexicans in the south Texas region in the twenty-four hours to follow. The media would help to create the Mexican as natural prey. The reportage invented the lynched victim as bandit and the officer of the law as vigilante simultaneously. The mass lynchings in Texas became a site of invention—creating locations of disorder and lawlessness peopled by bandits and vigilantes that would replace facts to the contrary. The mass lynching at Porvenir and the hanged ten in Olmito/Brownsville, and the reports to follow, help us to trace these inventions. The figurations of bandits would become post-murder justifications at Porvenir. When called to account for the mass killing of fifteen at Porvenir, Ranger Fox and others would create a cause and effect related to a raid on the Brite Ranch. Fox sarcastically responded to reports that “Mexican citizens were killed without cause” explaining: [A]fter the Brite Ranch Raid in which some of the good citizens from Mexico killed and murdered in cold blood, peaceful, unoffending citizens of the State of Texas, of the purpose of looting and robbing a store, the Rangers following the trail of these bandits went to the town of Polvanier [sic] where these parties lived and found some of the loot that was taken from the Brite Ranch store. While they were searching for further stolen goods and quietly investigating parties in possession of stolen property, they were fired upon in the dark and returned the fire in self defense. The night was dark and they were not in position to know the casualties resulting of the pitched battle of the night.101 In this fantasy of events—which had no evidence of truth—Fox calls forth every possible 190 anti-Mexican rhetoric: the question of citizenship, Mexicans as criminals and bandits, and the constructing of the scene as a battle. Yet, it is not only the perpetrators of racist violence who recirculate this fiction. Villanueva tells the story of Porvenir after a detailing of the violence at the Brite Ranch on December 25, 1917, as if there’s a direct relationship—indeed, a cause and effect.102 Villanueva explains, “following the Brite Ranch raid Anglo men in the Big Bend were suspicious of all Mexican activity, and decided that they would constitute themselves as the legal system—judge, jury, and executioners of the frontier.”103 Such a reinstitution of possible justification for mass lynching, and the suggestion that the lynchers acted in place of missing legal structures, accepts and recirculates the false alibis of both citizen killers and legal authorities. In the moment of the lynchings, the survivor-witnesses understood quite clearly that legal systems were in place. The testimonies and affidavits taken from the survivors, witnesses, and widows at Porvenir and meant for authorities on both sides of the U.S.- México border, deeply argue for legal justice for a diffuse population encountering social, political and military terror and domination. They not only asked the Mexican government for assistance for the families of the murdered men, but set forth demands for the bi-national investigations that eventually disbanded Company B of the Texas Rangers and dismissed five Rangers for their actions. The families of victims imagined themselves not simply terrorized and expelled—though they were—and not simply counter to U.S. power, but even outside of its territorial bounds, from México, able to fundamentally access, be inside of U.S. power, utilizing the Senate and Congressional committees and legal U.S. precedents for damages against persons and property. Ultimately, in spite of brave entreaties, the victims’ families were not given legal 191 remedies and all of the lynchers—whose identities were known—went unpunished. This, however, was not due to a lack of legal remedies, or legal officers who might have acted against the perpetrators and in the interest of the victim families who would lose their land, their husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, and grandsons. The Mexican families did not petition for justice in a frontier zone of lawlessness and chaos. Indeed, their petitions make visible the many layers of governance involved in or aware of the mass lynching. Though unsuccessful in their formal requests for justice, the families’ very petitions to government officials resisted the disciplining of their bodies, even after they fled Porvenir in terror. Functions of Racist Terror Setting aside the fallacious frontier lawlessness and Revolution Spill-Over theories, and recognizing the invention of the Mexican bandit figure and the vigilante, we may be able to look at the Porvenir lynchings to understand the functionality of racist violence in the United States. Racist violence—not random vigilante actions in response to lawlessness—but instead, anti-Mexican violence by state and non-state actors, is a violence that functions. As seen in with “disappearance lynchings” and lynchings staged as massacre, such killings function to terrorize. In addition, I argue that the mass lynching at Porvenir demonstrates the ways in which lynching has been used to mark and race the dominated body, as well as to disentitle those persons—instituting Mexicans as a labor force, rather than as landowners. The lynchings of thirteen men and two boys at Porvenir, of Onforio Baca, Carlos Morales Wood, Andres Martínez, Jose María Cordena, and over a dozen Mexican men at Olmito are representative of the racist violence and terror that— 192 when mentioned by scholars—continue to be framed with pretexts for murder. Our charge is to work to unravel nearly a century of rhetoric that has created the Mexican bandit, constructed the fiction of a lawless frontier, and more recently has asserted ahistorically that the violence’s origin is the Mexican Revolution. Moving past these constructions allows us to instead think through the function and the effects of racist violence. Though the anti-Mexican violence constructed the Mexican bandit as well as the citizen vigilante—both fictions—the lynchings also functioned to dominate land owning Mexicans. The lynching also worked to depress any emergent Mexican communities— most markedly those refugee communities that formed in South Texas. This is not to say that Mexicans were completely unwanted in Texas. Throughout the twentieth century, Mexicans would be sought as laboring bodies. Elliot Young notes of the population explosion in the México-Texas borderlands, “While some Mexicans on the Texas side of the border were native Tejanos and became U. S. citizens after the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo (1848), many others had only recently arrived. Laredo’s population more than tripled in the twenty years after the railroad arrived in the 1880s, and the number of Mexicans in the entire Lower Rio Grande Valley grew five-fold in the latter half of the nineteenth century.”104 In south Texas, between 1900 and 1910, the population would increase forty-seven percent and by 1920, double again. Texas as a whole would double its population from 1900 to 1920.105 This population increase included refugee Mexicans, but also represented an enormous influx of migrant Euro-Americans from the U.S. Midwest. 106 As Richard Ribb writes of south Texas, The percentage of the mushrooming population of South Texas represented by Anglos climbed steeply, more than doubling in Cameron 193 County and tripling in Hidalgo County between 1900 and 1920. More telling still in terms of the transforming economic and social effects, the actual number of new Anglo arrivals from the Midwest exploded from about 4000 in 1900 to more than 40,000 in 1920.107 While much of the emphasis on population growth in Texas at the turn of the twentieth century has been attached to immigration from México, there were other factors driving migrations into Texas, such as new technologies like irrigation and the railroad, which opened up opportunities for travel, agriculture, and commerce. New settlers in south Texas would need to acquire Mexican land, as much of the lower Rio Grande Valley was deeded by Spanish land grant.108 Indeed, in 1910 almost all of Hidalgo County was Mexican-owned. As Ribb explains, this left white settlers with three possibilities for land acquisition: first, to buy land at low prices; to bid on “tax sales,” where officials had seized land for non-payment of taxes; or, to label the Mexican land owner as a “bandit” and kill him.109 While Montejano argues that those perpetrating anti-Mexican violence had intentions of disentitlement Mexicans, my argument is slightly different. I argue that lynching—meant to be seen and known—had the effect of disentitling Mexican land owners. This slight nuance means my claim bears a lesser burden of proof than Montejano’s. More importantly, however, it helps us to avoid the question of intentionality, as we cannot access the interiority of historical actors, but we can witness trace the effects of their action. Boosterism was widespread, with outfits like the Melado Land Company near McAllen inviting Euro-American settlement. Melado, founded in 1909 by Marshall McIlhenny in Houston, was a series of subdivisions—cleared land, separated into six hundred and forty family plots, with water drilled by Melado. The development company had assistance in luring settlers when the San Benito and Rio Grande Valley railways 194 built a depot nearby. The subdivided community came to be called “Monte Cristo” and soon had retail stores, a lumberyard, post office, and even its own newspaper—The Hustler.110 These companies and speculators benefitted from Colquitt Act, which announced that properties could be summarily seized anywhere in Texas for non-payment of taxes.111 Fran Isbell, an archivist and researcher at the Hidalgo County Historical Society explains that tax sales were announced in English only, disadvantaging Spanish-speaking Mexicans. In addition, the notices were posted inside local Sheriffs and courthouses, places not frequented by Mexicans.112 It was through such tax sales that many Mexican- owned lands were legally—if unjustly—seized by white settlers. Central to any understanding of racist violence—anti-Native, anti-Mexican, and anti-Black violence—in Texas is the way in which the practice of lynching shifted land use and structured the social order. At the turn of the twentieth century Mexicans, some the holders of massive land grants, others—like those in Porvenir—newer land owners, were increasingly met with violent subjugation. The testimonies and affidavits of the witness-survivors at Porvenir point back to the effects of the mass lynching. The community, a cooperative owned by Manuel Morales, would cease to exist after the lynchings. The settlement of Porvenir was a model that might have redrawn the possibilities for Mexicans and Mexican refugees in the U.S.-México borderlands. Landowner Morales embraced and invited families fleeing the destabilization in México and set forth the prospect of Mexicans as homesteaders and landowners. As Nicolas Villanueva explains, El Porvenir was a haven for families who fled México, set up to be so by two Mexicans who owned the land and who had spread word that this was 195 a place to which Mexican refugee could find safety, and enough arable land to support their families. The settlement was organized communally, with the individual families contributing to the general welfare without owning the land themselves.113 Villanueva’s description of Porvenir concludes that the property and labor organization of Morales’ community threatened white Texan conceptions of land and labor use. “This communalism and altruism struck Anglo ranchers as odd, and worrying.”114 Fifty-five-year-old Pablo Jimenez, who survived the mass lynching, referred to the area as the “farming colony of Porvenir” and described the Mexican homesteaders and their domesticated animals, “their farms perfectly cultivated.”115 Luis Jimenez described his home, Porvenir, as a “farming colony,” and described his family as having “domestic animals that consisted of cattle, horses and smaller animals, and their farms perfectly cultivated.”116 Sixty-six-year-old Juan Mendez recalled that before the terrorism and mass lynching, “They had always lived peaceably.” 117 Mendez described the labor of the cooperative and asked, after the lynchings, for investigating officials to take account of the evidence of their labor: They were people who lived peaceably, and who were dedicated to their work in the fields, which is well proven by the fact that in their horses they had sufficient grain on which to sustain their families, as well as their animals, that consisted of cattle, horses, and goats; that the product of their work was honorable, which could be proven for a period of more than one year by the American school teacher of that place.118 The emergent community was not new—and was quite established relative to white settlers who were increasingly moving into Texas. Certainly, established Mexican land owners (via Spanish land grants) or Mexicans newly developing communities were at least parallel to white communities being developed and established. However, the lynchers at Porvenir—ranchers, Rangers, and 196 U.S. Calvary like—would insist on a social order that of Mexican as labor—not owner. Lynchers helped to destroy collectivities of subsistence farming, of Mexican owned co- operatives that supported mutual, social, economic, and cultural needs of the refugees. As with the violent taking of Native lands, mass lynching and the terroristic threat of violence instantiated a dominated and coercible Mexican labor force—a Mexican labor stream into the United States that would power its agriculture for the entire 20th century. The erasure of Morales’ Porvenir Ranch community would help to impose geographies of individualistic capitalism, controlled by white Texans. The killing of the adult men and two boys at Porvenir was racist, anti-Mexican violence also commented on the ability of Mexicans to own their own labor. Juan Bonilla Flores described the prosperous life of grazing and herding before the lynchings at Porvenir: There wasn’t anyone to boss you around. You worked for yourself. When that came to an end, we could feel the change profoundly. Very sad, all of it. It was so sudden. We had so much to make a living then suddenly nothing… if… I believe we would still be living there today.119 Juan Bonilla Flores’ recollections are substantiated by contemporaneous accounts from witness-survivors of the mass lynchings. Mexican witness-survivors of the lynchings explained that the lynchings were part of the continual harassment of the Mexican ranchers who owned the land and grazed their livestock there. In their accounts, they posit the massacre not as aberrant, or a single moment of vigilante mob violence (as posited by Webb and other scholars), but instead the surviving women position the attack as part of the continual campaign of terror against Mexican land owners. Sixty-year-old Gorgonio Hernandez and other survivors pressed home the point that the motive for lynching seemed two-fold: to take possession of the settled land and to disallow Mexican 197 ownership of labor—labor benefitting Mexican community. The white Texans’ land appropriation through terror followed anti-indigenous rationales and the forcible appropriation of labor followed the logics of enslavement. Gorgonio Hernandez, who could not write his statement, or even sign it, chose the speech act of reciting the names of the men of his community and explained the result of the mass lynching: I know them all, and their names are as follows: Eutemio Gonzales, Manuel Morales, Longinas [sic] Flores, Tiburcio Jaquez, Alberto Garcia, Roman Nieves, Macadonio Huerta, Antonio Casteñado, Ambrocio Hernandez, Biviano Herrera, Pedro Herrera, Sibriano Herrera, Serapio, Juan, and Pedro Jiminiz [sic]… they were all honorable men, who lived by their work… On account of the tremendous happenings, all those living in the ranch had to go to the Mexican side, taking part of their cattle, but leaving the greater part, the same as their planted grounds of their wheat that they had to abandon, as well as their labor they had to abandon.120 The honor of the men’s labor and the quality of the settlement at Porvenir are importantly restated as the witness-survivors discuss their loss. The mass lynching would remove most of the able-bodied men of the community and terrorize the survivors so thoroughly that they would leave the area, and the country, completely. Sixty-six-year-old Juan Mendez listed the names of the killed and explained he “and neighbors transported the dead bodies to Porvenir, México for burial. The bodies had been shot through, and in their heads.” Mendez, who said he gave a statement because he “knew that it was true,” also described how the survivors, widows and children of the fifteen lynched left behind most of their “animals and family utensils and grain [and] planted lands they had in cultivation for four years.”121 Juan Mendez’s statement begins the liturgy of victims’ names, speech acts of recitation into the record repeated seven times by seven witnesses. 198 The lynchings were not only acts of murder, but also acts of dominance, that would re- articulate the social order. Anti-Mexican lynching would be a critical way in which the social order would be transformed. Mexicans would become a labor force rather than the owners of their labor and leaders of their own ranches and fields. Mexicans owners and the communities of possibility they represented—such Manual Morales cooperative refugee ranch at Porvenir—would be violently denied belonging in Texas. Lynching in Texas restructured labor relations and the ownership of the land. The anti-Mexican murder, torture, mutilation, and displays of bodies created, brutally, “the terms of exchange,” as Sylvia Wynter describes of expansionist colonialism.122 Walter Prescott Webb describes the way in which any and all Mexican bodies would be transformed into bandits, and all movement across borders would begin to be constructed as bandit activity. As a result of such discursive constructions and state allowances and participation, the lynching of Mexicans would grow to become sport. As Webb describes: From México, across the river from Eagle Pass, came 150 bandits bent on plunder. They split into four units, three of which were apprehended by the cavalry at San Diego, Texas; the fourth group went on to Corpus Christi, but citizens stopped them outside the city limits. The results of this raid could be seen by the number of Mexicans hanging from area trees. A bridge on the Agua Dulce Creek became a favorite spot for white residents to pick off Mexican bandits, whose bodies were later thrown into the creek.123 It is clear these lynchings were not campaigns against crime, but instead practices co- incident with larger anti-Mexican expulsion campaigns. Two of the victims at Porvenir were prominent landowners—Manuel Morales held the largest deed, 1,600 acres, and Roman Nieves held a deed to 320 acres. As Gode Davis concluded in American 199 Lynching, these men “were killed for being successful… and Mexican.”124 Mexicans land owners in Texas were targets of intimidation, terrorism, and murder at the hands of white Texans who sought to disentitle them from their lands. As Samora, Bernal and Peña make clear in Gunpowder Justice, the effects of the actions of the Texas Rangers, U.S. Calvary, and white ranchers are as important as their actions. The bandit figuration of Mexican men served to justify the Rangers’, U.S. Cavalrymen, and ranchers’ slaughter. This very construction of Mexicans as bandits continued to function as an imperialist rationale for the unrestrained violence against the Mexican population in Texas, and served to remove Mexicans as landowners. Manuel Morales had established the ranch years previous—Roman Nieves and his wife had lived there eight years, the Flores family three years, Eulalia Gonzales Hernandez and her husband Ambrocio two years, and Pedro, Bibian, and Severiano Herrera (survived by their grandmother) had lived in Porvenir at least three years. 125 Estefana Jaso Morales points out specifically that her grandsons were all U.S. citizens.126 In his testimony, sixty-six-year-old Seberiano Morales—whose three sons were killed at Porvenir—expressed a total refusal of the “bandit” label insisting that “he was sure that not one of the victims had any connivance with the bandits.”127 Indeed, throughout the statements of family and survivors of Porvenir, the word victim is used to describe the dead, rather than accusation become identity—bandit. According to Robert Keil, a Calvary soldier stationed there during that period, ‘All Mexicans were considered bandits during this period.’ Consequently the U.S. Calvary took and expedient approach to encounters with Mexicans. Orders were to shoot them. If the group shots back, they were bandits; if they ran, they were not. Many times the Mexicans were just traders or simple travelers, but they were shot at. Many times the Mexicans who were not bandits would shoot back in self-defense, not knowing who was shooting at them.128 200 Yet, in the testimonies of Mexicans, speech acts often as the survivors were unable to write—we note the insistence of refusing the “bandit” pretext for murder. Unlike work that would argue anti-Mexican violence is primarily a response to the “foreign,” I argue instead that the lynchings of Mexicans in Texas were a statement of who would be entitled to land, and how the products of laboring bodies should be distributed. Mexicans as subsistence farmers, land owners, entrepreneurs, and founders of communities were not part of the repertoire of the emerging Mexican body being invented by the white Texas settlers. Terrorism and violence were key to insuring that the Mexican body—as a laboring body—benefitted white settlement, white ranching, white agriculture. Geographic space is important to consider and to trace—I have claimed that the lynching of Mexicans has been inflected with race and citizenry ideologies; yet, this violence is coupled with U.S. expansionism. Whites in the Texas sought expansion in the twined tradition of Indian Removal and African slavery—both taking lands and creating labor. Assessing the violence of 1915, Emilio Forto reported to Colonel Slocum at Brownsville: From all reports (some from army officers whose testimony is probably available) a campaign of extermination seemed to have begun in those days. The cry was often “we have to make this a white man’s country!!” It would not be difficult to establish the fact that many well-to-do-natives of Texas, were driven away by Rangers, who told them “If you are found here in the next five days you will be dead.” They were in this way forced to abandon their property, which they sold at almost any price.129 The immigrant white expansionists ruthlessly sought land and deemed Mexicans inferior inhabitants of the valuable land. The violent incursions have gone by many names— discovery, progress of civilization, Manifest Destiny, “removal,” and we must link the lynching of Mexicans to these patterns. As “black lists” of “bad Mexicans” were 201 circulated and groups of white authorities and citizens terrorized Mexicans, at least half of all Mexican families would leave the Lower Rio Grande Valley during September and October of 1915.130 Just outside of Brownsville lay the Brulay Plantation, not far from the Piper Plantation from where Florencio García was abducted. Louis Brulay testified in the 1919 Texas Ranger Investigation that in 1915 and 1916 Mexicans fled the area because they were “scared to death” of the Rangers.131 In that same investigation, Cameron County attorney J.C. George explained that local developer Lon Hill used the Texas Rangers to remove the Villarreal family “absolutely by force.” Hill and at least one Ranger burned the Villarreal home and Hill would later become the owner of that land.132 It is clear anti- Mexican lynching must be understood as a continuation of a violent U.S. expansionist project. Ranger historians Harris and Saddler conclude—in response to Acuña and Samora’s work de-mythologizing the Rangers—“a good way to avoid oppression, loss of land, discrimination, and racism is by not losing the war.”133 That the spoils of war argument continues to have resonance after the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which guaranteed civil and social rights, in the 21st century (the book was published in 2002) is stunning. Indeed, Harris and Saddler continue to be referred to as leading historians of the region. For Mexicans, much of what animated the violences against them were the issues of land use. White Texans terrorizing of Mexicans had the effect of removing them as landowners. The push for expansion into the southwest was always coupled with violence. In addition, the continuing anxiety of sealing a national boundary against 202 México was carried out on the bodies of Mexicans. Such was the case with the mass lynching at Porvenir, where the assembled white assailants attacked local Mexican landholders and their emergent cooperative community. After the mass lynching, Mexicans abandoned the area, never to return. Sixty-year-old Gorgonio Hernandez gave details of all the members of the community had lost, in addition to the thirteen men and two boys. On account of the tremendous happenings, that all those living in the ranch had to go to the Mexican side, taking part of their cattle, but leaving the greater part, the same as their planted grounds of their wheat that they had to abandon, as well as their labor they had to abandon.134 Sixty-six year-old Cesario Huerta, who had lived in the United States for over three decades had been removed from his home along with his son Macadonio by two of the lynchers—one known to Huerta, John Pully (the other was masked).135 The elder Huerta was selected out of the mass lynching, while his son was killed. There was little time to mourn as dread overtook the attacked community. “As soon as the horrible crime had become known… there was indescribable consternation, and all of the people living there abandoned the American territory.” He explained that the survivors left their land with the dead bodies “effected in humiliation.”136 Those fleeing would become twice refugees—now trying to escape further lynchings, perhaps their younger sons or older men next. Abandoning their homes, livestock and cultivated fields, the survivors left for Pilares, México. So hurried was their flight after the mass lynching that “during the night, one of the women gave birth to a baby girl as the newborn’s father lay dead across the river in Texas.”137 Juan Mendez presented the official testimonies on the events in Porvenir, Texas to General J.C. Muguia of Ojinaga, Chihuahua, México after the families crossed into 203 México. He explained he was “a representative of the people in trouble, and who are refugees in our country.”138 Mendez powerfully inverts our usual refugee narrative of Mexicans fleeing the violence of the Mexican Revolution in this period. In this case and others, it was U.S. violence that spilled over into México. Mendez describes the “Americans” who “assassinated” nine men with families and six unmarried men and writes: Senor General: all of the suffering women and families that are left in their orphanage, ask relief from you, and our Government; the said women appeal to you, as the children who remain without protection of their father, whose names of the women are Librada Montoya, with five children; Rita Jaquez with four in family; Alejandra Lares with seven in family; Francisca Hernandez with seven in family; Filepa Mendez with two in family; Victoria Jiminez with three in family; Eulalia Gonalez with one in family; Juana Bonillas with two in family; Chonita Carrasco, with nine in family. Juan Mendez continues by naming other men “who escaped [as] said men were out of the town, regulating business for their families.”139 The surviving Mexican men of the entire town totaled only thirteen and the majorities were the elderly who had been selected out by the assailants during the mass lynching. Juan Mendez wrote his letter insuring the testimonies taken were accurate, though taken orally from men who could not write. In addition, Mendez listed families—women and children—not usually counted among the victims of lynching. He signed his letter, “Juan Mendez. For himself, and for the balance of the people, survivors of victims of Porvenir, Texas.” He also delivered a copy of his letter and the collected testimonies to W.M. Hanson, the Captain of the Texas Rangers.140 So complete was the removal campaign, the Mexican survivors removed their dead as well. Like other witness-survivors, Alejandra Lara Nieves described “the day on which my husband’s body was found I moved into Mexico with my family.”141 Forty- 204 seven-year-old Rosenda Mega, the son-in-law of Longino Flores, gave a statement though he could not write.142 In his speech act, Mega explained that he was a citizen but, the judge noted, “could not prove his nationality, and could not produce accredited documents.” Mega told of the terrorizing murder scene that would clear the land—the Mexican men “found about one-quarter mile below Porvenir, Texas, on the ground, and in parallel lines. The removal of the lynched Mexican men was allowed after “permission was obtained… to pass the dead bodies of the victims to the Mexican side for burial, which was done in the company of the friends and families of the victims.”143 Sixty- eight-year-old Seberiano Morales, whose three sons—Manual, Sibriano, and Biviano Morales—were lynched at Porvenir bravely sought and received permission from and “American Captain” at Camp 18 (five miles east of Porvenir) “to pass the bodies to the México” and was “assisted by an American school teacher, by the name of Enrique Wan.”144 In his speech act, Morales recites the names of the dead—this would be the fifth time in the statements given that a family member or survivor of the Porvenir lynchings would repeat the names of those killed as if a litany. Asked if he knew the names of the victims, Morales “said that he knew them well” and listed each victim, his sons first, and the rest in their family groupings, like Juan, Pedro, and Serapio Jimenez.145 Though the families at Porvenir were fulfilling the U.S. homestead ideal— improving the land, cultivating crops, raising livestock, providing for and sustaining their families—Porvenir’s mass lynching is evidence of the extent to which ideal U.S. settlement was raced. Though the Mexican borderlands were peopled by Mexican land owners (whose land tenure dated to Spanish empire) and Mexican migrant refugees, it is the constructed ‘Mexican bandit’ that history has continued to enshrine in this place and 205 period. Lynchers cleared the land, historians have transformed those who once cultivated it. Juan Bonilla Flores, a child and refugee, who held his father’s dead hand on the bluff at Porvenir; Juan Bonilla Flores who would be haunted by night terrors until his death at the age of 105; the dying Juan Bonilla Flores asked to be buried “where his umbilical cord was.”146 Nearly a century after the brutal removal of the Mexican community of Porvenir, Flores would be denied his final wish. 206 Notes to Chapter Four 1 TRI, Volume II, Statement of Felipa Mendez Casteñeda, 846. Felipa Mendez Casteñeda, widow of Antonio Casteñeda gave a sworn statement to Patrick Kelley, 1st Lieutenant of the U.S. Calvary on April 5, 1918 after fleeing to México. She signed with an X mark by Felipa Mendez Casteñeda. 2 Here I adopt a particularly Texan grammar—where there is no comma between awful and lawful, thereby meaning to use “awful” as “very.” Thus, “very lawful Texas.” Interview with Vicky Belen in Gode Davis, “American Lynching: A 3 Documentary Feature,” 2007. http://www.americanlynching.com/main.html 4 Juan Bonilla Flores spoke with his great-nieces Elida Tobar and Elisa Pérez about the violences and killings he witnessed. Pérez recounts his story and how she introduced Flores and the Porvenir mass lynching to filmmaker Gode Davis. “The Massacre at Porvenir, Texas,” Prima Elisa Wordpress. https://primaelisa.wordpress.com/2010/04/21/the-massacre-at-el-porvenir/ Elisa Pérez, a genealogist and historian of the U.S. southwest and northern México, collected excellent data on her blog Prima Elisa and passed away in 2015. Pérez recorded hours of conversations between Juan Bonilla Flores, his daughter Benita, his son-in-law Buddy, and herself. Recollections of their meeting with Juan Bonilla Flores and filmmaker Gode Davis can be found in “Ode to Gode,” Prima Elsa Wordpress. https://primaelisa.wordpress.com/tag/gode-davis/ 5 Elisa Pérez, “The Massacre at Porvenir, Texas,” Prima Elisa Wordpress. https://primaelisa.wordpress.com/2010/04/21/the-massacre-at-el-porvenir/ 6 Harry Warren, “The Porvenir Massacre in Presidio County, Texas, One January 28, 1918,” Harry Warren Collection, Folder 88, Archive of the Big Bend, Sul Ross State University, Alpine, Texas. See also article titled “Porvenir,” Williwood Meador Collection, Box 4, File 11, The West Texas Collection, Angelo State University, San Angelo, Texas. 7 Glenn Justice, Revolution on the Rio Grande: Mexican Raids and Army Pursuits, 1916-1919 (El Paso: The University of Texas at El Paso, 1992), 4-5. 8 TRI: Volume II, Statement of Juan Zonilla Florez [sic], 845. Juana Bonilla Flores, widow of Logino Flores, gave a sworn statement to Patrick Kelley, 1st Lieutenant of the U.S. Calvary on April 5, 1918 after fleeing to México. She signed with an X mark by Juan Zonilla Florez [sic]. 9 Gode Davis, “American Lynching: A Documentary Feature,” 2007. http://www.americanlynching.com/main.html “Memorial: Juan Bonilla Flores,” March 207 27, 2007 http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=18645219 10 Francisco Javier Morales Natera, Coyame a History of the American Settler (Xlibris Corporation, 2012), 144. 11 TRI: Volume II, Statement of Francisca Hernandez Morales, 843. Francisca Hernandez Morales, widow of Manual Morales, gave a sworn statement to Patrick Kelley, 1st Lieutenant of the U.S. Calvary on March 15, 1918 after fleeing to México. She signed with an X mark by Francisa Hernandez Morales. Madero’s armed acts of defiance would continue along with additional land reform anti- capitalist movements resisting the Díaz regime and, in particular, the influence of foreign, largely U.S. capital. On Madero’s Plan de San Luis Potosí and the Mexican Revolutions, see Friedrich Katz, The Secret War in México: Europe, the United States, and the Mexican Revolution (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1981), 35. 12 “Memorial: Juan Bonilla Flores,” March 27, 2007. http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=18645219 13 Warren; “Porvenir.” 14 “Memorial: Juan Bonilla Flores,” 27 March 2007. http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=18645219 15 Ibid. 16 Elisa Pérez, a genealogist and historian of the U.S. southwest and northern México collected excellent data on her blog Prima Elisa and passed away in 2015. Recollections of the meeting with Juan Bonilla Flores can be found in “Ode to Gode,” Prima Elsa Wordpress. https://primaelisa.wordpress.com/tag/gode-davis/ For more on Gode Davis, see also “Gode Davis Memorial,” Davis family memorial http://www.memorialsolutions.com/sitemaker/memsol_data/456/254950/254950_456.pdf 17 Gode Davis discussed the making of “American Lynching: A Documentary Feature,” upon the death of Juan Bonilla Flores in an excerpt titled “In Memoriam: Juan Bonilla Flores, Born: June 25, 1905 Died: March 25, 2007.” http://www.americanlynching.com/main.html 18 Elisa Pérez, “Memory of the Massacre at Porvenir,” Prima Elisa Wordpress. https://primaelisa.wordpress.com/?s=porvenir&submit=Search 19 The details of Flores’ story were filmed during Gode Davis’ research for his documentary “American Lynching: A Documentary Feature.” Davis investigated events of racist terror in the U.S. and followed up on the reports from members of Juan Bonilla 208 Flores’ family. He filmed an interview with Flores and afterward travelled to the site of the lynching with Flores and members of Flores’ family. Gode Davis passed away in 2010. His film was neither completed nor have the interviews been released. The fate of these primary and secondary sources is uncertain. See more at Elisa Pérez “Ode to Gode,” Prima Elisa Wordpress. https://primaelisa.wordpress.com/tag/gode-davis/ 20 Elisa Pérez, “Memory of the Massacre at Porvenir,” Prima Elisa Wordpress. https://primaelisa.wordpress.com/?s=porvenir&submit=Search 21 All quotes from “American Lynching: A Documentary Feature,” http://www.americanlynching.com/main.html 22 The discussions that have occurred regarding the Porvenir mass lynching generally assert the Texas Rangers were the assailants, explaining though the U.S. Calvary was part of the initial “round up” process, its members did not participate in the actual killings. However, recent archaeological work at the Porvenir site leads to the conclusion that the members of the U.S. Calvary were, in fact, among the killers. David Keller, an archaeologist, concluded digs at the site in early 2016. The San Antonio Express reported Keller’s findings: “Artifacts on the ground where the massacre is believed to have taken place suggest that both the military and civilians participated. The .45 long Colts were typically used by civilians and Rangers. The .30-06 weapons were typically carried by the cavalry…The majority of the artifactal evidence we found is military, which is not what we should have found there according to the prevailing story, that the crime was committed by the Texas Rangers and local vigilantes.” John MacCormack, “Did the U.S. Calvary Massacre Civilians on the Border?” San Antonio Express 1 April 2016. http://www.expressnews.com/news/local/article/Did-the-Cavalry- massacre-civilians-on-the-border-7223486.php These findings, nearly a century later, confirm the witness-survivor accounts of Juan Bonilla Flores and Alejandra Lara Nieves, who both testified to the U.S. Calvary’s active role in the killings. Gode Davis, Interview with Juan Bonilla Flores, “American Lynching: A 23 Documentary Feature,” 2007. http://www.americanlynching.com/main.html 24 In his statement Juan Mendez describes earlier harassment where the villagers had their homes searched in early morning hours before dawn—ostensibly for arms, but none were found. He also describes a posse rounding up three men, and carrying them through the mountains while threatening them with death. These men Manuel Fierro, Eutemio Gonzales, and Roman Nieves were returned to the village two days later, where they recounted their ordeal. TRI: Volume III, Statement of Juan Mendez, 1587. 25 Warren. 209 26 TRI: Volume III, Statement of Juan Mendez, 1587. Luis Jimenez also witnessed and testified about the February kidnapping of Fierro, Nieves, and Gonzales, TRI, 1589. 27 TRI: Volume II, Statement of Eulalia Gonzáles Hernandez, 848. Eulalia Gonzáles Hernandez, widow of Ambrocio Hernandez, gave a sworn statement to Patrick Kelley, 1st Lieutenant of the U.S. Calvary on April 5, 1918 after fleeing to México. She signed with an X mark by Eulalia Gonzáles Hernandez. 28 TRI: Volume II, Statement of Alejandra Lara Nieves, 847. Alejandra Lara Nieves, widow of Roman Nieves, gave a sworn statement to Patrick Kelley, 1st Lieutenant of the U.S. Calvary on April 5, 1918 after fleeing to México. She signed with an X mark by Alejandra Lara Nieves. 29 TRI: Volume II, Statement of Alejandra Lara Nieves, 847. Alejandra Lara Nieves, widow of Roman Nieves, gave a sworn statement to Patrick Kelley, 1st Lieutenant of the U.S. Calvary on April 5, 1918 after fleeing to México. She signed with an X mark by Alejandra Lara Nieves. TRI: Volume III, Statement of Juan Mendez, 1587. Luis Jimenez also witnessed and testified about the February kidnapping of Fierro, Nieves, and Gonzales, TRI, 1589. 30 TRI: Volume II; Webb (1993 [1935]; Cynthia E. Orozco, “Porvenir Massacre,” Texas State Historical Association http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/jcp02 31 TRI: Volume II, Statement of Juan Zonilla Florez [sic], 845. Juana Bonilla Flores, widow of Longino Flores, gave a sworn statement to Patrick Kelley, 1st Lieutenant of the U.S. Calvary on April 5, 1918 after fleeing to México. She signed with an X mark by Juan Zonilla Florez [sic]. 32 TRI: Volume II, Statement of Juan Zonilla Florez [sic], 845. Juana Bonilla Flores, widow of Logino Flores, gave a sworn statement to Patrick Kelley, 1st Lieutenant of the U.S. Calvary on April 5, 1918 after fleeing to México. She signed with an X mark by Juan Zonilla Florez [sic]. 33 TRI: Volume II, Letter to James A. Harley, Adjunct General of Texas (18 February, 1918), 834. 34 Justice (1992); Orozco, “Porvenir Massacre.” 35 Henry Warren, “The Porvenir Massacre in Presidio County, Texas, on January 28, 1918,” Henry Warren Collection, Box 4, folder 88, Archives of the Big Bend, Sul Ross State University. http://www.digitalhistory.uh.edu/disp_textbook.cfm?smtid=3&psid=3695 36 TRI: Volume II, Statement of Librada Montoya Jáquez, 844. Librada Montoya 210 Jáquez, widow of Tiburcio Jáquez, gave a sworn statement to Patrick Kelley, 1st Lieutenant of the U.S. Calvary on April 5, 1918 after fleeing to México. She signed with an X mark by Librada Montoya Jáquez. Statement of Juan Zonilla Florez [sic], 845. Statement of Felipa Mendez Casteñeda, 845-846. 37 TRI, Volume II, Statement of Felipa Mendez Casteñeda, 846. Emphasis mine. Felipa Mendez Casteñeda, widow of Antonio Casteñeda gave a sworn statement to Patrick Kelley, 1st Lieutenant of the U.S. Calvary on April 5, 1918 after fleeing to México. She signed with an X mark by Felipa Mendez Casteñeda. 38 TRI: Volume III, Statement of Luis Jiminez [sic], 1589. 39 Henry Warren, “The Porvenir Massacre in Presidio County, Texas, on January 28, 1918,” Henry Warren Collection, Box 4, folder 88, Archives of the Big Bend, Sul Ross State University. http://www.digitalhistory.uh.edu/disp_textbook.cfm?smtid=3&psid=3695 40 Justice (1992); Orozco, “Porvenir Massacre;” TRI. 41 Lisa D. Cook has carefully indexed the juxtaposition of “frontier justice” against functioning legal systems in “The Color of Lynching” (Thesis, James Madison College Michigan State University, 2011). 42 Cook, 7. 43 As an important note, work on the figuration of the heroic, pioneer “vigilante” must be done. Most earlier settlers deemed “vigilantes” were clearly lawmen, though their violent acts are constructed as “vigilante” acts. Foundational to the pioneer lawman as “vigilante” narrative are those from Montana history. Montana’s so-called vigilante committee in 1884 has been called “the deadliest of all American vigilante movements” (Strain of Violence: Historical Studies of American Violence and Vigilantism by Richard Maxwell Brown, Oxford University Press, 1975). Indeed, the first book published in Montana was on John Beidler. Beidler preferred to be called simply X, and is now often referred to as John X. Beidler. He worked as a railroad agent, and helped to establish the Vigilante Committee and was a member of the Montana Sons of the Pioneers. Beidler was also a U. S. Marshall in Montana. However, Beidler and his over one hundred kills continue to be framed as “vigilante.” See also: Frederick Allen, Decent, Orderly Lynching: The Montana Vigilantes (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 2005); Hoffman Birney, Vigilantes, A Chronicle of the Rise and Fall of the Plummer Gang of Outlaws in and About Virginia City, Montana, in the Early 60’s (Philadelphia: The Penn Publishing Company, 1929); Kim Briggeman, “Montana History Almanac: Vigilante, Lawman Beidler Passes On,” 16 January 2011 The Missoulian. Available online http://missoulian.com/lifestyles/territory/montana- history-almanac-vigilante-lawman-beidler-passes-on/article_6f3271cc-2023-11e0-b678- 211 001cc4c03286.html; Lew L. Callaway. Montana’s Righteous Hangmen-The Vigilantes in Action (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1997); Tom D. Donovan. Hanging Around the Big Sky: The Unofficial Guide to Lynching, Strangling and Legal Hangings of Montana (Portage Meadows Publishing, 2007); Mark C. Dillon. Montana Vigilantes 1863–1870 Gold, Guns and Gallows (Logan, UT: Utah State University Press, 2013); Ken Egan, Jr. Montana 1864-Indians, Emigrants and Gold in the Territorial Year (Helena, Montana: Riverbend Publishing, 2014); and Helen F. Sanders and William H. Bertsche Jr., eds. John X. Beidler Vigilante (Norman, Oklahoma: University of Oklahoma Press, 1957). 44 Wayne Gard, Frontier Justice (Norman, Oklahoma: The University of Oklahoma Press, 1949), v. 45 Ibid, vi. 46 Emphasis mine. Ibid, vi. 47 Emphasis mine. Clemet Eaton, “Mob Violence in the Old South.” The Mississippi Valley Historical Review Vol. 29, No. 3 (Dec., 1942), 351-352. 48 It is important to note the socialist land movements in México between 1910 and 1930 were never a singular “Revolution.” 49 Nicholas Villanueva, Jr., “No Place of Refuge: Mexicans, Anglos, and Violence in the Texas Borderlands, 1900-1920” (Dissertation, Vanderbilt University, 2013), 164. 50 Arnoldo De León is the author of Racial Frontiers: Africans, Chinese, and Mexicans in Western America, 1848-1890, and Ethnicity in the Sunbelt: A History of Mexican Americans in Houston, Texas. De Leon is a specialist in Chicano History and has authored or co-authored twenty-one books. His book They Called Them Greasers (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1983) is widely regarded as a classic in Chicano and Tejano history and helped to initiate a more critical assessment of the Texas Rangers. 51 Arnoldo De León, “Introduction,” War Along the Border: The Mexican revolution and Tejano Communities (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2010), 1-7. 52 As De León notes, the most sustained scholarly interest in the period and region have has been focused on the Plan de San Diego “in one form or another.” Arnoldo De León, “The Mexican Revolution’s Impact on Tejano Communities: The Historiographic Record,” War Along the Border: The Mexican Revolution and Tejano Communities (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2010), 31-55, 33, 37, 47. 53 De León, “Introduction” (2010), 6. 212 In the same collection, Paul Hart notes that “the Mexican revolution reached beyond the border.” See: “Beyond Borders: Causes and Consequences of the Mexican Revolution,” War Along the Border: The Mexican Revolution and Tejano Communities (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2010), 8. 54 “Evolution of the Texas Rangers: 1836-1920,” The Texas State Library and Archives Commission https://www.tsl.texas.gov/ranger-exhibit-early-20th.html 55 Harris and Sadler (2007), 93. 56 Richard Ribb, “La Rinchada: Revolution, Revenge, and the Rangers, 1910- 1920,” War Along the Border: The Mexican Revolution and Tejano Communities (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2010), 56-106, 56. 57 De León (2010), 31-55, 42. For more on Benjamin Johnson’s Revolution in Texas, see Chapter Three 58 “Massacre Resurgent.” De León (2010), 31-55, 41. 59 Samora, Bernal, and Peña, 63, 65. 60 Villanueva, Jr., 176. 61 Kirby Warnock, dir. Border Bandits (Dallas, Texas: Trans-Pecos Production, 2004), film. 62 The story of Villarreal and Longoria’s murder for “aiding bandits” is recounted by Warnock, who was in town at the time of the killings. He gave the details of the murders by W.W. Sterling, Paul West, and Henry Ransom in an oral history and the double lynching was explored in his son’s documentary Border Bandits. The film also includes interviews with Jesús Bazan Villareal’s son, son-in-law, and great-grandson, as well as the granddaughter of William McAllen, Diorica McAllen-Pérez. Kirby Warnock, dir. Border Bandits (Dallas, Texas: Trans-Pecos Production, 2004). In addition, Hernán A. Contreras’s digital archive Los Tejanos contains statements from the men’s widows, Epigmenia Trevino Bazan, sixty-five, and her daughter Antonia Bazan Longoria, thirty- eight. http://www.los-tejanos.com/border-war/rang_spanish1pdf.pdf 63 Warnock. 64 Justice (1992), TRI, Walter Prescott Webb, The Texas Rangers (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1935; rpt., Austin: University of Texas Press, 1982). 65 TRI: Volume II, Statement of Librada Montoya Jáquez, 844. Statement of Juan Zonilla Florez [sic], 844-845. Statement of Felipa Mendez Casteñeda, 845-846, Statement of Estefana Jaso Moralez, 846-847. Statement of Alejandra Larez Nieves, 847. Statement of Eulalia Gonzales Hernandez, 848. 213 66 Tom Dart, “Life and Death on the Border: Effects of Century-Old Murders Still Felt in Texas,” The Guardian (22 January 2016). http://www.theguardian.com/us- news/2016/jan/22/texas-rangers-killings-us-history-life-and-death-on-the-border-México 67 See Ken Gonzales-Day’s Lynching in the West: 1850-1935 and Mari Matsuda’s “Law, Race, and the Border: The El Paso Salt War of 1877” in Harvard Law Review Vol. 117, No. 3 (January 2004), 941-963, in particular. 68 Matsuda, 943. 69 See J. Morgan Broaddus, Jr., The Legal Heritage of El Paso (El Paso: Texas Western College Press, 1963); Laura E. Gómez, Manifest Destinies: The Making of the Mexican American Race (New York: New York University Press, 2008); Will Guzmán, Civil Rights in the Texas Borderlands: Dr. Lawrence A. Nixon and Black Activism (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2015); Patsy McDonald Spaw, The Texas Senate: Civil War to the Eve of Reform, 1861-1889 (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 1999). 70 Matsuda, 944. 71 The Texas State Council of Defense was established in August of 1916 at the request of U.S. Secretary of War Newton D. Baker. It included thirty-eight members appointed by Texas Governor James E. Ferguson, met first in Dallas on May 10, 1917. While this council placed the entire resources of the state of Texas at the disposal of the U.S. World War I effort, it has not received scholarly attention, except for the work of Oran Elijah Turner, who in 1926 wrote his Master’s thesis on the Council. See Oran Elijah Turner, “History of the Texas State Council of Defense” (Thesis, University of Texas, 1926). Texas War Records Collection, Dolph Briscoe Center for American History, University of Texas at Austin. 72 For more on the Brownsville Rifles, established in 1910, Harris and Sadler (2007), 42, 106. 73 “Ranger History in Brief Form,” Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum. http://www.texasranger.org/history/BriefHistory1.htm 74 Harris and Sadler (2007), 19. 75 Texas Ranger Research Center: Resources at The Texas State Library and Archives http://texasranger.org/ReCenter/resource2.htm 76 Travis Taylor, “Lynching on the Border: Antonio Rodríguez and the Rise of Anti-Americanism During the Mexican Revolution,” (Thesis: Angelo State University, 2012), 39. 77 Ibid, 37. 214 78 My formulation of “nostalgic militarism” receives fuller treatment in Chapter Six – Bodies of War. The question of the Reconstruction is taken up in Chapter Five – Demarcation and Domination. Michael Hatt, “Race, Ritual and Responsibility: Performativity and Southern 79 Lynching,” in Performing the Body/ Performing the Text (New York: Routledge, 1999), 71-82. 80 Danalynn Recer, “Patrolling the Borders of Race, Gender, and Class: The Lynching Ritual and Texas Nationalism, 1850-1994” (Master’s thesis, University of Texas at Austin, 1994), 49. 81 Lawrence Yadon and Daniel Anderson, 200 Texas Outlaws and Lawmen: 1835- 1935 (Gretna: Pelican Publishing, 2008), 100. 82 William D. Carrigan and Clive Webb, “Repression and Resistance: The Lynching of Persons of Mexican Origin in the United States, 1848-1928,” How the United States Racializes Latinos: White Hegemony and Its Consequences, Jose A. Cobas, Jorge Duany, Joe R. Feagin, eds. (Routledge, 2015). 83 “Two Mexicans Lynched. Shot and Killed While in the Custody of A Constable,” The New York Times, 21 April 1886. 84 Ibid. This staging scenario is also seen in the Florencio García lynching, Chapter 3 – 85 Los Desaparecidos. Miller, 279-280. 86 Orozco (2010). 87 Dayan, 133. “Hunt Mexican Murderers: Americans and Constitutionalists Looking for 88 Smugglers,” The New York Times 13 Sep 1913, 3. 89 Jack D. McNamara, “Murder in Marfa,” 21 May, 2001 Big Bend Sentinel, 5. Marfa Public Library Historical Texas Newspaper Collection, 1921-2004. Available online at the Sul Ross State University’s Bryan Wildenthal Memorial Library. http://libit.sulross.edu/archives/marfanews/sent94-04/2001-05-17.pdf 90 TRI: Volume II, 859. 91 “Americans Lynch and Burn Mexicans,” Detroit Free Press 20 August 1915, 1. 92 Roy W. Aldrich, “The Texas Rangers,” in The Texas State Book: One Hundred Years of Progress (Austin: The Capital Printing Company Bureau of Research and 215 Publicity, 1937), 332-336, 333. 93 Frank Cushman Pierce, A Brief History of the Lower Rio Grande Valley (Menasha: George Banta Publishing Company, 1917), 96-97. 94 Aldrich, 333. 95 “Texans Lynch 10 Mexicans: Due to Train Robbery by La Rosa’s Band: U.S. troops on Border Have No Part in Executions,” Boston Daily Globe 20 October 1915, 2. 96 Ibid. 97 Ibid. 98 “10 Mexican Lives Pay for 3 Americans Slain in Texas Train Holdup: Posses Execute Suspects After Bandits Attack and Shoot Unarmed Passengers Near Brownsville Lynch Law Rules; Civil and U.S. Army Officials Helpless: First reprisal Is Killing of Alien Who Revealed Hiding Place of Two of Hated ‘Gringoes,’ [sic]” Detroit Free Press 20 October 1915, 1. 99 “Texans Lynch 10 Mexicans” (1915), 1. 100 Ibid. 101 TRI: Volume II, 838. 102 Villanueva, 193-208. 103 Ibid, 200. 104 Young, 1998, 72. 105 Ribb, 72. 106 Ibid, 73. 107 Ibid, 73. 108 There is excellent work on the transition from Mexican-owned Texas land to white-owned Texas land. Hidalgo County archivist Fran Isbell’s We Are Cousins is a ranch history available online at http://www.wearecousins.info/blog/?v=7516fd43adaa In addition, James Lewellyn Allhands’ Gringo Builders (Joplin, Missouri, Dallas, Texas, 1931); Evan Anders, Boss Rule in South Texas: The Progressive Era (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1982); Guide to Spanish and Mexican Land Grants in South Texas 216 (Austin: Texas General Land Office, 1988); David Montejano’s Anglos and Mexicans in the Making of Texas, 1836–1986 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1987); and J. Lee and Lillian J. Stambaugh, The Lower Rio Grande Valley of Texas (San Antonio: Naylor, 1954). 109 Interview with Richard Ribb in Border Bandits (Dallas, Texas: Trans-Pecos Production, 2004), film. 110 Alicia A. Garza, “Monte Christo, Texas” Handbook of Texas Online http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/hvm98. See also: Austin. W. Clyde Norris, History of Hidalgo County,” Thesis, Texas College of Arts and Industries (1924). 111 “Deeds Will Be Good: The State Can Pass Valid Title Through Land Bid In At [sic] Tax Sale,” The Houston Post (17 May 1900), 6. 112 Interview with Fran Isbell, Border Bandits (Dallas, Texas: Trans-Pecos Production, 2004), film. 113 Villanueva, 169-170. 114 Ibid. 115 TRI: Volume III, Statement of Pablo Jiminez [sic], 1591-1592. 116 Ibid, 1592. 117 TRI: Volume III, Statement of Juan Mendez, 1588. 118 TRI: Volume III, Statement of Luis Jiminez [sic], 1590. 119 Interview with Juan Bonilla Flores, “American Lynching: A Documentary Feature,” 2007. http://www.americanlynching.com/main.html 120 TRI: Volume III, Statement of Juan Mendez, 1600. 121 Ibid, 1587. 122 Sylvia Wynter, “1492: New World View” in Race, Discourse, and the Origins of the Americas, Vera Lawrence Hyatt and Rex Nettleford, eds., 5-57, 6. 123 Webb, 346. 124 Gode Davis, “American Lynching: A Documentary Feature,” 2007. http://www.americanlynching.com/main.html 217 125 Each of the women who gave written affidavits gave the length of their family’s tenure in Porvenir. TRI: Volume II, Statement of Francisco Hernandez Moralez [sic], widow of Manuel Morales, 843; TRI: Volume II, Statement of Alejandra Lara Nieves, widow of Roman Nieves, 847; TRI: Volume II, Statement of Juan Zonilla Florez [sic], widow of Longino Flores, 844-8455; TRI: Volume II, Statement of Estefana Jaso Moralez [sic], grandmother of Bibian, Pedro, and Severiano Herrera, 846-847. 126 TRI: Volume II, Statement of Estefana Jaso Moralez [sic], 846-847. 127 TRI: Volume III, Statement of Seberiano Morales, 1598. 128 Natera, 143. 129 Emilio C. Forto, “Actual Situation on the River Rio Grande: Information Rendered to Colonel H. J. Slocum of the American Forces at Brownsville,” El Obrero Pan-Americano/Pan American Labor Press (San Antonio, Texas) 11 September 1918. Cited in Montejano, Anglos and Mexicans in the Making of Texas, 1836-1986 (Austin, University of Texas Press, 1987), 127. 130 Investigation of Mexican Affairs, 54: Hearing Before a Subcommittee of the Committee on Foreign Relations, United States Senate, Sixty-sixth Congress, First Session, Pursuant to S. Res. 106, Directing the Committee on Foreign Relations to Investigate the Matter of Outrages on Citizens of the United States in Mexico (Washington, DC: United States Committee on Foreign Relations, U.S. Government Printing Office, 1919), 1181-1184. 131 Statement of Louis Brulay, TRI, Volume II, 535-37. 132 Statement of J.C. George, TRI, Volume II, 269 and 275. 133 Harris and Sadler (2007), 15. 134 TRI: Volume III, statement of Gorgonio Hernandez, 1600. 135 TRI: Volume III, Statement of Cesario Huerta, 1600-1601. 136 Ibid, 1601-1602. Emphasis mine. 137 Justice (2001), 151. Letter from Robert H. Keil to Mrs. J.E. Walker, from the Walker papers in the J.J. Kilpatrick Collection, Archives of Big Bend, Sul Ross State University, Alpine, Texas. See Justice chapter 8, note 383. 138 TRI: Volume III, Letter to General J.C. Muguia from Juan Mendez, dated January 28, 1918, and sent via Consular Service of México, 1604-1605. 139 Ibid, 1605. 218 140 Ibid, 1605. 141 TRI: Volume II, Statement of Alejandra Lara Nieves, 847. Alejandra Lara Nieves, widow of Roman Nieves, gave a sworn statement to Patrick Kelley, 1st Lieutenant of the U.S. Calvary on April 5, 1918 after fleeing to México. She signed with an X mark by Alejandra Lara Nieves. 142 TRI: Volume III, Statement of Rosenda Mega, 1594. 143 Ibid, 1592. 144 Ibid, 1597-1598. 145 Ibid, 1597. 146 Pérez, “The Massacre at Porvenir, Texas.” 219 The Great Migration was one of the largest and most rapid mass internal movements in history—perhaps the greatest not caused by the immediate threat of execution or starvation. - Nicholas Lemann1 The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People respectfully enquires how long the Federal Government under your administration intends to tolerate anarchy in the United States? -NAACP telegram to U.S. President Woodrow Wilson, 19192 CHAPTER FIVE: DEMARCATION AND DOMINATION The week before its traditional Thanksgiving celebration in 1915, as the Plan de San Diego panic and bandit rhetoric were at their peak, the community of Dallas lined up for a limited four-day run of an epic silent film. Crowds gathered to watch staged battle scenes propelled by live orchestra accompaniment—a combination of Wild West adventurism, violent combat, and romance with hints of salaciousness. The film, Martyrs of the Alamo: Birth of Texas dramatized the 1836 insurrection of white colonists in Coahuila y Tejas, México against the Mexican nation.3 Based on the historical novel of the same name by Theodosia Harris, Martyrs is the oldest surviving film to represent the 220 struggle at the Mexican mission-turned-fortress—The Alamo—from the ideological position of the colonist-combatants.4 Paradoxically, the nationalist epic dramatized an armed anti-Federalist insurrection movement. The film was commended for its gripping drama, its well-choreographed battle scenes that included panoramic wide shots of the incoming Mexican Army, and its choreographed hand-to hand combat that emphasized the legendary Bowie, Crocket, and Travis.5 The Dallas Morning News called Martyrs “patriotic in its appeal” and praised the film’s actors for their fidelity to the famous pioneers.6 Further, the epic historicized for the nation the origin of the battle cry “Remember the Alamo!,” which emphasized Texan revenge and pre-destined victory after the colonists’ defeat at the Alamo mission.7 Directed by William Christy Cabanne under the close production hand of David W. Griffith, producer of The Birth of a Nation, Martyrs was released nine months after The Birth of a Nation.8 Martyrs benefitted greatly from its association with Griffith and included many of the stars of The Birth of a Nation.9 Sam DeGrasse, who had played Senator Charles Sumner in The Birth of a Nation, filled the leading role of the brave and steady “Silent Smith,” also known as Erastus “Deaf” Smith, who acts as a scout for the colonist-occupiers inside the Alamo.10 But the more powerfully haunting presence of The Birth of a Nation was Walter Long, who would have been the most immediately and viscerally recognizable to viewers. Walter Long who played “Gus”—the black-face character who is chased and lynched by Klansmen in The Birth of a Nation—played the role of the vilified Mexican President Antonio López de Santa Anna Pérez de Lebrón (Santa Ana) in Martyrs.11 Thus, when Long appears in brown face as Santa Anna, he is immediately legible. In The Birth of a Nation, Long had played Gus the impetuous 221 freedman (formerly enslaved by the Cameron family) and newly promoted officer who had dared to approach young Flora Cameron. Flora would fall to her death rather than survive the rape by Gus implied by Griffith.12 After Flora’s death, Gus is pursued by the newly organized Ku Klux Klan, his tortured and lynched body discarded on the doorstop of the corrupt, biracial Black sympathizer Silas Lynch. In Martyrs, the actor Walter Long, in brownface as Santa Anna, was met with immediate recognition; and the Santa Anna character would be the recursive echo of Gus—an unlikely, buffoonish officer, who was also an unquenchable brute and potential rapist of white women (and by extension rapist of the nation, as represented by the figure of the white woman). The use of Long in Martyrs after his unforgettable role in The Birth of a Nation—that included numerous close up shots of his face—encouraged an interpretive shortcut for the viewer. Sold-out shows at The Triangle and The Old Mill Theaters traded on Griffith’s cinematic notoriety and the commercial success of The Birth of a Nation in the once- Confederate State of Texas. In addition, special screenings were organized for the media before the film’s release, insuring Martyrs received glowing press. The positive reviews were coupled with advertisements flanking The Birth of a Nation notices, as Griffith’s earlier film was still in many theaters nationwide.13 In its endorsement prior to the film’s release, The Dallas Morning News crooned: [Martyrs of the Alamo] will thrill and interest alike the man who studied history many years ago, the stranger in Texas or elsewhere, who knows little of Texas history, or the school boy or girl to whom the moving picture would present a most striking visualization of the bravery and courage of the Bowie, the Travis, the Crockett and the Deaf Smith of Texas history.14 The historical epic as entertainment found widespread success as citizens in the United 222 States looked with apprehension toward the emerging global anti-colonial independence movements, the Mexican revolutions, and World War I, which many in the United States feared would ally México and Germany. As with The Birth of a Nation, contemporary cultural producers argued the instructive value of Martyrs. W. Stephen Bush, editor of “Moving Picture World” celebrated David W. Griffith’s work in “historic pictures” as both important and accurate. Praising the oeuvre of Kentuckian Griffith—particularly his “fundamental historical accuracy” in The Birth of a Nation, Bush explained the didactic role and the popularity of the rash of nationalist silent film epics: “There are thousands who lack the time and training and mental freshness to patronize a library. Show history to these thousands and they will thank you for it... Seeing is believing.”15 It was, indeed, and as crowds flocked to Dallas theaters and the limited engagements sold-out, the Dallas Council of Mothers arranged for additional matinee screenings for children who were invited to discounted one nickel “kids’ matinees” complete with free bags of candy. The Council of Mothers provided adult chaperones, should parents be unable to take the afternoon off.16 On the last day of its four-day screening, the Dallas Morning News insisted on a viewing of the film for all who had not yet seen it. Every human being in Dallas who has not seen the picture should try to crowd into the Old Mill today. Every citizen of the State of Texas should send a vote of thanks to D.W. Griffith, who has attempted to reproduce faithfully the Birth of Texas Independence. The way he accomplished it should make every Texan proud.17 So successful was this call by the paper, the Old Mill Theater was unable to accommodate the demand for seating, and in January, Martyrs was brought back again after “numerous requests have been made for a return showing.”18 223 As the film was coupled with The Birth of a Nation and received wide release, it was clear that the regional narrative of the white colonists’ insurrection against México, and their declared battle for Texas Independence, would be nationalized. The film’s construction of Texas heroism would become patriotic national proxy. Daily matinees of the film—advertised alongside Birth of A Nation—in Philadelphia included full orchestra and special sound effects, and due to the high demand, viewers made reservations that often required two-week waits.19 The film received glowing reviews after its live orchestra-accompanied run in Philadelphia.20 In Cleveland, advertisements for the opening of Martyrs at The Liberty Theater emphasized linkages to The Birth of a Nation, describing the film as “a thrilling historical drama of early days in Texas. The play was personally directed by D.W. Griffith.” The Birth of a Nation and Martyrs of the Alamo are a critical cinematic pairing. As Meléndez advises, “Martyrs and The Birth of a The Nation are so much of a piece that it is now necessary for scholars to examine both films side by side.”21 Conjoining white supremacist anti-Black and anti-Mexican rhetoric during the patriotic race panic of the World War I period, both films did their part to create racial types and to articulate the white supremacist social order. As we know well, race is socially constructed—race is not real, and therefore must be produced. Because race is not a thing; is not a noun; but rather a process, we can look to specific sites of race’s historical production. In the early silent films that include The Birth of a Nation and Martyrs of the Alamo, race is created visually and relationally. These films also become a site of invention of the nation. As critical as the film is, it has not received the sustained scholarly attention given The Birth of a Nation.22 The film is critical in that it helped to 224 FIGURE 22: “Martyrs of the Alamo” Advertisement, Old Mill Theater, Dallas, Texas, 1915. FIGURE 23: Amusements Advertising page, Philadelphia Inquirer 17 October 1915, 11. create the figure of ‘The Mexican’—as pollutant, as subversive, as non-citizen, as invader, and as combatant. Further, the Mexican as rapist is importantly developed in the film with Walter Long’s Santa Anna (inextricably linked with Long’s Gus character). 225 Though seeking to depict the battle of 1837, it was the unsettled, porous México-U.S. border, the perceived threat of Mexican Revolutionary forces, and the number of Mexican refugees in the borderlands that fueled the filmmakers’ anxiety. The result was Griffith and Cabanne’s construction of ‘The Mexican’ at the Alamo that confirmed contemporary panics of invasion and penetration. The occupation by white colonists of the Alamo Mission has been a frequent subject for film since the earliest days of the medium, and Martyrs is the earliest surviving film that centers this event. Its context was less than eighty years after the actual and less than twenty years after the end of the Spanish-American War. As historian Holly Beachley Brear writes in Inherit the Alamo: Myth and Ritual at an American Shrine, the Alamo conflict is a potent symbol, not only for Texas, but for U.S. nationalism. For Brear, the Alamo “serves mythologically as a second birthplace for the American,” as well as a symbolic confirmation of the providence of Manifest Destiny.23 The battle itself lasted only thirteen days, and is often called a siege, but it would more properly be termed a squat. The Alamo’s occupiers were foreign colonists flying the flag of the New Orleans Greys—the 1st Company of Volunteers—over the Alamo Mission in Coahuila y Tejas, México as the Mexican federal troops approached.24 It is key to recall that the Alamo Mission itself was in the northern Mexican state of Coahuila y Tejas, and of the between one hundred and fifteen to two hundred and fifty “Defenders of the Alamo,” only nine were born in Coahuila y Tejas.25 Though the squatters in the Mexican mission were from Kentucky, Massachusetts, New Jersey, Tennessee, Virginia, and from as far as Ireland, the film works to encode the Mexicans as the invaders. A critical effect of the film and its repeated panoramic scenes of Mexican combatants rushing en masse 226 toward the “Texan” defenders confined in the small adobe mission inverts history, casting the Mexican as invader, rather than the colonists who had moved to northern Mexico and aggressively pushed to occupy and seize the land by declaring war against Mexico. The historical inversion of the film is accomplished by positioning The Alamo and its surrounding land as inevitably and always Texas. Cabanne and Griffith set the film in Texas, an imagined setting even more pronounced for the silent film as its uses intertitles (text on the screen) to name and narrate. The early intertitles, which describe the conflict to come for viewers identify the site of the conflict as Texas: Liberty-loving Americans who had built up the Texas colony were denied their rights by Santa Anna. They demanded that Mexico should return to the Constitution of 1824, and that Texas should have a state government. Santa Anna’s quarters near San Antonio, Texas, inside the chapel of the Alamo, a former Spanish mission converted into a fortress—a settlers’ refuge in case of hostility.26 The film’s intertitles, an imposed narrative painted then photographed with the motion- picture camera, instruct the viewer to understand the site of the colonists’ squat as always already Texas. The viewers watch as a squatter group in a Mexican mission is ahistorically labelled “Texas.” This “Texas,” which does not yet exist, is attacked by Mexicans—who are, in fact in México. Cabanne’s film became the nation’s originary cinematic history lesson of how Mexicans became invaders in the southwest—inverting the immigrant history of white settlers in Northern México and their subsequent violent overtaking of what is, since 1847, now called Texas. First screenings in Dallas were announced as another of Griffith’s U.S. history lessons, “With the same degree of historical fidelity that he showed in “Birth of A Nation,” David W. Griffiths [sic] has 227 produced another most interesting and instructive historical film.”27 Like The Birth of a Nation, Martyrs is an extended sleight of hand that asserts historical accuracy whilst accomplishing historical fiction. As with Birth of a Nation, it is possible to argue the film’s historical inaccuracies, frame-for-frame. But, as Brear has noted, the larger point is that the film works to depict the colonists’ squat at Mexican mission as a battle between races, rather than of territorial entities. The threatening presences invented for audiences by Griffith would then be nationalized with U.S. World War I rhetoric. The film constructed the southwest as the site of a war of races, a “social drama;” this social drama could then be re-produced and re-enacted. Mirroring Griffith’s depictions of the Reconstruction in The Birth of a Nation where white U.S. Southerners are forced to salute African American veterans, much of Part One of the Martyrs is an extended demonstration of the daily insults to white pride and independence as white colonists are forced to salute Mexican soldiers and the Mexican flag. The labor of Griffith in Martyrs is to create the raced figures of the imperiled white woman, the invading Mexican, the docile Black slave, and the white hero of the citizen-soldier. Martyrs helped to solidify the idea of the U.S. as an imperiled nation using the figure of the white woman as a powerful visual metaphor—with perfect resonance to The Birth of a Nation. As with The Birth of a Nation, Martyrs is a site of meaning in which The Mexican is rapacious, lusting for both the white woman and for territorial gain.28 From the earliest scenes, the film repeats the daily indignities and insult to white women. The film’s intertitles put it plainly: “In San Antonio. Under the dictator’s rule the honor and life of American womanhood was held in contempt.”29 The scenes that follow include Mexican soldiers leering at the white women colonists, and the 228 vulnerable bodies of white women accosted in the streets of San Antonio. The white colonists begin to meet to “avenge the insult” to their wives and women of the colony. 30 Griffith’s narrative cause and effect proposes the Texas Revolution, and U.S. expansion, were fundamentally efforts to protect and save white U.S. womanhood. In addition to creating a war of the races—and the white woman as the threatened territory, indeed as the bounds of the war—the film shows the process of race-making of the Mexican as alien, combatant, and sexual predator. Arguably, the film helped to establish the visual racial construct of the Mexican that is with us to today. Martyrs helped to set a grammar that would construct the figure of The Mexican; a grammar that continues to be visible and operational a century later. As with his work in The Birth of a Nation, Griffith and Cabanne produce the raced figure as rapist—here most prominently Santa Anna himself. The Dallas school children assembled by the Council of Mothers would practice their reading with an introduction to Santa Anna on the large screen, which read, “An inveterate drug fiend, the Dictator of Mexico also famous for his shameful orgies.”31 Santa Anna would then proposition Deaf Smith’s wife, who slaps him in response. Further, the Mexican soldiers are shown modeling their behavior on Santa Anna’s—ogling and touching white women as they pass, similar—as Hector Saldaña notes—to the African American soldiers, legislators, and freedmen depicted in The Birth of a Nation.32 In this war of the races, the Mexicans are shown as multiples, not identified as individuals—as is the case with each named white colonist. The symbolic language of the film includes scene after scene of Mexicans moving as a horde—Mexicans pushing forward, pouring in and over walls, through tunnels, en masse.33 Griffith and Cabanne 229 FIGURES 24 and 25: Intertitle fifty-two and scene from Martyrs of the Alamo: The Birth of Texas, 1915, Triangle Pictures. create the first moving picture “Mexican swarm.” The swarm that overtakes the colonists—not only combatants—but targeting women and children in a particular Mexican cruelty. For a number of scenes in the third part of Martyrs, a cherubic white toddler with ringlets is presented at the edges of the hand to hand combat, clearly building the danger to the child, who will ultimately be killed by a Mexican soldier. The soldier, in shocking malice picks up the small child by his neck and tosses him into the point of a bayonet. Thus, we see The Mexican as Taussig’s “cultural creation [of] hatred and fear, objects to be despised yet also of awe with evil understood as the physical essence of their bodies.”34 These scenes are in specific contradiction to the fighting at the Alamo, where most of the women and children survived—in fact, twenty women and children were spared by the Mexican soldiers and allowed to return to their own homes.35 Against the figures of the imperiled white women and children is the figure of the loyal slave tending to his master and to the cause of Texas Independence. The figure of the slave “Joe” is played by Douglas Fairbanks in blackface.36 He is seen throughout the 230 film on bended knees, tending to his master, Travis, one of the fighters for independence.37 Though México had outlawed slavery, and indeed, the white colonist squatters were fighting for their right to retain enslaved human property, the figure of the slave in Martyrs is depicted as grateful, loyal, and concerned for his master. Further, “Joe” is shown joining the fight against the Mexican swarm—though the Mexican nation would have held “Joe” as free. The slave figure, crouched throughout the film in deference to Travis and the other white colonists, works to tend to his ailing master and to reload his master’s rifles. In the final battle scene, “Joe” sits as the sole hint and shadow of what this conflict is indeed about—the expansion of the U.S. boundary of human enslavement. The man who was enslaved by Travis, known today as “Joe” or “Alamo Joe,” was the sole male survivor of the battle at The Alamo. Though “Joe” was wounded during his enslavement and during his attempts to survive the combat within the walls of the Mexican mission, after the battle, he was spared and tended to by Mexican soldiers, who did not recognize the institution of slavery or its conventions.38 The man himself, Joseph, FIGURE 26 and 27: “Joe.” Scene from Martyrs of the Alamo: The Birth of Texas, 1915, Triangle Pictures. 231 would later give a detailed oral history of the Texas Revolution, and his recollections form much of what is known from within the walls of the mission battle. In his oral history, Joseph tells of other enslaved peoples within the walls of the Mexican mission, including an entire family of enslaved people—the Milsapps, and an enslaved woman who dies by gunfire.39 None of these enslaved peoples appear in the film Martyrs. Joseph, an accomplished man, had been enslaved by Travis and brought forcibly to San Antonio. The Austin County Court House holds the Bill of Sale for “Joe,” which reads: Isaac Mansfield deceased … in the Town of San Felipe de Austin … this the 22nd day of December 1834 proceeded to sell at public auction a negro man slave named Joe about nineteen years of age … John Cummings being the highest bidder … for the sum of four hundred and ten dollars.40 John Cummings, the highest bidder for nineteen-year-old “Joe,” was Travis’ brother-in- law, and two years later, Joseph would be within the walls of the Alamo Mission with Travis and the occupying white colonists. Since being separated from his mother and siblings in Missouri Territory through the institution, which sold and enslaved humans, Joseph had changed hands and “masters” at least three times before he would be enslaved by Travis. The record of the sale of Joseph to Cummings, brother-in-law of Travis, led journalists Ron L. Jackson Jr. and Lee Spencer White to Joseph’s older brother, noted writer and Abolitionist William Wells Brown.41 Brown wrote of his brother Joseph in his memoir Narrative of William W. Brown, a Fugitive Slave. Written by Himself.42 William Wells Brown and his brother Joseph were born in Lexington, Kentucky to their mother, Elizabeth and in his twenties, in 1834, Brown escaped on the Lake Erie steamboat to 232 Canada. Brown would join the Anti- Slavery Society in Buffalo, New York and spend his life leading the Abolitionist cause. A speaker who worked with Frederick Douglass and Charles Lenox Remond, Brown was in constant danger from the Fugitive Slave Act which was passed in 1850.43 The Act, called “The Bloodhound Law” by Abolitionists, required the return of enslaved peoples to the states and territories to which they had escaped. FIGURE 28: Handbill by Boston Abolitionist Indeed, the Act legalized capture and Theodore Parker, 24 April 1851. Boston Public Library. kidnapping of any person figured as an “escaped slave.” The Act greatly increased slave patrols throughout the “free states” and required U.S. citizens to assist in recovering those suspected of being fugitive slaves. Further, local authorities in “free states” also participated in hunting enslaved peoples for the purpose of collecting bounty and to deliver those previously enslaved, along with many and freedmen, to the areas in which human enslavement was legal. Though William Wells Brown had escaped enslavement in 1834; though he became an enormously important voice for Abolition; though he would travel to Britain and consider settlements in Cuba for the previously enslaved; though he would publish the first novel by an Africa American in 1853—Clotel: Or, The President’s Daughter, Wells Brown 233 would never have the opportunity to travel south to attempt reunification with his brother, Joseph, who was enslaved by Travis.44 After the Battle at the Alamo Mission, Joseph would be sold again, to John Rice Jones, a plantation owner on the Brazos River. Not until April 21, 1837 was Joseph able to escape enslavement—Joseph ran for his freedom during the Houston ball commemorating the Battle of San Jacinto. He arrived with his “master” John Rice Jones in “a new white pair of pantaloons.” Joseph made his escape after dropping Jones and his wife at the front door of the festivities; the next day, Jones would advertise a fifty-dollar reward for the return of “Joe the Slave” in the Texas Register.45 The enslavement of Joseph and his forced removal from his family unit is erased by the film, which aims to depict him as solely connect to Travis, anticipating the needs of the colonist, tending to him and the other colonists in the Mexican mission as the slave-owning champions of liberty fight the Mexican onslaught on Mexican soil. Importantly, the crucial role of Joseph, who brought the story of The Alamo’s interior during the battle into Texas and U.S. history, is minimized by the film. “Joe” is the double-silent in the silent film, whose lips do not move, though his body is at the ready for the needs of the white colonists. Joseph is visually subordinate throughout the film, emphasizing the white masculinity of the occupying colonists. Against the figure of “Joe” are the figures of the white patriot combatants. Still important today, anti-Mexican and anti-Black rhetoric, insist that the constructed Mexican and African American are not only a threat to white womanhood, but also threats threat to white masculinity. Thus it is key that “Joe” is figured as diminished and harmless, only reloading weapons to hand them off to the white colonists. Throughout the film, the unity of white colonists is shown building against the Mexican threat, with the 234 assistance of the enslaved. In an early scene, as the white colonists assemble “patriots” to fight Mexican President Santa Anna, James “Jim” Bowie and David “Davy” Crockett compare their big gun and big knife, holding them erect and stroking them in turn as a FIGURE 29: David “Davy” Crockett and James “Jim” powerless and silent indigenous Bowie. Scene from Martyrs of the Alamo: The Birth of Texas, 1915, Triangle Pictures. Mexican servant with down-turned face watches. Bowie, born in Kentucky and raised in Louisiana moved to Coahuila y Tejas in 1830, a handful of years before the colonists’ armed squat at the Mexican Mission. Bowie, who has worked with Jean Lafitte to smuggle slaves into Galveston Bay, transported enslaved men, women, and children into New Orleans and north up the Mississippi River.46 Bowie is positioned in the frame against Crockett in gentlemanly attire (figure 29). Crockett had arrived with thirty Tennesseans—signaled in the film with animal-skinned caps and tattered animal skin clothes. The men, as portrayed in the film, embody the two citizen-soldier archetypes in the United States—one a gentlemen soldier, the picture of Southern gentility and honor; the other, inveterate and scrappy, a wild volunteer-vigilante. In Martyrs, Bowie insists to Crockett of his smoothly polished blade “You could tickle a fellow’s ribs a long time with this little instrument and never make him laugh.” A critical subplot of the film is the class and regional differences between the white colonists, now forced together in close quarters. As the Mexican swarms surround the squatters, they create bonds, shake hands, 235 and manifest a unity of whiteness—across class and regional lines. As the battle continues, the gentlemen-soldiers embrace the Tennesseans as, “Crockett reminded them they were all fighting for one cause—Texas.”47 Scenes of the white colonists’ death are punctuated by men embracing or shaking hands across their class and regional difference—their last act, a signal of white unity. The repetition in the film of the Mexicans coming in over and over, and in the final moments of the battle at the Alamo, finally overcoming the prostrate Americans by coming through the back entry. The Mexicans are shown coming in through tunnels—a nightmare of the broken barrier (which we can also take as a not-so-subtle threat of miscegenation). The film writes large the emergent American seminal nightmare involving tunnels and broken barriers, the fear of penetration. In the film’s climactic scene, the Mexican figures begin to break through the Alamo’s barriers, coming over walls, poking through the dirt floors via tunnels. Its visual grammar still functions, the tropes it established are still in operation. Much of today’s anti-Mexican rhetoric is able to draw on antecedents, amplifying them with current iterations of what is constructed as an inevitable war of races. We must understand that racial construction, racism, is both laborious and lazy. The Mexican figure invented in Martyrs is defeated by moving the action from the defeat at the Alamo Mission to the white colonists’ victory at the Battle of San Jacinto, which would follow. Thus, the race war would be staged as ultimately victorious. An echo of The Birth of a Nation, Martyrs emphasizes ultimate victory after defeat, and stages white revenge as justice. “Remember the Alamo!” would become the refrain for battles and the stagings of race war to come. As Michel-Rolph Trouillot has written about the Battle of San Jacinto, which followed the armed occupation of the 236 Mexican mission, The Alamo—and the battle that closes Martyrs of the Alamo: [Santa Anna] was doubly defeated at San Jacinto. He lost the battle of the day, but he also lost the battle he had won at the Alamo. Houston’s men had punctuated their victorious attack on the Mexican army with repeated shouts of “Remember the Alamo! Remember the Alamo!” With that reference to the old mission, they doubly made history. As actors, they captured Santa Anna and neutralized his forces. As narrators, they gave the Alamo new meaning. The military loss of March was no longer the end point of the narrative but a necessary turn in the plot, the trial of the heroes, which, in turn, made final victory both inevitable and grandiose. With the battle cry of San Jacinto, Houston’s men reversed for more than a century the victory Santa Anna thought he had gained in San Antonio.48 By inverting the historical facts of invasion—positioning Mexicans as invaders—and by creating a war of the races, the film acted as a history lesson of Mexican threat, and also worked as a proxy for U.S. anxieties about World War I and the Mexican revolutions. Martyrs set the stage for cycles of re-enactment that could be played out on Mexican bodies—who would continue to be figured as alien invaders. Mexicans would be shown as outside of the nation, and invading the white nation, in a cinematic social murder (rather than the passive “social death”). Texas has been a crucial continued site of conflict where the U.S. meaning of citizenship has been fought.49 The battle over the definition of “whiteness” was disputed using formal legal institutions as well as informal social practices. The colonists in Coahuila y Tejas encoded the practices of plantation slavery from the very establishment of their colonies, and worked actively to dominate the Mexican presence as well. Slavery’s anti-Black violence and revocation of the privileges and practices of citizenship are intertwined with anti-Mexican violence. For instance, the State of Texas at the turn of the twentieth century attempted to determine the citizenship of Mexicans using its own 1845 State Constitution, along with the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. In this mix were 237 also the 1868 Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution and new federal immigration laws from 1870 to 1917, all of which addressed citizenship and naturalization. The federal immigration laws in particular limited naturalization to “free white aliens,” extending the right of naturalization to “aliens of African descent” in 1870.50 Where would this position the Mexican—neither free white nor of African descent? This matrix of laws, as well as social practices, created a terrain for contestation over the meaning of citizenship and whiteness in the United States. Lawrie Balfour, author of The Evidence of Things Not Said: James Baldwin and the Promise of American Democracy writes that the foundation of U.S. white identity has been the devaluing of African Americans. Balfour looks to the literature of James Baldwin, highlighting his relentless challenge to U.S. whites to “inquire how black degradation affirms their confidence in the value of being ‘American.’”51 Balfour’s critical point that the construction of race is always relational—and that whiteness is structured on contrasting racist constructions—is key in understanding Coahuila y Tejas, the Republic of Texas, and the State of Texas. In official state legislation and practice, in public violence, and in narrative and visual construction, the body of the African American as raced and demarcated, and as vulnerable to white violence, was co-produced with the bodies of the Native and the Mexican.52 The categories of humanity, the figures of the African American, Native, and Mexican in Texas have all been shaped by public violence, and the threat thereof. These categorical “races” are historical products of public violence. A survey of the categorical creations of race operationalized in Texas must include the comingled moments of colonial westward expansion; the plantation economy that included cotton and other agricultural products (that became a common 238 labor for Mexicans and African Americans); and migration waves that shaped the space of Texas—white slaver colonist-immigrants; and later movements that included African Americans’ “Great Migrations” northward as Mexicans increasingly moved across the U.S.-México border. Further, we might emphasize the role of narrative and visual constructions of both African Americans and Mexicans in Texas—many which drew on a romanticized southern slave-owning past. Further, the social movements and cultural productions that included voices resistant to lynching in Texas—such as Ida B. Wells- Barnett; the greater Black press, such as the NAACP’s The Crisis, and The Defender, published in Chicago but widely distributed in Texas; and others who worked to create invaluable archives of both violence and struggle. Unlike past scholarship, I work to explore the links between the lynchings of African Americans, Natives, and Mexicans—keeping in mind the particularity of community histories, yet re-counting public violence as a common strategy of oppression. This claim draws directly on the rich scholarship documenting and analyzing anti-Black violence in the United States. For those figured as African American, Native, and Mexican, lynching has functioned to harden and to ratify the racist order of the nation. Further, this violence is productive of U.S. white subjectivity. Lynchings and other acts of racist public violence “may be seen functioning as a recuperative fantasmatic for an American white manhood perennially depicting itself—despite mountains of contrary evidence—as diminished and besieged.”53 Brutal corporeal punishment has been used as a tool to actualize and embody the dominance of constructed U.S. whiteness against the forced submission of those categorically raced. We might consider public violence as constructing and enacting racist community 239 organization with U.S whiteness as superior vis-a-vis the constructed African American, Native, and Mexican subject. Work, such as Ian Haney Lopez’s Racism on Trial: The Chicano Fight for Justice, has previously connected African Americans and Mexicans in their common struggle against racial oppression, however Haney Lopez’s work suggests that these are two separate communities—allied in the 1950s and 1960s in social movements for justice and equality. While this Civil Rights era linkage is an important moment in activist histories, it is a fiction that these communities and their histories have ever been separate. Instructive on this point are Michael Omi and Howard Winant’s Racial Formation in the United States: From the 1960s to the 1980s, and more particular to the point Martha Menchaca’s interpretive history of racial construction Recovering History, Constructing Race: The Indian, Black, and White Roots of Mexican Americans. Menchaca takes Omi and Winant’s call to trace the process by which racial categorization occurs through socio-political structures and develops one of the few—if not the only—Mexican American historical survey that centers “Mexican Americans’ Black history.” Menchaca’s work demonstrates that these communities have been ancestrally and genealogically comingled—sharing family and community—along with a shared racist oppression. The Founding Slavers The history of what would become the State of Texas is a critical stage for the historical production of race through acts of violence. By the turn of the 20th century, violence against those understood as African American was a deeply embedded set of practices that were expressed in both spectacular and quotidian modes. Today’s State of 240 Texas was built the foundation of a violent, virulent, and unrepentant slavery. Colonists who relocated to Coahuila y Tejas at the invitation of the Mexican federal government largely came from U.S. southern states, where the enslavement of humans was the underpinning of the political, social, and economic life of slaveholders; and, where human suffering for the purpose of free labor was argued to be imperative to the very survival of U.S. southern society. Those colonists who traveled to northern México travelled with their white supremacist worldview, their enslavement practices and technologies, and with their human property. The grant negotiated between Moses Austin and the Mexican government in 1821 allowed Austin to found a colony along the Colorado and Brazos River in then Coahuila y Tejas.54 Though Austin would die before the establishment of the colonies, his son, Stephen Fuller Austin would be named the heir to the colony and he would fulfill his father’s design. Coahuila y Tejas’ census rolls as well as correspondence between Moses Austin and his son Stephen (who would fulfill the settling of the colony), show the representation of immigrants from U.S. southern states. As Lester Bugbee, one of the first scholars of human enslavement in Texas writes, It was the slaveholding population of Missouri, Louisiana, Tennessee, Kentucky, Arkansas, and Mississippi that had shown the greatest interest in his settlement, and it was from the slave states of the American Union that he expected future support in his enterprise.55 By 1822, colonists began flooding to the Austin colony, and Austin petitioned the Mexican government repeatedly to add 300 to 500 new colonist families with each petition.56 The colonies grew steadily under Austin’s leadership and México’s relative indifference. During the 1820s the colonists into northern México refused many of their obligations to México, including converting to Catholicism and learning the country’s 241 language, Spanish. The colonists’ refusal to conform to Mexican law made the white squatters in the region that is would become Texas the “illegal aliens of their day.” 57 In addition to their valorization of Indian-killing, Austin and his fellow immigrant colonists transported a long tradition of southern plantation slavery to the north Mexican state. Bugbee’s index of the census rolls and his combined demographic and sociologic study clearly demonstrate the population that settled in Austin’s colony—and their plantation enslavement socio-political structure—determined the contours of what would become Texas. Indeed, long after Texas had entered the union, in 1860, seventy-seven percent of its heads of household were born in the U.S. southern states, rather than in the U.S. north, or even Texas itself.58 This points to the continued immigration of southern peoples into Texas and the unbroken entanglement between Texas and the U.S. south. The Mexican Colonization Bill, passed in 1822 only a year after Mexican independence from Spanish rule, contained the unambiguous provision to prohibit the slave trade in the Mexican colonies. The Bill also declared México would free any children of enslaved peoples born in México (including Coahuila y Tejas) at the age of fourteen. Further, slavery was outlawed in all of México in the Mexican Constitution of 1824.59 Yet, the migrant-colonists from the U.S. south who were living in northern México would flout both the Colonization Bill of 1822 and the Mexican Constitution and the many anti-slavery provisions that would re-articulate them.60 For instance, looking to the colonies directly, in 1827 Mexican prohibitions against slavery were strengthened in law. Article Thirteen, pertaining specifically to Coahuila y Tejas declared, “[N]o one shall be born a slave in the state, and after six months the introduction of slaves under any pretext shall not be permitted.”61 Not long after, however, southern U.S. colonists into 242 México would cleverly evade Mexican laws against slavery by designing a new colonial decree. Their decree shifted the language of slavery, but not the practice of enslavement. The colonists’ decree defined unfree persons within their system of slavery as “contract laborers.” Incoming colonist-slavers would sign enslaved peoples into “contracts,” citing “a deficiency of workingmen to give activity to agriculture” in the underdeveloped colonies, under the 1828 decree, “the negros [sic] held as a slave under the existing laws of the [U.S.] state in which the contract is written up… desires to accompany his master… immigrating into Coahuila y Tejas.”62 Using their labor contracts, specifically designed to undermine México’s prohibition of slavery, immigrant colonists continued to bring enslaved peoples into Coahuila y Tejas. We should be reminded that the enslaved peopled who travelled to the north Mexican colonies with their enslavers had long been institutionalized as property, and most likely born into the southern system of slavery. Thus, being compelled to sign a “contract” by their enslaver would have been yet another moment of forced compliance, certainly not an agreement entered into willingly. As colonists flooded into the north Mexican colonies, Austin would argue repeatedly to Mexican government officials and to those he would recruit to the colony the settling of the land, “could not be effectuated without the aid of the robust almost indefatigable arms of that race of human species, that [sic] are called ‘negroes,’ and which by their misfortune, are held in slavery.”63 Using the passive voice—held in slavery through misfortune—erasing the white slavers whose acts of daily human brutality sold, purchased, and violently held in bondage humans—Austin explained that while “philanthropy and the natural sentiments of humanity, cry out immediately, in favor of liberty… the positive laws which regulate society array themselves in favor of 243 property and declare it a sacred and inviolable right.”64 Austin thus expressed an inactive, internal regret while also arguing for the colonists’ “inviolable rights to property.” Further, Austin sought to convince both the Mexican state and its national leaders that the immigrant-colonists in Coahuila y Tejas possessed Constitutional property rights under the Mexican Constitution. These Constitutional rights must, he argued, protect their property, i.e. their slaves. Interestingly, as Lester G. Bugbee points out, these arguments lean on Mexican law—both Mexico’s colonization laws and the Mexican Constitution. Thus, even while actively ignoring its anti-slavery socio-political organization, and while actively moving toward rebellion against México, Austin was arguing for his rights and the rights of the Mexican colonists as Mexican citizens protected by Mexican law.65 It is undeniable that in September 1835 when the immigrant-colonists living in Coahuila y Tejas declared independence from México, and declared themselves an independent Republic of Texas, they did so in large part to continue the practice of race slavery that had been outlawed in México.66 The writers of the Republic of Texas Constitution of 1836 specifically linked Texas citizenship with ascribed racial category, with Section Six giving “the privileges of citizenship” to “all free white persons” who would pledge allegiance to the Republic. Should the definition of “free white persons” be unclear, Section Ten specifically exempted “Africans, the descendants of Africans, and Indians” from citizenship in the Texas Republic. Further, the Republic’s adopted Constitution echoed Louisiana’s 1830 prohibition of “free negroes and mulattos” and solidified enslavement based on racial categorization: All persons of color who were slaves for life previous to their emigration to Texas, and who are now held in bondage, shall remain in the like state of servitude…Congress shall pass no laws to prohibit emigrants from bringing their slaves… nor shall congress have power to emancipate 244 slaves… No free person of African descent, either in whole or in part, shall be permitted to reside permanently in the republic, without the consent of congress.67 During the period of the Texas Republic (March 1836-February 1846), any freemen who ventured into the Texas Republic and those who were enslaved were subject to virtually indistinguishable social categories. In 1840 it was declared specifically illegal for any freedman to live in the Republic of Texas.68 Notices of the Act were published in town newspapers, and in Galveston, next to the Act by the Texas Republic, the town’s Mayor declared an addition that forbade any Blacks and “persons of colour,” which would include Natives, Mexicans, and mixed-raced people from being in public after nine at night.69 Encouraged by the Republic’s laws and the city and town additions, slave patrols were established to enforce slave codes that included curfews, behavioral norms, and the prohibition of liquor and arms for both freedmen and the enslaved. In the newly established Republic, it was a criminal offense for either freemen or the enslaved to “minster the Gospel” or to “lift a hand in opposition to any white person.” Slave patrols actively worked to disrupt any assembly of freedmen or the enslaved, and as Harold Schoen writes, … the distinction between slaves and colored freemen was slight. In all respects save that of the relationship between slave and master, the disposition of the republic was to place free Negroes on equal footing with slaves. They were governed by the same criminal code, forbidden to bear witness except against other Negroes and confused with slaves in other legislation, proposed and accepted, designed primarily for the protection of the peculiar institution of slavery.70 Should a freeman travel into Texas for any amount of time, by the Republic’s law, the state became his proxy “master.” Far exceeding the laws of the most brutal U.S. slave state, the Republic of Texas refused to make distinctions between freemen and the 245 enslaved, and constructed in law and in practice a race category that would determine the laws under which “Africans,” “Negroes,” and their descendants would live. Importantly, in both law and practice, the language that proscribed social behavior for the enslaved and freemen was expanded to dominate all “persons of colour,” including mulattos, Natives, and Mexicans. Given the Republic’s encouragement of slave patrols, it is unsurprising that as early as the 1840s, the widespread practice of lynching in the Republic of Texas became a subject of discussion in the United States. The Boston-based Abolitionist newspaper The Liberator regularly reported lynchings in the Texas Republic and argued that the Republic must not be given admission into the United States based on its slave-holding and the pervasive practice of lynching. An 1841 report called “Lynch Law in Texas” itemized a list of lynchings that included hangings, shootings, and burnings in several counties. Of the Texas Republic The Liberator wrote, Men are now lynched by the dozens instead of singly; and their murderers appear to progress in the very refinement of cruelty… And we find these reported in Texas papers nearly a dozen of these murders, that have occurred, and undoubtedly there have been more than as many more.71 As made clear by The Liberator, because of its uprising and armed war for independence from México, and because of its foundation of the practice of race slavery, there was sustained resistance to the U.S. annexation of Texas. Yet, after the 1844 election of James K. Polk, who had won the election partially on his promise of annexing the Republic of Texas, Texas became the 28th state, entering as a slave state in 1845.72 The concerns of The Liberator would be echoed as the newly admitted state continued to embolden the race terror of slavery and slave patrols. Articulated first in the South, then called upon in Texas and the territories, “Slavery became a ‘racial’ question, and spawned an endless 246 variety of ‘racial’ problems. Race became the ideological medium through which people posed and apprehended basic questions of power and dominance, sovereignty and citizenship, justice and right.”73 In 1851, Kentucky’s Louisville Daily Journal reported the lynching of fifteen men in two weeks in El Paso, but as a brief optimistic note concluded that the Texas cotton crop was “remarkably flourishing.”74 Less than a year later, The New York Herald described anti-Mexican lynchings alongside the lynching of freemen and the enslaved. Detailing eight men lynched in Rio Grande City near Laredo, the Herald warned that “if things go on at this rate, not a Mexican, in a short time, will be suffered to live upon this side of the river.” 75 Importantly, though Mexicans in the southwest had been guaranteed the full rights of U.S. citizenship in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, signed at the end of the U.S.- Mexico War in 1848, the State of Texas functioned under the authority of its 1845 State Constitution that along with the federal laws limited citizenship to “free white aliens.”76 In addition, because the State of Texas was not part of the area annexed after the U.S.- Mexico War and as a part of the United States by the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, Texas lawmakers argued that the state was not under the authority of Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. As Richard Griswold del Castillo explains, there was a narrow view of the Treaty in the 1850s and “in 1856 the U.S. Supreme Court heard a case involving a land-grant claim in Texas that sought remedy under the treaty. In McKinney v. Saviego the court decided that the treaty did not apply to Texas lands.”77 Though the ruling was concerned with the question of Mexican land grants, the right of U.S. citizenship written into the Treaty for Mexicans would also be erased by the McKinney v. Saviego ruling. The social impact of such legal understanding would bolster the understanding of 247 Mexicans as ‘alien’ and—like both freeman and the enslaved—outside of the protections of U.S. citizenship. Throughout the 1850s, lynchings of Mexicans were accomplished alongside slave patrol violence and the lynchings of freemen and the enslaved. Both were regularly reported by the national press.78 For instance, in a travel article of 1854, an unidentified special correspondent to The New York Times writes: At a meeting of the citizens of Matagora [sic] County, Last Summer [sic], it was formally resolved that no Mexican should be allowed to remain in the county after a certain date… They are determined to be rid of them. But our treaty with Mexico provides that every Mexican residing in our newly acquired territory shall be entitled to all the rights and immunities of a native citizen of the United States, and the laws of Texas must be made in accordance with this stipulation. Must these poor and doubtfully honest dark-colored people then remain? Absurd! Is there not a higher law than that of Texas or the United States—the great and glorious law of selfish, passionate power—Lynch Law?79 Thus, the immigrant colonists in Coahuila y Tejas who would fight for independence from México, establishing the Republic of Texas and later the State of Texas, would construct the African American (freedman and enslaved), mulattos, Natives, and Mexican as “non-white,” and as subject to racist violence as “non-citizens.” As Ben Proctor details in his history of the Texas Rangers, in the period following the Civil War, they would launch many campaigns of Mexican removal, understanding the Mexican as a threat to the continuance of the institution of slavery. Anti-Mexican feeling was in part encouraged by pre-Civil War belief that the lower class Mexicans were not advantageous to a slave-holding state, and in 1856 Colorado County forbade their presence, followed by Matagorda County and then Uvalde County, which imposed travel restrictions upon Mexicans.80 These constructs would see a continuity into the Civil War period, the Reconstruction Period, and the Jim Crow Period in Texas. The racist figurations of bodies and the state 248 and social terrorizing and policing of bodies also saw new iterations in the World War I period.81 Resisting Reconstruction In his masterpiece Black Reconstruction in America, An Essay Toward a History of the Part Which Black Folk Played in the Attempt to Reconstruct Democracy in America, 1860–1880, William Edward Burghardt (W.E.B.) DuBois gives the State of Texas sustained attention.82 The centrality of Texas in the Civil War that would be fought for four years, eventuating in the death of over two percent of the U.S. population, or an estimated 620,000 combatants, has long been underrepresented.83 The confederacy of secessionists began in 1861 with seven original signatories to the Confederate Constitution—Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, Mississippi, South Carolina, and Texas. Texas seceded from the Union only sixteen years after transforming from the Republic of Texas to a state of the Union. Secession and entry into the Confederate States of America followed a statewide vote where seventy-six percent of voters (free white males) pushed for succession.84 Unlike the other insurrectionist southern states, Texas would come out of the four-year Civil War greatly enriched.85 Texas had prospered during the Civil War as it was outside of the conflict zone, and the state supplied munitions and supplies, such as cotton and cattle for the Confederate cause, as it maintained its enslaved laborers throughout. 86 In fact, during the Civil War, as Confederates moved with or relocated their enslaved human property to Texas, the number of those enslaved in Texas grew by thirty-five percent.87After the ultimate victory of the Union against the Confederate insurrection, the governing leadership of the 249 State of Texas remained hostile to the federal government; maintaining, after the war, Confederate secessionists in its highest offices. Further, the Civil War Amendments to the Constitution 13th, 14th and 15th Amendments would come late to Texas.88 Indeed, at the end of the Civil War, though President Abraham Lincoln’s Executive Order, commonly called the “Emancipation Proclamation,” articulated freedom from the institution of race slavery, with an effective date of January 1, 1863, Texas famously withheld the Executive Order for over two years.89 Not until June 19, 1865, when Union soldiers led by Major General Gordon Granger landed at Galveston Bay, were Texans delivered General Order 3, which declared: The people of Texas are informed that in accordance with a Proclamation from the Executive of the United States, all slaves are free. This involves an absolute equality of rights and rights of property between former masters and slaves, and the connection heretofore existing between them becomes that between employer and free laborer.90 Importantly, General Order 3 did not declare absolute freedom of movement and choice for freemen, but instead reinforced the understanding of a labor relationship. Further, the General Order was acted upon only at great danger, as Leon Litwack has documented from an oral history of Susan Merritt who had been enslaved in Texas, “You could see lots of niggers hangin’ to trees in Sabine bottom right after freedom, ‘cause they cotch ‘em swimmin’ ‘cross Sabine River and shoot ‘em.’”91 Because of the violence allowed and encouraged against Unionists and freedmen throughout Texas—where entire towns were burned down—many Unionists and African Americans fled the state.92 White citizens and state authorities in Texas instituted and sustained some of the harshest Black Codes in the United States that would seek to erase the political and social gains of the Civil Rights Act of 1866, and the 13th, 14th and 15th Amendments, and they would 250 enforce these with violence or threat of violence. The widespread acts of terror increased as voter registration of freedmen slowly began. Rather than the political rights— including voting rights—of African Americans, the State’s legislative body was concerned with regaining the voting rights of ex-Confederates.93 The racial order in Texas would comingle the domination of the constructed categories the Indian, the Mexican, and the Negro/ freedman by those constructed as white Texans. Important to practices of racist terror in Texas, as early as 1867, The Southern Patriot in Louisville reported that the Texas Rangers had merged with the ex-Confederate Army soldiers “in order to preserve slavery in the same manner” it had previously existed.94 Indeed, so violent was daily life in Texas, that U.S. martial law was instituted in the years following the war in an effort to protect Unionists and newly freedmen.95 Yet in 1873, Democrat Richard Coke was elected, marking the end of federal martial law and Reconstruction in Texas. As attorney and historian Danalynn Recer explains, Coke’s election “was hailed by one Democrat as ‘the restoration of white supremacy and Democratic rule.’ One of the first actions taken by the new administration was to replace the hated State Police with the all-white Texas Rangers.”96 Elliot Young expands on Coke’s encouragement of the practices of white rule utilizing public violences, such as lynching: In 1886, Texas Senator Richard Coke defended the hanging of three black men in Brenham, Texas, arguing that dealing with blacks should be left up to white Texans and not meddlesome northerners. Coke proclaimed that ‘the white people of the South and those of their race who come to settle among them will govern the country just as long as time lasts.’ Being a ‘superior race,’ he explained, white southerners would not even require violence ‘to maintain and protect and defend their civilization, their women and their children, their race and their citizenship.’97 251 Support for state sponsored white supremacy would be amplified as white Southerners increasingly immigrated into Texas, including Ku Klux Klan members and ex- Confederates. Robert Kagan writes of cultural memory of Southerners in Texas saying, “history did not start afresh after Robert E. Lee’s surrender at Appomattox. For the generation that lived through it, the Civil War would forever remain the most important event of their lives.”98 Texas-Southern cultural memory would then become a curious conflation of the Texas Revolution against México and the Confederate cause of the Civil War. As legal scholar Luis Angel Toro outlines: The Anglos who poured into Texas and the rest of the Southwest brought their apparatus of racial terror, developed to hold the African-American people in bondage, to the newly conquered territories. Mexicans became frequent victims of beatings and lynchings. In 1884, Mexicans fled daily lynchings in the area around Fort Davis, Texas; many Anglos voiced the opinion that the lynchings should continue until no Mexicans remained in the area.99 These conflations allowed the white Texans to romanticize a slave-owning past. In addition, it is critical to note that “cultural memory,” as set of internalized recollections was acted upon. Anti-Native, anti-Mexican and anti-Black actions allowed white Texans to recreate and reinforce a racial hierarchy in the region. The question of racial dominance became paramount for whites in the Texas. After the Civil War and into the turn of the twentieth century, attacks on those constructed as non-white would flourish— often encouraged or accomplished by state authority. These racist attacks would be framed as riots or wars and continue to be labelled as such by historians. A representative white Southern migrant into Texas after the war was Virginian Leander H. McNelly, who had served as a Confederate officer after enlisting in 1861; so committed to the Confederate cause, McNelly’s Confederate troops were some of the last 252 Confederates to disband and spent their last days pursuing and punishing deserters.100 McNelly became a Texas Ranger in 1870. McNelly’s Special Force branch of the Rangers called themselves the “Little McNelly’s” and patrolled south Texas for “Mexicans bandits” between 1874 and 1876.101 Harris and Saddler have called Captain McNelly’s company “paramilitaries.”102 McNelly’s Rangers would even exact violent dominance south of the geopolitical border, crossing into Mexico in violation of U.S. law in pursuit of “bandits. J.B. Red” Dunn wrote of the time he served under McNelly’s command. He described the company as including several ex-Confederate soldiers “fished from the slums in San Antonio.”103 Under McNelly, the Rangers, a reconstituted fraternity of those who had just a decade ago fiercely fought to keep racial slavery in place, turned their attention to Natives and Mexicans. Their terrorism for the purpose of both removal and domination included targeting Mexican ranches for destruction. As Dunn writes jokingly of the McNelly Company, “Every one of the ranches was deserted. Some pyromaniac must have been following us, for every time we passed through a ranch it mysteriously caught fire.”104 Dunn recalled the lynching of Mexicans, and described in detail when “two of the boys” carried out a particularly difficult lynching of a Mexican they called “Moss Top:” [T]hey could not find a tree large enough or high enough to swing him clear off the ground. After losing considerable time trying to find one, they sighted a tree that forked high enough from the ground to fasten his head in the forks and leave his toes four inches from the ground. They then jammed his head into the fork of the tree, took the end of the rope and put it around his neck and one of the forks of the tree. Then they tied the other end of the rope around the horn of the saddle and made the horse pull until the man’s neck was broken. After this they removed the rope that they had used and tied him with his own rope. 105 The body of the Mexican was left purposely, and he was not found for several days— 253 during the steamy month of August. As Dunn concludes, “Consequently the body was a terrible sight, swollen beyond recognition and emitting a terrible odor.”106 The body would hang as sign of the white Rangers’ domination—legible with sight and smell. Most famously, McNelly’s Rangers travelled into Las Cuevas, Tamaulipas (fifteen miles south of Rio Grande City, Texas) in 1875 in an effort to round up cattle they believed had been stolen from Texan ranchers. The incident that followed has been called the “Las Cuevas War.” During the Rangers’ attacks at the Las Cuevas Ranch in Tamaulipas—violating U.S. and international law—McNelly and his men initiated shots against General Juan Flores Salinas. Eventually McNelly’s Rangers received back up from the U.S. 24th Infantry and the 8th Calvary, who set themselves on the U.S. side of the river bank with Gatling guns. Eighty Mexican men—including General Juan Flores Salinas, the owner of the Las Cuevas Ranch—were killed.107 Texas Ranger William Crump “Bill” Callicott confirmed his own participation the “Las Cuevas War” in correspondence with Walter Prescott Webb, who became the preeminent and well-known historian of Texas in the twentieth-century.108 Callicott first enlisted as a Texas Ranger in 1874 in the Company A Frontier Battalion, and just over a year later joined the “Washington County Volunteer Militia” led by Leander. H. McNelly. This volunteer militia, explains Chuck Parsons, was “technically not a part of the Frontier Battalion [but] the men who rode with McNelly were considered Rangers, not only by themselves but by the average Texan as well.”109 Callicott’s recollections after serving with the Rangers in the Reconstruction Period provide a powerful demonstration of the preoccupations with defining race and enforcing the racial order of Texas. William Crump “Bill” Callicott was living in retirement in Houston, Texas as 254 Webb was conducting research for his book The Texas Rangers: A Century of Frontier Defense, first published in 1935. Callicott corresponded with Webb in 1921 and his letters were incorporated into Texas Rangers. Webb explained: “Though he was old and practically blind, he wrote in his own hand the account of his experiences in the Ranger force, first with Major Jones on the northern Indian frontier and then with Captain McNelly on the Mexican border. For him his task was one of great difficulty.”110 Writing in 1921, sixty-eight-year-old Callicott asserts his whiteness repeatedly against those who populated “wild Indian and Mexican country.”111 Callicott’s layers of “cultural memory” are articulated in 1921 of his actions in 1874, and his family’s settling in Coahuila y Tejas in 1824. He writes to the historian with precision, “My mother came to Texas with Stephen F. Austin’s first colony of whites from Arkansas in 1824… Peaveyhouse, my mother’s first husband, built the first white settler’s house built on the Brazos River in 1824.” Callicott explains to Webb that his mother stayed in the house on the Brazos “all during the Mexican War undergoing all the hardships of life, tormented by Indians and Mexicans.”112 In Callicott’s recollections, which Webb would draw upon for his histories of Texas, we grasp the insistence on categorically raced figures, because, as Robert G. Lee insists, “race is a mode of placing cultural meaning on the body.”113 The white colonists into Coahuila y Tejas would work to place meaning on bodies that was both legible and actionable. The race hierarchy Callicott describes includes whites who are constructed as perpetually besieged; Indians and Mexicans who are figured as attackers and bandits; and enslaved Blacks, who are figured as compliant, simple, and comical. Like thousands of settlers in Coahuila y Tejas, both Callicott’s father and mother came to the colonies as 255 slaveholders. In one anecdote, meant to be humorous, Callicott recalls: [T]hey built a school house near our old home and my father built a fine house before his death close to our old home in a big post oak motte that went by the name of Indian Motte. All kinds of game were plentiful: bear, deer and turkeys. I can remember back when the bears would come up to our gate after pigs. My father had an old Negro by the name of Louis. When he [Father] would hear the hogs bawling, he would call old Louis and give him the gun and tell him to shoot the bear. The old Negro would get in between the bear and the hogs and drive the bear back to the bottom and then he would bring the gun back to my father and tell him the bear ran, that he couldn’t get a chance to shoot him. The old darkey said he was a heap scareder of the gun than he was of the bear. The old darkey never shot a gun in his life.114 The tale of Callicott’s father repeatedly sending out the terrified, enslaved Louis to ward off bears was doubtless meant to elicit laughter from Webb himself.115 Because Callicott’s mother died when he was a year and half-old, he and his three siblings were raised by the women who had been enslaved by his mother and brought into Coahuila y Tejas. “My mother,” he writes, “when she came from Arkansas, had an old black woman that belonged to her and her first husband Peaveyhouse. She cared and attended to us four children and when I was twelve years old my father died, leaving us four children though he had plenty of land, Negroes, cattle and horses and money. We never suffered for anything except the care of a mother.”116 The man raised by an enslaved woman on the banks of the Brazos river, whose father owned more “Negroes” would become a Texas Ranger who engaged in unprovoked attacks on both Natives and Mexicans as part of the Frontier Battalion, and later a militia volunteer.117 The Ranger companies would track and pursue Natives in Texas, not after any accusation—such as raiding—but instead his company pursued Indians for the purpose of removal from areas of white settlement; his descriptions of his service include tracking “Red Indian men” and, along with his company of Rangers “shooting wildly.”118 The practices of McNelly’s Rangers and 256 Callicott against raced bodies were located within the Reconstruction Period in Texas. In that period, as Natives and Mexicans continued to be figured as bandits and horse thieves, the Chicago Daily Tribune was reporting that Texas had the most lynchings of any state in the Union and described “the section of Texas where the trees were thus loaded down with gallows fruit,” forty-four “colored” males lynched in just the first six months of 1885. Though vital in documenting the scale of lynching in Texas, the Chicago Daily Tribune recirculated the fiction that lynching occurred only for lack of the administration of legal justice.119 Eight months later, Sidney Brown, an African American man was lynched two miles outside of Galveston after he was pulled from where he was being held at the city jail. The killers took Brown two miles away and hanged him on a hickory tree.120 The facts of Brown’s lynching are in direct contradiction to the claim that lynching was accomplished in the absence of functioning legal systems. The next year, in May of 1887 in Willis, Texas, a group of men pulled Andrew McGeehe and J.B. Walker out of a caboose where they were being held for transport to a local jail. Walker had been accused of attacking a man on the train. But as Walker explained to McGeehe as he lay dying and chained to him, the man he was accused of attacking had confronted him first and his actions were in self-defense. Yet, Walker never had the chance to argue his case. Without benefit of investigation, a group of men ordered Walker, McGeehe, and Walker’s wife (who was also in the train) out of the caboose. The group lynched Walker, and in addition shot McGeehe while the two men were chained together. The coroner “rendered a verdict that McGeehe came to his death at the hands of persons unknown.”121 Thus, while many men who would be lynched had been accused of crimes and were in 257 custody—in the hands of the law—the anonymous Judge Lynch would disguise the identifiable killers. In Dallas in April 1904, Henry Simmons was convicted of the murder of a white woman after the all-white jury deliberated for a single hour. After being sentenced to death, Simmons begged to be hanged “as soon as possible,” no doubt conscious of the nearly 1,000 farmers gathered to lynch him.122 A year later, Andrew Humphrey was hanged by three hundred farmers in Paris, Texas.123 Less than a year later, in September of 1906 in Rosebud, one hundred farmers dragged thirty-year-old cotton picker Mitchell Frazier from a local jail where he was being held for fighting with a young German farmer. While the town’s Mayor met the unmasked groups of men as they gathered outside the jail, the Mayor did not prevent them from pulling Frazier from the holding cell. After destroying the jail door, the attackers dragged Frazier to the framework of a water tank and hanged him.124 Such attacks on African Americans went uninterrupted throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in Texas. The public anti- Black violence in Texas after 1870 was accomplished with legal systems in place; and also as state and local power and institutions negated the redresses of federal control after the Civil War. Though the federal acts and even martial law that followed the Civil War were meant to effectuate the protection of the new freedmen, Texas authorities actively repudiated the protections pressed by U.S. federal authority and the amendments to the Constitution, allowing—even encouraging—the increased violence. For instance, the Second Enforcement Act of 1871—also called Ku Klux Klan Act—was passed by the U.S. Congress and allowed a U.S. President to suspend U.S. citizens’ writ of habeas corpus.125 (The writ of habeas corpus is the right to petition to be 258 released from unlawful imprisonment after arrest—rather than the right to not be imprisoned). The 1871 Klan Act allowed the federal branch to supersede state and local authorities and was targeted specifically at members of the Ku Klux Klan and other white supremacist terrorist organizations, who actively sought to roll back the Civil Rights Act of 1866, and the 13th, 14th and 15th Amendments to the Constitution, passed in 1865, 1866, and 1870 respectively. When the 1871 Ku Klux Klan Act was signed into law by U.S. President Grant, it was the third of a number of federal acts that sought to protect African Americans’ social and political rights from organized violence.126 The use of federal power for the protection of citizens in prior-Confederate states—and the ability to utilize federal oversight in local and state elections—was deemed necessary as anti-Black violence and threat of violence was rampant in these locations, and as local and state officials refused to act against anti-Black violence. Yet, in 1882, two-term Governor of Texas, four-term Texas Senator, and Attorney General of Texas, Charles A. Culberson, successfully argued the 1871 Ku Klux Klan Act was unconstitutional. Culberson acted as a defense lawyer for Israel LeGrande. LeGrande had been charged for murder the 1871 Klan Act and had been found guilty at the Federal District Court level in Jefferson, Texas and he appealed to the U.S. Circuit Court. Culberson, then a twenty-seven-year-old attorney at his father’s law firm “Culberson and Armistead,” argued successfully that the Federal courts had no jurisdiction to try LeGrande.127 Culberson’s arguments were persuasive and LeGrande’s murder conviction was reversed; the 1871 Ku Klux Klan Act was declared unconstitutional. The U.S. Supreme Court did not take on the case, leaving the Circuit Court’s ruling the national precedent.128 Of his distinguished career, with over thirty-five years in elected office, Culberson said “if he had any claim to fame, it was for 259 his early law practice. He was proudest of the 1882 LeGrande case.129 Culberson’s work helped to relieve Texas and other prior-Confederate states from federal oversight and allowed the reorganization of white supremacist organized terror. After the LeGrande case, which heartened organizations of terror and made clear that individuals would be able to act against African Americans with relative impunity, the national media increasingly referred to the murders of raced bodies as adjudicated in “Judge Lynch’s Court.” In 1886, describing for readers in the U.S. North the conditions that invited, even necessitated, lynching, a Texas “cowboy” was quoted by a Chicago Daily News reporter explaining: Lynch law is better than no law… It’s well enough for you fellows that live in the cities, where they hang just enough mankillers to keep you quiet and give you some respect for the law, to object to Judge Lynch, but you would have a better opinion of him if you lived anywhere within fifty miles of the Mexican frontier in either Texas, New Mexico, or Arizona. Why, if it wasn’t for that ornament to the bench no man’s life would be safe against the pistol of any man who wanted to kill him.130 After the Texas cowboy describes a lynching in detail, the reporter asks “I presume you were there, by your vivid description?” To which the Texas cowboy responds, “You may presume what you like, but I’ll tell you one thing, young man: You can travel along the frontier, from the mouth of the Rio Grande to Tia Juana, Cal. [sic] an’ you’ll not find a man who ever saw a lynching, except it was way back.”131 The naming of Judge Lynch also allowed the rhetorical trick of erasing the assailants, much like the phrase “persons unknown.” As with the disappearing and lynching of Mexicans, the kidnapping, disappearing, and lynching of African Americans was very often in plain mid-day sight, with the killers identified and/or identifiable. Further, as with Mexicans, lynching was often achieved by state-agents who were 260 participants or allowed the killings to go unpunished. Lynchings in Texas continued with regularity even as Mississippi and Arkansas saw a decline in lynch mobs between 1880 and 1920.132 In the early twentieth century, violence against African Americans was at an all-time high in Texas, with over one hundred documented lynchings in the first decade alone. The virulent anti-black racism in Texas was illustrated by a sign posted in the town of De Leon, Comanche County, which read, “Nigger, don’t let the sun go down on you in this town.”133 In October of 1902, a group of unmasked citizens dragged two men out of the local court house and hanged them in the public square. The Atlanta Constitution reported that this double lynching had been perpetrated on the telephone pole where another African American man had been lynched the month before.134 The Washington Post discussed the “state’s rights” rationale that allowed Texas’ lynching practices to go unimpeded. Some had petitioned the federal government to act and referred to Texas’ recent lynchings that included torturous burning as comparable to the Spanish Inquisition; yet, Texas Senator Joseph Weldon Bailey, Sr. (born in Mississippi) insisted that the federal government must not interfere with the state’s vision and version of justice.135 In 1903, the racist attacks on African Americans went unimpeded. In Dallas, a local preacher was saved from lynching only because he was a member of a local Masonic brotherhood, which came to his aid. His business, a warehouse, however, was blown up.136 In Marshall, a group of hundreds broke down a brick jailhouse in order to lynch an African American man.137The Atlanta Constitution worried that soon there would be no African Americans left in the aptly-named Texas town of Whitesboro, where the groups of local citizens were destroying the family homes of African Americans and 261 white men were flogging African American men in the streets.138 That same year, Webster Flannigan, a federal tax agent collecting in Texas, publically appealed to state authorities: No one can portray the cruelties to which the negroes of Rusk County have been subjected. If the state does not take prompt action I shall appeal to the federal authorities. A few nights before my arrival two of the most peaseable [sic] and inoffensive negroes in the town were stripped and tied to trees and then whipped. One of the negroes died Saturday night, and the other cannot recover. They want to make it a white man’s country.139 Neither State nor federal protection would come. As African Americans were being attacked in town after Texas town, the Governor of Texas was sending State Calvary Troops, not to protect their lives and property, but to the central and southern counties of the state to hunt Mexican bandits.140 Mexicans and African Americans in this period would be forced out of their homes in terror, members of these communities would be violently targeted, with the effect of removal. During this fierce Jim Crow period, the NAACP was founded, with its first issue of The Crisis published in November of that same year, 1909.141 To the present, The Crisis has included the most consistent and thorough accounts of anti-Black violence. Though he did not join the inter-racial conference that established the NAACP in 1909 and though he was understood as an “accommodationist” against W.E.B. DuBois and the leadership of the NAACP, Booker T. Washington was one of the leaders who spoke about lynching frequently. On a few occasions he referred to the lynching of Mexicans along with the lynching of Africa Americans in Texas. In The Chicago Defender, Washington summarized the twelve months previous of lynchings in the nation, including the 1911 Thorndale, Texas lynching of a thirteen-year-old Mexican boy, who was taken from his home by six lynchers—“the best citizens of Thorndale”—who padlocked a 262 chain to his neck and dragged him alive behind a horse. Local papers reported the child “was but 13 or 14 years old, and he weighed less than fifty pounds…he was in dying condition when he reached the place where he was finally hanged.”142 Washington’s editorial in the context of the diminishing relationship between the United States and Russia, indicated the global ramifications of the unremitting attacks on raced peoples within the United States. His intervention began “of the discussion of the subject of international peace, I think it is advisable to call the attention of the country to the number of lynchings, mainly of American Negroes, that have taken place in the United States during twelve months.” After a thorough accounting of seventy-one lynchings, including the Mexican child in Thornsdale, Washington called for “inter-racial peace as the foundation of international peace and good will.”143 Washington’s recognition of Mexican lynching was not singular, but it was uncommon. His internationalist approach in pointing out U.S. hypocrisy on the question of justice and racist violence would be echoed by African American leaders in the NAACP—in generally more harshly worded critical stances—as Jim Crow policies, laws, and practices continued to harden, even as U.S. entry into the war called on African American support. By 1913, the highest level of U.S. authority segregated federal agencies. President Thomas Woodrow Wilson’s separation of African American federal employees in workplaces, restrooms and cafeterias reinforced the embodied degradation that Texas and other states had insisted upon since their refusal of Reconstruction. Wilson, born in Virginia and raised in Georgia and South Carolina, was the first southern U.S. President to be elected since the President Zachary Taylor in 1848.144 Wilson’s policies that also demoted and discharged African Americans sent a clear signal to the State of Texas that 263 appeals to federal action were folly. Indeed, Wilson argued that segregation policies were for the safely of those discriminated against. A group of African American leaders, including Boston newspaper, The Guardian, editor Monroe Trotter confronted Wilson at the White House with a petition that contained over twenty-thousand signatures from thirty-eight states in protest of the segregation policy. The group was ejected after Wilson argued, “segregation is not a humiliation but a benefit, and ought to be so regarded by you gentlemen.”145 Such arguments buttressed the logic of Texas lynchers clearing towns and counties to create a “white man’s country.” The NAACP responded to Wilson’s federal workers’ segregation policy with an open letter to the President arguing forcefully that his policy would justify racist practices: Behind screens and closed doors they now sit apart as though leprous. Men and women alike have the badge of inferiority pressed upon them by Government decree. How long will it be before the hateful epithets of “nigger” and “Jim Crow” are openly applied to these sections? … And wherever there are men who rob the Negroes of their votes, who exploit and degrade and insult and lynch those whom they call their inferiors, there this mistaken action of the Federal Government will be cited as the warrant for new racial outrages that cry out to high Heaven for redress.146 Wilson refused to reverse his segregation policy and practices, and his Administration would mark the post-Reconstruction. Two years later President Wilson would contribute quotations to be used as intertitles in D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation; Thomas Dixon, author of The Clansman on which the film was based, had been a classmate a political contributor to Wilson. Further, Wilson would host the first screening of a film at the White House: The Birth of a Nation. The screening of the film was attended by members of Wilson’s family along with his cabinet and their own families. He famously concluded of the film, “It is like writing history with lightning… And my only regret is 264 that it is all so terribly true.”147 Though many have discussed the “inaction” at the federal level to fight the widespread lynching of African Americans in the post-Reconstruction period, we might better conclude that racist practices drew succor from the state itself. The killing of Mexicans was coterminous, and increasingly officials argued that federal troops must be used to fight Mexican banditry on the border, rather than racist terror. The Great (Im)Migration Though the lynchings of Mexicans in Texas could be “disappearances” or narratively and visually staged as Native “massacre,” the lynching of these raced bodies—Native, Mexican, and African American were coterminous in Texas. As Mexicans lynching disguised as bandit killings and battles were spiking during what scholars have called “The Bandit War” or “The Border War,” the Tuskegee Institute documented nine public lynchings of African Americans in Texas—the number of public lynchings of African Americans in the state of Texas was only exceeded by the state of Georgia. Indeed, in 1916, Texas hosted one-fourth of all documented lynchings in the United States.148 That same year, the NAACP established an Anti-Lynching Committee to develop legislative and public awareness campaigns and published the Report on Lynching in the United States. The racial figurations in play in Texas—Native, Mexican, and African American—were constructed relationally against one another and the category of “whiteness.” These racial figurations do not stand in place of one another, but instead, are co-productive; where assailants utilize social practices of terror. The insistence on daily practices of unpunished public violence against categorically raced bodies worked to figure the Native, the Mexican and the African American. In the same 265 period of the increased lynching of African Americans throughout Texas documented by the NAACP and others, the finding of dead Mexicans continued. The San Antonio Express explained it would no longer report on the come upon dead Mexicans, as the number “has reached a point where it creates little or no interest. It is only when a raid is reported, or an American is killed, that the ire of the people is aroused.”149 Certainly, many “Americans” of Mexican descent and many African Americans, who were also American citizens were killed regularly and brutally; however, the category of “American,” made implicit in The San Antonio Express was white American. Much of the recognition of the lynching of African Americans is due to the archive collected by the NAACP and the Tuskegee Institute, along with the Black press. Further, many of the lynchers of African Americans created massive spectacle lynchings that would draw U.S. national press. The Crisis reported on the mass public lynching of Will Stanley in Fort Worth, where Stanley was marched through the public square, fighting for his release. After a procession that included being beaten by the assembled masses—numbering approximately ten thousand—Stanley was burned on “a pyre [that] was constructed of dry good boxes, barrels and other flammable stuff secured from the rear of business houses in nearby alleys.”150 In its reportage, The Crisis reproduced the postcards of Stanley’s torture and murder which sold for ten cents. A few months later, the lynching of Jessie Washington drew between ten thousand and fifteen thousand participants and spectators in Waco, Texas. Washington, a young African American farmhand was subject to long, public torture that ended with the lynchers burning Washington alive—raising him into and out of the flames. Washington’s lynchers included the town’s Mayor, the Chief of Police, city officials and local police, as well as 266 professional photographer Fred Gildersleeve who, The Crisis emphasized, “knew where the lynching was to take place, and had his camera in the City Hall,” and documented the torture and lynching for the purpose of producing souvenir postcards.151 W.E.B. DuBois, then editor of The Crisis, reproduced the postcards showing the process of killing Washington in an eight-page supplement to the magazine’s July 1916 edition called “The Waco Horror.”152 In the supplement, the editor gave a careful layout of the town of Waco, the county seat on the Brazos River, listing local Universities— including Baylor University, Central Texas College, and Texas A&M—and giving the number of churches within the “typical southern town, alert, pushing and rich” as thirty- nine white churches and twenty-four “colored” churches.153 The in-depth reporting was accomplished by a reporter who interviewed witnesses, even adopting a “strong English- accent,” to disguise himself as he questioned the town’s Judge on the lynching of Jessie Washington.154 The report included the facts of the case and the conclusion that the spectacle lynching with over ten thousand participants and spectators, was “of political value to county officials who are running for office.”155 Though Washington was in custody in Dallas, he was returned to Waco, “secreted in the office of the Judge,” and brought to a rushed, “semi-trial” in Waco—clearly so that the young man would be within the grasp of local lynchers.156 Washington’s brutal, slow torture, and mutilation was accomplished over hours by identified lynchers (the NAACP supplied a list of five lynch leaders) until his burning at City Hall “right under the Mayor’s window” in the presence of the Chief of Police.157 The Waco Judge, who also owned the local newspaper, dismissed what he saw as naive Northern outrage at the public torture, and the Judge explained to the NAACP investigator that “as an old southerner he knew 267 perfectly well how to handle the colored population… he was raised with them, had a colored mammy, nursed at her breast.”158 The coverage by The Crisis reached over thirty thousand subscribers and its reproduced lynching images pointed to “The Lynching Industry” in Texas. The NAACP decision to publish lynching postcards and images in The Crisis—for instance those of Stanley and Washington—was enormously powerful for its national audience, particularly as these images were overtly labelled—indeed, celebrated—as lynchings by their assailants. Conversely, the postcard images of dead Mexicans that were sold by Robert Runyon continued to label the victims as “bandits.” The public ritual of lynching was made legible in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries with its accompanying visual culture. The visual representations of the lynching of African Americans has become archetypal, and the constructed images of the lynching of African Americans were most often with the victim as vertical and hanged. And, as with the Stanley and Washington images, the victim is often shown in full space, in a crowded field of participants and spectators. Key to these images, the African American victim is at the apex of the photograph—as if plucked out and extracted. The ritual staging and the conventions of the captured images of the lynching of African Americans generally diverges from the images of the lynching of Mexicans and Natives, which have largely been staged as battle scenes or massacres in which the Native or Mexican bodies are horizontal and naturalized to the landscape, rather than extracted from it (see figures 6-8 and 12-19). The full space of the lynchings of African Americans is instead replaced with a vast emptiness in the representations of Native and Mexican lynchings. Thus, the careful and dangerous labor by the NAACP and The Crisis that investigated and reported 268 on the lynching of African Americans, and made lynching atrocities visible, has not been immediately translatable to the lynchings of Natives and Mexicans, which were staged differently—most often as massacres or the remains of battle. It may be the case that the lynching of African Americans in Texas had a longer ritual tradition that was adopted from other FIGURE 30: Spectators at the lynching of Jesse Washington, May 16, Southern states. 1916, Waco, Texas. Photo postcard from Without Sanctuary: Lynching Photography in America (Santa Fe: Twin Palms Publisher, 2000). Further, as was the case with Jessie Washington, the spectacular lynchings of African Americans were often organized and staged in larger urban environs—Dallas, Waco, Houston—while the documented lynching of Mexicans seems to have been organized more often in the rural ranch and field country of south Texas. Thus, the ability to draw a larger number of spectators, may have shifted the ritual choreography. It is also the case that constructed race categories were imbued with differing kinds of menace and met with differing lynching choreography. The lynching of Natives, as pointed out by Helen McLure, was disguised as massacre and warfare; the lynching of Mexicans has been disguised as massacre, warfare, and response to banditry or subversion; the lynching of African Americans has been disguised as the conclusion to a brutal system of crime and punishment for fabricated crimes.159 Because Mexicans were sited on land contiguous 269 with México, the threat of the Mexican body was constructed as threat of takeover, threat of invasion, the threat of reconquest.160 In the case of African Americans, because they were not sited on a contiguous “home,” the threat was constructed more often as insidious and internal, with an emphasis on miscegenation and invented rape—the threat of sexual pairings and “contagion.” Not only do we trace race group-differentiated vulnerability to lynching, but also to a categorical imperative in the ways in which lynching is designed and accomplished. The particularization in ritual murder is yet another tool that reproduces categorical race. The distinctions in ritual murder—in lynching—are the lives and afterlives of categorical race. In all cases, the pretexts for murder have been elaborate and inventive, though there have been differing ritual choices. Yet, in all cases, violence is the rhetorical discourse that marks race difference and is the performance of boundary maintenance. In all cases, lynchings are staged rituals of deceit: designed to invert the criminals. By1918—the year of the disappearance lynching of Florencio García—the U.S. Committee on Public Information released a document titled, “Official Bulletin Announcing President Denounces Mob Violence.”161 This was in direct response to the NAACP’s documentation of lynching in The Crisis. The NAACP, which was then focused on an anti-lynching campaign, had also organized its southern stronghold in Texas, where thirty-one branches had been established.162 The production of Thirty Years of Lynching in the United States, 1889–1918 was directed by NAACP Secretary John Shillady. Shillady was severely physically attacked when he entered Austin in 1919 and forced out of town by a group of white men led by the County Constable.163 In spite of the violence, Shillady was able to complete the report and to accomplish NAACP 270 membership drives. The 1918 report recorded that 3,224 people were lynched during the less than thirty-year period. Of these, 702 were white and 2,522 black. Among the justifications given for lynching were petty offenses such as, “using offensive language, refusal to give up land, illicit distilling.” The NAACP also compiled lynching statistics in 1921 and took out full-page advertisements on November 22 and 23, 1922 in The New York Times, The Atlanta Constitution, and other leading newspapers entitled “The Shame of America,” with the subheading “3,436 People Lynched 1889 to 1922.”164 The response of outrage was not uncommon, however, for many exposed to persistent danger their reply was one of relocation. In direct response to the unrestrained violence and the removals of federal protection for African Americans in Texas, hundreds of thousands of people—entire Black communities—left the State as part of what we now call The Great Migration. The Great Migration is roughly periodized between 1910 and 1970, with rates of out migration north slowing significantly in the 1930s.165 The most significant numbers of African Americans choosing movement out of cultures of terror relocated between 1910 and 1930, and an astounding 1.6 million African Americans left the southern states to the U.S. Midwest and Northern states.166 The migration was encouraged by the Black press as well as northern manufacturers who worked to recruit African Americans north.167 The immensity of the population shift cannot be overstated, and the Great Migration was also paired with another wave of migration. As the Mexican revolutions and social and political instability continued between 1910 and 1930, as much as ten percent of México’s population moved north into the U.S. southwest.168 Further, changes to U.S. immigration law in the form of the Immigration Act of 1917 pulled Mexicans north, just 271 as capitalist recruiters were pulling African Americans north.169 In the case of both African Americans and Mexicans, their exodus was in search of improved lived conditions, functional and fair governing bodies, and an escape from the unpredictability of uncontrolled violence. Further, both mass migration movements were greatly affected by the U.S. participation in World War I. Yet, these immense movements of people— African American and Mexican—have long been studied in exclusion from one another. However, reports contemporaneous to the conjoined U.S. race relocations I call The Great (Im)Migration, were taking note of the relationship. In particular, taking up the question of African Americans and Mexicans as laboring bodies (rather than as terrorized people, as I have emphasized). The question of the effects of the displacement of labor was asked: How, then, in view of the negro migration, can the unprecedented demand for labour on the land be met? ... In the borders states undoubtedly many more Mexicans will be employed, while under the stimulus of competitive agriculture modern machinery will be increasingly used.170 The question of African Americans and Mexicans as laboring bodies, and their movement as either problem or solution, is most common in the literature. Yet the question of labor is inextricably linked to practices of terror, and lived conditions of limited opportunity. In American Encounters: Greater México, the United States and the Erotics of Culture José E. Limón makes historic parallels between those of Mexican origin in the U.S. and African Americans in the south. Limón’s parallel between those raced as Mexicans and African Americans points to the U.S. political and economic system as organizers of racial domination. The parallel I claim, however, is that the policing and domination of constructed “races” has been accomplished in large part through publicly performed acts of brutality; and this domination is to the benefit of 272 proprietors, owners, and buyers. As Limón’s work in American Encounters states, African Americans and Mexicans have been “two peoples sharing defeat, disruption, and demoralization.”171 Limón’s joining of the African Americans and Mexicans in a common racist subjugation is important, though he does not historicize the production of the “two peoples,” figured as separate races, using common violent practices of demarcation and domination. In the work of Limón and others, many of the resemblances and divergences between the experience of African Americans and Mexicans are seen in Texas, where Mexicans are first constructed as ‘alien’ and thus non-citizen, regardless of legal national status. Similarly, African Americans were defined as enslaved property outside of U.S. citizenship rights, and later actively and violently denied the full protections of U.S. citizenship bestowed by the 13th, 14th, and 15th amendments of the Constitution. Recent scholarship has focused on such associations, most markedly Neil Foley’s White Scourge: Mexicans, Blacks and Whites in Texas Cotton Culture, which bridges the gap between African American and Mexican socio-political relations with whites in Texas. Foley demonstrates how the Texas Revolution and the Mexican War raced Mexicans as non-white and he further suggests the cotton economy is an important linkage and oppression in southern, southwest, and Texas history. The practices of racist domination against African Americans had long benefitted the Texan labor economy, yet the Great Migration of African Americans north constituted the second mass “General Strike” of Black labor in the United States—to adopt DuBois’ reading of the victory of the Union during the Civil War.172 This General Strike would include millions of African Americans effusing the conditions of the southern states, including the terrorism of Texas. And the labor vacuum left in the fields 273 and farmlands of Texas would increasingly pull Mexicans from a destabilized México. Climate conditions in 1906 and 1907 also encouraged Mexicans into Texas fields as an effect of the drought in México in 1907 following the wet year of 1906. The challenging conditions in agriculture in México made the work of U.S. labor recruiters easier. The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics noted in 1907: Immigration [into the U.S.] was larger than usual… Crops were short, provisions expensive, and work not so abundant as usual in exclusively agricultural sections. This made it easier for the ‘enganchadores’ (recruiters, or more literally, pressmen) to secure workers for mines and for other large enterprises, and also stimulated voluntary emigration.173 Concurrently, the health of the Mexican economy dipped precipitously under the erratic political conditions; a series of regime changes and revolutions occurring between 1900 and 1920 served to destabilize Mexican labor, land ownership, and currency. 174 In addition, the ongoing battles between the Mexican government(s) and the rebel groups destroyed many towns and villages along with their infrastructure. Throughout the revolutionary period, “the peasantry suffered disproportionately from rampant inflation. Wages remained what they had been before 1910, but prices rose rapidly… with the rising cost of food and the decline in real wages the greater part of the rural lower classes were literally dying of hunger throughout México.”175The Mexican revolutions greatly impaired the Mexican economy, and although it is difficult to establish accurate population migration numbers for this arduous period, historian Antonio Rios- Bustamante has noted that “over 330,000 Mexicans immigrated between 1910 and 1917; an average of 53,000 annually.”176The Border States and territories of the United States, including Texas, largely absorbed this migrating population. As noted by the U.S. Labor Bureau, recruitment of Mexican labor by U.S. companies played a large role in the 274 movement of Mexicans across the new national boundary. Company recruiters for U.S. agricultural, railroad and mining corporations flooded into Mexico in search of labor. With the expanding economy and markets, and with the concurrent need for workers, the recruitment of Mexican workers became a business. Employment agencies were created whose sole assignment was the recruitment of Mexican labor. These agencies recruited from various parts of the interior of Mexico. The largest agencies worked for the railroads. They sought out potential workers and furnished them with food, clothing and transportation to the United States. Once the workers arrived on the job, the railroad companies deducted the travel expenses from the workers’ salaries to pay the agencies.177 So much of Mexico’s labor population was moving north because of U.S. recruitment via the railroad that Mexican intellectuals and officials began to object to the population displacement. “Presidential candidate Alvaro Obregón, for example, explicitly criticized the Carranza government in November 1919, when he railed at the spectacle of freight cars full of Mexicans being taken from labor recruiters from Nogales, Sonora, ‘like penned cattle.’”178 Recruitment was successful as Mexican laborers found themselves desperate. A move north provided some relief from Mexico’s economic and political conditions, and U.S. labor increasingly exploited the push of Mexican nationals. In White Scourge Foley writes that increasingly Mexicans followed the new networks of the Mexican railroad from México into Texas.179 Yet, perhaps more critical, as the railroads were developed, the United States revamped its immigration law. On February 5, 1917, Congress passed the new federal law (over the veto of President Wilson) that barred particular “undesirable” immigrants from the United States. The rewriting of federal immigration statutes coincided with the World War in progress and in particular sought to limit particular immigrant bodies. This law, the Immigration Act of 1917, also called the Asiatic Barred Zone Act, designated a region from which 275 immigrants could not enter the U.S. national body; it included Asia and the Pacific Islands and fortified the United States’ anti-Asian immigration policies.180 Objections came from corporate interests who were aware of the crucial role that immigrants played in the labor of westward expansion—many industries in the west, such as the railroad and agriculture, were dependent on immigrant labor. Thus, in response to larger capitalist forces pushing for railroad and agricultural labor, Congress created exemptions to the 1917 Immigration Act that released Mexicans from the new provisions. Foley discusses the 1917 Immigration Act and the 1924 Immigration Act, but the way in which these federal Acts shifted movements of raced bodies in the U.S. must be revisited. The importance of the 1917 Immigration Act and the exemptions to the Act (that encouraged the movement of Mexicans north by not requiring a head tax, literacy test, and by allowing contract laborers) cannot be overstated. In a period of thirty years (1880-1910), the population of Mexicans in Texas doubled.181 While much of this was in response to the instability of the Mexican revolutions, much had to do with the U.S. specifically and aggressively enticing the Mexican labor force en masse because of its own policy of refusing admittance to Asians. Thus, the raced labor hierarchy in Texas became more complex with disallowance of Asians along with the outmigration of African Americans during the Great Migration and the immigration of Mexicans. The exemptions to the Immigration Act of 1917 shifted the populations of migrants coming into the U.S. enormously—simultaneously decreasing Asian immigration and increasing Mexican immigration. There were three measures in the Act that limited both European and Asian immigration: the institution of an eight-dollar head tax to be paid upon entry to the United States by immigrants, the requirement (for the 276 first time in the nation’s history) of a literacy test, and the prohibition of “contract labor” migration. This greatly reduced the number of European and Asian laborers that might have immigrated into the southwestern U.S. states, including Texas.182 As a result of the concerns for labor shortages, after 1917, Mexican laborers were more actively recruited into the region.183 We should understand the 1917 Immigration Act as the first bracero program in United States history. The temporary work program was drawn upon by U.S. companies, creating by 1920, a peak current of Mexican nationals into the United States.184 By this Act, the United States government established that entrants from México were transient labor not meant to settle permanently.185 Contract labor was also encouraged by the Act, though the encouragement of contract labor was in distinct opposition to the 1885 Alien Contract Labor Law that prohibited any company or individual from bringing “foreigners into the United States under contract to perform labor here.”186 Both the United States Census and the United States Bureau of Labor Statistics attempted to document the enormous influx of Mexican nationals into the region. While census data can be limited in its accuracy, the numbers compiled can begin to give us a picture of the population movement into the southwest. The Census and Labor Statistic data include documented and registered immigrants; however, we may note that the numbers are likely under-representative of the actual numbers of laborers, as many entered unregistered. In addition, it was not until 1924 that the United States established the Border Patrol in Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California, introducing the concept of the “illegal worker.”187 Between 1900 and 1920, seven-eighths of all Mexican nationals were found in the border states of Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and California.188 277 The massive migration from México into Texas and the greater southwest was concurrent with the out-migration of African Americans to the U.S. Midwest and north. The relationship between the influx of Mexican laboring bodies due to the 1917 exemptions must be understood relationally with anti-Asian immigration acts that sought to remove or refuse Asians as laboring bodies. Thinking through the effects of the Act should also be interconnected to the Great Migration of African Americans out of the U.S. South—including Texas. The movement of African American families northward was estimated by the U.S. Labor Department at over 350,000 migrating north between 1916-1917.189 While Asian (and some European) immigration was banned and Mexican immigration expanded, African Americans were increasingly moving northward in the hope of more just lived conditions. As with Mexicans, recruiters and labor agents helped to entice African Americans northward. Yet, the unrelenting violence against African American communities was a key form of terror that pushed them out of southern states like Texas. The Dallas Express attempted to diagnose the outmigration of African Americans and listed several possible factors: Among the causes operative in the South to induce migration were general dissatisfaction with conditions, the ravages of the boll weevil, floods, change of crop system, low wages, poor housing, poor schools, unsatisfactory crop settlements, rough treatment, cruelty of law officers, unfairness in court procedure, lynchings, desire to travel, labor agents, aid from Negroes in the north, and the influence of the Negro press.190 We know that various newspapers of the Black press were widely distributed in Texas, including The Dallas Express, Chicago Defender, The Monitor, and The Crisis.191 These publications regularly reported on practices of racist terror. James Weldon Johnson, NAACP field secretary, has famously called the summer of 1919 “Red Summer.” In the months that stretched from May to October, the African American areas of twenty-five 278 U.S. towns and cities were prey to sustained racist attacks.192 These racist attacks, termed “riots”—resulted in the killings of hundreds of African Americans and the destruction of entire housing districts.193 In early July, a group of whites attacked the African American district in Longview, Texas—about one hundred and twenty-five miles northeast of Dallas. Longview, an area of cotton farming, had about a thirty-percent African American population.194 The attack followed the initiation of cotton cooperatives by African Americans in order to secure fair prices for their sharecropped cotton. African American leaders, encouraged by the Negro Business League, were urging small farmers to sell their cotton directly to Galveston Bay buyers, rather than to local brokers.195 As with the Mexican cooperative at Porvenir and the People’s Grocery cooperative in the Memphis, Tennessee area, this socio-economic organization was violently destroyed, and in Longview four African American men were killed.196 Later that month, fourteen African American men were beaten in Port Arthur while an assembled group attacked the African American community in Texarkana.197 All of the attacks followed the lynching of Lemuel Walters in Longview, a lynching that had been reported in The Chicago Defender. The Defender had a following in the area, and was delivered by train weekly.198 The newspaper, which was founded in 1905 by Robert S. Abbott centered the creativity and concerns of African Americans and has arguably been one of the most important presses in U.S. history.199 Its local correspondent, Samuel L. Jones was beaten and his home burned down during the Longview attacks.200 By the beginning of the Red Summer, The Chicago Defender had been banned in various southern states, and in late June of 1918, The El Paso Herald reported that The Defender had been charged with “printing articles calculated to raise race dissention.”201 “Race dissention” on the part of 279 besieged African Americans was not a product of reporting, though many nationwide were rightly outraged by the enormous rise in the number of lynchings—in 1919, seventy-eight African Americans were documented lynched in Texas, compared with forty-eight documented lynching murders in 1917.202 There was reason to leave—the terrorism against African Americans continued unabated. In June of 1920, an African American Texas postmaster was thrown off a train and lynched, two months later, Lige Daniels was lynched in August of 1920 in Center Texas.203 By July of 1922, Texas was again leading the nation in cases of “mob violence,” according to the Tuskegee Institute.204 The NAACP reported that “sixty persons were lynched in the States below the Mason and Dixon line… Texas headed the list in numbers.”205 In October of 1923, The State Fair of Texas in Dallas celebrated Ku Klux Klan Day. During the day’s events that included a town parade, The Dallas Morning News reported “5,631 new members took the oath of allegiance to the KKK at an initiation ceremony at the fairgrounds, accompanied by Dallas Klan No. 66’s 75- member drum and bugle corps. Eight hundred women joined the Klan auxiliary.” Indeed, Dallas Klan No. 66 was the largest Klan chapter in the nation.206 The Klan recruitment benefitted from the work of Culberson, who had fought the 1871 Klan Law and was further encouraged by federal policies of U.S. President Wilson and his contribution to the enormous popularity of The Birth of a Nation. The crowds of people who stood in line to watch Cabanne and Griffith’s Martyrs of the Alamo: The Birth of Texas in the months that followed their screening of The Birth of A Nation witness the on-going race war made visible. Yet, the rhetorical constructs in the film were not only part of a war of position, instead they were conterminous with a 280 war of maneuver against raced bodies. Unrestrained public lynching rituals that terrorized communities and emptied neighborhoods and towns became the terrain of commemoration and re-enactment of The Alamo and the Civil War. The two would be conjoined in Texas permanently, as on Confederate Decoration Day 1917 when Texas’ members of the United Confederate veterans and the United Daughters of the Confederacy organized “a time set aside for the South to pay tribute to its fallen heroes of the Civil War.” A full afternoon of ceremonies, “an impressive program… at the conclusion of which the graves of the veterans will be covered with flowers and a small confederate battle flag placed at the head of each.” They would proceed past monuments erected to celebrate the War for Independence from México.207 Yet in Texas, they would move past monument into practice—into re-enactment. In unending resistance to race equity in Texas, the turn of the twentieth-century would witness the expansion of Jim Crow legislation and practices, and the solidifying of racist segregation, attacks and lynchings; and, each would impact African American and Mexican communities, shifting these populations’ locations greatly. Re-enactments of race war with quotidian violences was the way in which white Texans were “both following footsteps and leaving footsteps to follow in directions not always, or only, forward .”208 The domestic theater of World War I in the United States would allow the production of more sites of re-enactment. 281 Notes to Chapter Five 1 Lemann documents the massive movement of African Americans northward, while greatly underrepresenting the extent to which African Americans fled the southern U.S. states after experiencing and/or witnessing home and church burnings, tortures, and lynchings. Nicholas Lemann, The Promised Land: The Great Black Migration and How It Changed America (New York: Knopf Doubleday Publishers, 1991), 6. 2 From a telegraph from the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) to U.S. President Wilson after the beating of NAACP Secretary John Shillady in Austin on August 22, 1919. “Negro Protest to Wilson,” The New York Times, 30 August 1919. 3 Previous work on Martyrs of the Alamo includes Richard Flores’ Remembering the Alamo: Memory, Modernity, and Master Symbol (Austin, University of Texas Press, 2002) and A. Gabriel Meléndez’s Hidden Chicano Cinema: Film Dramas in the Borderlands (New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2013). 4 There have been over 700 films focusing on the Alamo since 1911. The films The Immortal Alamo (1911) and The Siege and Fall of the Alamo (1914) have been lost. They would be followed Griffith’s Martyrs of the Alamo. Major productions centering the Battle at the Alamo include: Davy Crockett at the Fall of the Alamo (1926), Heroes of the Alamo (1937), Fall of the Alamo (1938), The Man from the Alamo (1953), The Last Command (1955), The Alamo (1960), Viva Max (1969), Thirteen Days to Glory (1987), Alamo: The Price of Freedom (1987), Texas (1995), The Alamo (2004), and Texas Rising: History Channel Mini-Series (2015). 5 “Birth of Texas Told in Moving Pictures, Bowie, Houston and Davis Brought to Life in Martyrs of the Alamo,” Dallas Morning News (21 November 1915), 4. 6 “‘Martyrs of Alamo’ Film at Old Mill, Texas History in Moving Pictures Proves Pleasing to Audience, Dallas Morning News (22 November 1915), 5. 7 “At the Picture Shows Today: ‘Martyrs of the Alamo,’” Dallas Morning News (23 November 1915), 8. 8 The Birth of a Nation was released February 8, 1915 and Martyrs of the Alamo: The Birth of Texas was released November 21, 1915. Moreover, its release followed the enormous success of 1914’s Indian Wars, also known as Buffalo Bill’s Indian Wars or The Indian Wars Refought. The makers of Indian Wars made the claim that they recreated four battles fought by the U.S. Calvary: The Battle of Summit Springs, The Battle of Warbonnet Creek, The Battle of the Mission, and the Battle of Wounded Knee. The narrative of Indian Wars is a progressive one that begins with the Sioux participating in “war dances,” raiding, and scalping, but by the film’s end, 282 Sioux children are depicted as subdued, attending schools, and farming crops in the Jeffersonian model. The film was produced by the Buffalo Bill Historical Picture Company. 9 “At the Picture Shows Today,” 5. Thomas Cripps’s Slow Fade to Black: The Negro in American Film, 1900-1942 provides a scene-by-scene treatment of The Birth of a Nation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), 41-69. 10 Robert K. Klepper, Silent Films, 1877-1996: A Critical Guide to 646 Movies (Jefferson, NC: McFarland and Company, 2005), 175-176. 11 “Martyrs of the Alamo: Celebrating Screen Westerns,” http://cinemawesterns.com/films/martyrsofthealamo.html 12 For the purpose of the film, Griffith implies the threat of Flora’s rape by Gus. However, in the novel on which the film is based, The Clansman: An Historical Romance of the Ku Klux Klan the narrative by author Thomas F. Dixon, Sr. includes a violent gang rape scene, in which Gus and three other freedmen attack Flora and her sister Marion. Dixon’s original version includes graphic details of the rapes that represent Gus as animal-like, writing “the black claws of the beast sank into the soft white throat and [Marion] was still,” The Clansman: An Historical Romance of the Ku Klux Klan (Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 1970 [1905]), 304-309. “Martyrs of the Alamo: Film Dealing with Texas History to Appear Here Soon, 13 Given Special Showing at Old Mill,” Dallas Morning News (16 November 1915), 3. 14 Ibid. 15 W. Stephen Bush’s column “History on the Screen” is quoted in the review of Martyrs of the Alamo, “Birth of Texas Told in Moving Pictures, Bowies, Houston and Davis Brought to Life in Martyrs of the Alamo,” Dallas Morning News (21 November 1915), 4. The praise for David W. Griffith’s historical accuracy in The Birth of a Nation often mentioned that the events were merely fifty years past, and that Griffith’s father had been a Confederate officer. Klepper, 176. 16 “Children’s Matinee Today: Chaperons Named for Usual Saturday Picture Show,” Dallas Morning News (27 November 1915), 16; Advertisement, “Kids’ Matinee Notice: Martyrs of the Alamo,” Dallas Morning News (27 November 1915), 2. “The Spirit of ‘I WILL’ (The Texas Spirit of ’36),” Dallas Morning News (24 17 November 1915), 2. 283 18 “Big Feature to Return,” Dallas Morning News (9 January 1916), 2. “To Be Seen on the Screen,” The Philadelphia Inquirer 17 October 1915, 10; 19 Amusements Advertising Section, Philadelphia Inquirer 17 October 1915, 11. 20 “Triangle Films Group of Splendid Subjects Shown at the Opera House,” The Philadelphia Inquirer, 19 October 1915, 6; “Third Triangle Series Stirs Things,” The Philadelphia Inquirer 20 October 1915, 15. 21 Meléndez (2013), 8. 22 A key discussion of the film and the cultural potency of the Battle of the Alamo itself has been done by Richard R. Flores in Remembering the Alamo: Memory, Modernity, & the Master Symbol (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2002). Flores argues the negative portrayal of the Mexican population in the film is due to racism that existed toward Mexicans in 1915, the year the film was produced, 95. I argue against this cause and effect, and instead insist that the film helped to invent the figure of the Mexican and created the script for anti-Mexican attitude and practices. See also: Robert Niemi, History in the Media: Film and Television (Santa Barbara: ACC- CLIO Greenwood Praeger, 2004), 9; Greg Cantrell and Elizabeth Hayes Turner, Lone Star Pasts: Memory and History in Texas (College Station: Texas A&M Press, 2006), 242. 23 Holly Beachley Brear, Inherit the Alamo: Myth and Ritual at an American Shrine (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1995). 24 Gary Brown, The New Orleans Greys: Volunteers in the Texas Revolution (Plano: Republic of Texas Press, 1999), 60; Herman Ehrenberg, With Milam and Fannin (Austin: Pemberton Press, 1968), 6. 25 Of the men who called themselves “Defenders of the Alamo.” Nine were born in Coahuila y Tejas, the large majority of the squatter-colonists were born in Kentucky, Massachusetts, New York, New Jersey, and Tennessee, with several from Ireland. The number of those killed at the Battle of the Alamo as part of the colonial forces “defending” the Alamo from Mexican forces are derived from three main sources: The Diary of Colonel William Gray, a Virginian present when the enslaved “Joe” was interviewed. Gray’s list of those “who fell in the Alamo” includes one hundred and fifty- two names. See: William F. Gray, From Virginia to Texas, 1835: Diary of Col. William F. Gray Giving Details of His Journey to Texas and Return in 1835-1836 and Second Journey to Texas in 1837 (Houston: Fletcher Young Publishing Company, 1965 [1909]), 138-141. A contemporaneous list of “Alamo defenders” who were killed in battle was published by the Telegraph and Texas Register on 24 March 1836. It included one hundred and fifteen 284 names. 26 Emphasis mine. Intertitles five and seven from Martyrs of the Alamo: The Birth of Texas, 1915, Triangle Pictures. 27 “Martyrs of the Alamo: Film Dealing with Texas History,” 3. 28 Although, of course, it is important to note that the construction of Mexicans as seeking to gain territory, rather than simply retain the land that is actually México, is a fiction. 29 Intertitle eight from Martyrs of the Alamo: The Birth of Texas, 1915, Triangle Pictures. 30 Intertitle thirteen from Martyrs of the Alamo: The Birth of Texas, 1915, Triangle Pictures. 31 Intertitle seventy-five from Martyrs of the Alamo: The Birth of Texas, 1915, Triangle Pictures. Hector Saldaña, “Political context lacking in all films about Alamo,” San 32 Antonio Express-News 27 February 2011. http://www.mysanantonio.com/alamo/article/Political-context-lacking-in-all-films-about- Alamo-1029406.php 33 The scenes from Martyrs of the Alamo are echoed in current anti-immigrant propaganda that repeat images of Mexicans coming over walls and through tunnels en masse. 34 Taussig, 9. Bill Groneman, “Alamo Noncombatants,” Handbook of Texas Online 35 http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/qsa01; “The Women and Children,” The Alamo: The Shrine of Texas Liberty http://www.thealamo.org/history/the-1836- battle/women-and-children.html 36 Ralph Hancock and Letitia Fairbanks, Douglas Fairbanks: The Fourth Musketeer (New York: Henry Holt Publishers, 1953), 119-120; Douglas Fairbanks’ character is referred to as “Joe/Texan Soldier (uncredited)” in IMDB’s listing for Martyrs of the Alamo http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0005719/fullcredits?ref_=tt_cl_sm#cast; “The Martyrs of the Alamo by Cabanne,” Reviews https://archive.org/details/TheMartyrsoftheAlamo In a later iteration of the figure of Joe the Slave, in John Wayne’s The Alamo 37 (1960, United Artists), Joe would be portrayed as a “slave boy” of about the age of seven. 285 38 Ron J. Jackson and Lee Spencer White, Joe, the Slave Who Became an Alamo Legend (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2015); Ron Jackson, “In the Alamo’s Shadow,” True West Magazine February 1998, republished by Texas A&M University at: http://www.tamu.edu/faculty/ccbn/dewitt/adp/history/1836/blacks/jackson.html; “Martyrs of the Alamo: Celebrating Screen Westerns,” http://cinemawesterns.com/films/martyrsofthealamo.html; 39 Of the enslaved Milsapp family, the head of the family, Isaac, dies, and his wife, called “Blind Mary,” and children are found days later by one of Houston’s soldiers hiding in the brush by the Brazos River’s edge. Jackson and White, particularly chapter three “Chattel,” and chapters 22 and 23 “From the Ashes,” and “Travis’ Negro.” 40 Joe Holley, “Story of Slave, Alamo Hero Recounted in New Book,” The Houston Chronicle 23 April 2015 http://www.houstonchronicle.com/news/columnists/native-texan/article/Story-of-slave- Alamo-hero-recounted-in-new-book-6219918.php 41 Holley; Jackson and White, 233-238. 42 William Wells Brown, Narrative of William W. Brown, a Fugitive Slave. Written by Himself (Boston: The Anti-Slavery Office, 1847). http://docsouth.unc.edu/neh/brown47/menu.html 43 Extensive work has been cone on the consequences of the 1850 Fugitive Slave Act. For works with particular emphasis on the enslavement, escape, and pursuit of William Wells Brown, see: Robert Baker, “Federalism and the Fugitive Slave Act: The Making and Unmaking of Constitutional Nationalism,” Historical Society Conference (Baltimore, Maryland, 2008) http://www.bu.edu/historic/conference08/baker.pdf; Stanley Campbell, The Slave Catchers: Enforcement of the Fugitive Slave Law, 1850-1860 (Chapel Hill, University of North Carolina Press, 2011); Lynn A. Casmier-Paz, “Footprints of the Fugitive: Slave Narrative Discourse and the Trace of Autobiography,” Biography, Volume 24 (Winter 2001); Sharon A. Roger Hepburn, “Following the North Star: Canada as a Haven for Nineteenth Century American Blacks,” Michigan Historical Review, Volume 25 (Fall 1999); James McPherson, Ordeal by Fire: Civil War and Reconstruction (New York: McGraw Hill 2001); Loren Schweninger and John Hope Franklin, Runaway Slaves: Rebels on the Plantation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000). 44 C. Peter Ripley, ed.,”William Wells Brown, 1814-1884,” The Black Abolitionist Papers: Volume II: Canada, 1830-1865 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1992). Available online at: Documenting the American South http://docsouth.unc.edu/fpn/brownw/bio.html 45 Holley; Jackson and White, 233-238. 286 46 J.R. Edmondson, The Alamo Story – From History to Current Conflicts (Plano: Republic of Texas Press, 2000), 91; Clifford Hopewell, James Bowie Texas Fighting Man: A Biography (Austin: Eakin Press, 1994), 18. 47 Intertitle thirty-six from Martyrs of the Alamo: The Birth of Texas, 1915, Triangle Pictures. 48 Trouillot, 2. 49 In 2015, Texas began to deny birthright citizenship to children born in the United States to undocumented mothers were not U.S. citizens. This is in direct conflict with the 14th Amendment of the U.S. Constitution passed in 1868, which states all children born within the United States are “natural born citizens.” See: Melissa del Bosque, “Children of Immigrants Denied Citizenship” Texas Observer 13 July 2015. https://www.texasobserver.org/children-of-immigrants-denied-citizenship/; The Washington Post Editorial Board, “Texas’s War on Birthright Babies,” The Washington Post 5 October 2015 https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/texass-war- on-birthright-babies/2015/10/05/1ef02d16-693f-11e5-9ef3-fde182507eac_story.html; Patrik Jonsson,“How a Federal Judge Navigates Immigrant Birth Rights in Texas,” Christian Science Monitor 17 October 2015 http://www.csmonitor.com/USA/Justice/2015/1017/How-a-federal-judge-navigates- immigrant-birth-rights-in-Texas 50 Harry P. Pachon, “Naturalization: Determinants and Process in the Hispanic Community, An Overview of Citizenship in the Hispanic Community,” International Migration Review, Vol. 21:2, (Summer 1987), 99-310, 300. 51 Lawrie Balfour, The Evidence of Things Not Said: James Baldwin and the Promise of American Democracy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1998), 353. 52 For in-depth perspectives on the complicated México-Texas history that focus on the conditions of Mexicans in the emergent racial order, the following are recommended: Neil Foley’s The White Scourge: Mexicans, Blacks, and Poor Whites in Texas Cotton Culture, in particular chapters one through five, which explore the shift in Spanish borderlands between 1820-1930 as the colonial presence pushed into Coahuila y Tejas and Texas as well as continuing movements of Mexicans and African-Americans into the region. The attitudes of white settlers toward Mexicans are explored in Montejano’s Anglos and Mexicans in the Making of Texas 1836-1986. This work more explicitly develops a timeline of shifting attitudes toward Mexicans, particularly as increasingly racist attitudes toward Mexicans contributed to the white immigrant colonists’ declaration of an independent Republic, and the ensuing U.S.-Mexico War. Montejano’s argues while white colonists prior to 1836 had generally accepted Mexicans as part of the Spanish 287 elite, after 1836, the incoming white immigrants were more inclined to view Mexicans as inferior and of another race, 114-117, and 143. 53 Steven Weisenburger, “The Shudder and the Silence: James Baldwin on White Terror,” American Notes and Queries (Summer 2002), 3–14, 3. Lester G. Bugbee, “Slavery in Early Texas,” The Laws of Slavery in Texas, 54 Randolph B. Campbell, ed. (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2010), 21-36, 21. 55 Ibid, 23. 56 Indeed, Austin’s colony included over 30,000 immigrant-colonists by the time of the Texas Revolution in 1835. Stephen F. Austin (1793-1836), Austin’s Colony Records, (AR.87.AU), Archives and Records Program, Texas General Land Office, Austin. In addition, summaries and digitized copies of the correspondence can be found at “Selections from the Catalogue of the Spanish Collection of the Texas General Land Office, Part II: Correspondence, Empresario Contracts, Decrees, Appointments, Reports, Notices & Proceedings pertaining to Austin’s Colony,” compiled and written by Galen D. Greaser, The Texas General Land Office. http://www.lib.utexas.edu/taro/txglo/supplements/00053.pdf See also: “Austin’s Colony,” Texas A&M University originally published by the George Ranch Historical Park. http://www.tamu.edu/faculty/ccbn/dewitt/adp/history/hispanic_period/tenoxtitlan/austins _colony.html; Eugene C. Barker, The Life of Stephen F. Austin (Nashville: Cokesbury Press, [1925], Austin: Texas State Historical Association, 1949); Eugene C. Barker, “Austin, Stephen Fuller,” Handbook of Texas Online http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/fau14; Gregg Cantrell, Stephen F. Austin: Empresario of Texas (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001). Further, in his comprehensive and deeply researched Black Reconstruction in America, An Essay Toward a History of the Part Which Black Folk Played in the Attempt to Reconstruct Democracy in America, 1860–1880, W. E. Burghardt DuBois, enumerates that in 1860 the total pollution of Texas was 603, 812 (420,891 white and 182,921 freemen and enslaved), 552. 57 Patricia Nelson Limerick, The Legacy of Conquest: The Unbroken Past of the American West (New York: Norton, 1987), 229. 58 Randolph B. Campbell An Empire for Slavery: The Peculiar Institution in Texas, 1821-1865 (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1991), iv. 59 Richard Griswold del Castillo, The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo: A Legacy of Conflict (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1990), 4-6. 60 “No podrá hacerse, despues de la promulgacion de estal ley, venti ne compra de 288 los esclavos que sean conducidos al imperio. Los hijos de éstos que nazcan en él, serán libres á los catorce años de eda.” From Diario de las sesiones de la Soberana Junta Provisional Gubernativa del Imperio Mexicano, instalada según previenen el Plan de Iguala y tratados de la Villa de Córdova: Volume 1 of Actas constitucionales mexicanas, Issue 12 of Serie A—Fuentes: Textos y estudios legislativos (Mexico City, Mexico: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1980), 66-67. 61 Bugbee, 32. 62 The May 5, 1828 Decree reads: “The Congress of Coahuila and Texas, attending to the deficiency of workingmen to give activity to agriculture and the other arts, and desiring to facilitate their introduction into the State, as well as the growth and prosperity of the said branches, has thought proper to decree: All contracts, not in opposition to the laws of the State, that have been entered into in foreign countries, between emigrants who come to settle in this State, or between the inhabitants thereof, and the servants and day laborers or workingmen whom they introduce, are hereby guaranteed to be valid in said State.” Laws and decrees of Coahuila and Texas, 102. Cited in Bugbee, 35. 63 The Texas Gazette, 23 January, 1830. 64 The Texas Gazette, 23 January, 1830. 65 The colonists’ appeal to their rights as Mexican citizens as they began their Texas war for independence, is a direct parallel to the way in which British colonists in North America would demand to be treated as fully British with the rallying cry, “No taxation without representation,” as they initiated the American Revolution. I owe this critical insight about the British colonists and the American Revolution to Dr. Kirsten Pai Buick and her work on colonial portraiture. 66 T.R. Fehrenbach, Lone Star: A History of Texas and Texans (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1968), 223; David Montejano, Anglos and Mexicans in the Making of Texas 1836-1986, Part I: Incorporation, 1836-1900. 67 “Constitution of the Republic of Texas, 1836, General Provisions,” The Laws of Texas, 1822-1897, 1:1079, (The Gammel Book Company, 1905) H.P.N. Gammel, ed. 68 The 1840 Act that forbade free Blacks from living in Texas was published in all Texas newspapers, “Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the Republic of Texas, in Congress assembled: That from and after the passage of this act, it shall not be lawful for any free persons of color to emigrate to this Republic” (Section 1). The Act established that all free blacks within the bounds of Texas would be fined $1,000 and enslaved for one year if they could not pay the sum. After a year of enslavement— laboring in brutal conditions without wages—they would again be asked to pay the fine 289 of $1,000. It read: That if any free person of color should be brought before any Chief Justice of any county, or District Judge, and shall not be able to give the bond as prescribed in the second section of this act, such Chief Justice, or district judge shall commit such free person of color to the public jail, with an, order to the sheriff to expose him to public sale, to the highest bidder, at the court house door of his county (Section 3). When those free persons, enslaved for one year, were unable to pay the $1,000 fine, they would be declared enslaved for life. In addition, the Act passed by the Texas Congress ordered all free Blacks then living in the Republic of Texas to leave within two years or face enslavement. Be it further enacted, That two years shall be allowed from and after the passage of this act, to all free persons of color who now are in this Republic, to remove out of the same; and all those who shall be found here after that time, without the permission of Congress shall be arrested and sold as provided in this act (Section 8). Be it further enacted, That the President of the Republic do issue his proclamation, commanding all free persons of color who now are in the Republic, to remove from the same before the first of January, 1842 (Section 10). “An Act,” Civilian and Galveston Gazette, 4 November 1840, 1. 69 Galveston Mayor Walton’s proclamation read: From and after this date all slaves and persons colour found out at night after the hour of nine without a written permit from their master will be taken up and dealt with according to an Ordinance passed by the Board of Aldermen [illegible word] slaves. J. H. WALTON. Mayor. “Notice,” Civilian and Galveston Gazette, 4 November 4, 1840, 1. In 1842, the curfew was moved to 8pm after “it has been represented to the Civil authorities of the city that Free Negroes, Mulattoes, and Slaves are frequently found abroad at unseasonable hours of the night and the threatening aspect of the times requiring that a vigilant watch should be kept over the conduct of all such persons.” “Mayor,” Civilian and Galveston Gazette, 16 April 1842, 1. 70 Harold Schoen, “The Free Negro in the Republic of Texas: The Extent of Discrimination and Its Effects,” The Laws of Slavery in Texas (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2010), 117-133, 121. 290 “Lynch Law in Texas,” The Liberator (1835-1865), 19 November 1841, 11:47. 71 American Periodicals, 187. 72 Outgoing President John Tyler was charged with the negotiations with the Republic’s President and Texas entered the United States six days before President Polk took office. Fehrenbach, 264-267. 73 Fields (1982), 162. 74 “Letter to the Editor by O’Reilly’s Southern Line,” The Louisville Daily Journal, 6 June 1851, 3. 75 Positioning Mexicans as gangs of robbers who attacked settlers in Texas, The New York Herald then continued on to detail the threat of Natives: “All of the accounts received from that quarter, speak in the most gloomy and desponding tone of the probability of ever being relieved from the scourge with which they are so frequently visited.” The article concluded that if the scourge was not controlled, Texas “will shortly revert back to its original owners—the red skins.” “Intelligence from the Texan Frontier: Murders by Mexicans—Lynch Law—Indian Depredations Mail Rider Killed by Indians,” The New York Herald, 13 May 1852, 7. 76 The Texas State Constitution required whiteness for state citizenship and voting, exempting from citizenship “Indians not taxed, Africans, and descendants of Africans.” Article III, “Constitution of the Republic of Texas, 1836, General Provisions,” The Laws of Texas, 1822-1897, 1:1079, (The Gammel Book Company, 1905) H.P.N. Gammel, ed. The federal citizenship of enslaved peoples would not be established until the 1868 Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution. Federal immigration laws continued to limit naturalization to “free white aliens,” however, not extending the right of naturalization to “aliens of African descent” until 1870. Pachon, 300. The State would continue to argue Mexicans as “Indians” or naturalized/unnaturalizable until the 1897 In re Rodriguez case, which established the “whiteness” of Ricardo Rodriguez, of Mexican descent, for the purpose of naturalizing. This case was decided in direct relation to Articles VIII and IX of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. Rodriguez had sought his right to naturalize, but was stymied by arguments made by the State of Texas that claimed as a Mexican Rodriguez was neither white nor of African descent—indeed he was culturally Indian, thus he had no right to naturalization. Rodriguez was successful in asserting his whiteness at the appellate level, gaining the right to naturalization. See: Laura E. Gómez, Manifest Destinies: The Making of the Mexican American Race (New York: New York University Press, 2007), 134, 139-142; In re Rodriguez, 81 Fed. 337 (1896). 291 77 Griswold del Castillo (1990), 92. 78 See the following selected articles in The New York Times: “Murder and Lynch Law in Corpus Cristi,” 22 December 1855; “Murder and Lynch Law at Brownsville, Texas,” 27 January 1858; “Lynch Law on the Border,” 29 December 1877; “An Atrocious Murder,” 3 November 1885; “Texas War Fever,” 4 August 1886. 79 “A Tour of the Southwest: Number Nine,” The New York Times 12 May 1854. 80 Erik T. Rigler, “A Descriptive Study of the Texas Ranger: Historical Overtones on Minority Attitudes,” (Thesis, Sam Houston State University, 1971), 10. 81 See also: “Mexico Prevents Further Rioting,” 11 November, 1910; “Why Rodriguez was Burned; Killed Woman Who ‘Talked Mean’ to Him--No Arrest for Lynching,” 11 November 1910; “2,000 Men Gather to Repel Mexicans,” 16 November 1910; “Lynching Angers Mexico: Washington to Take Up the Hanging of a Mexican Boy in Texas,” 26 June 1911; “Hunt Mexican Murderers,” 13 September 1913; “Protecting Mexicans in the United States,”18 November, 1922. 82 DuBois, 552-561. See also: Kenneth W. Howell, ed., Still the Arena of Civil War: Violence and Turmoil in Reconstruction Texas, 1865-1874 (Denton: University of North Texas, 2009). Howell’s edited collection with sixteen contributors documenting what Howell terms the “guerrilla war” that continued the Civil War into the Reconstruction Era. Discussions of the Freedmen’s Bureau, the origins of the Ku Klux Klan in Texas, and widespread violence by region is enormously valuable to studies of the period. 83 Causalities of the Civil War, in particular combatants, taken from “Civil War Casualties – The Cost of War: Killed, Wounded, Captured, and Missing,” The Civil War Trust, which also specifies deaths by Confederate versus Union combatants and scales Civil War losses with other military engagements. http://www.civilwar.org/education/civil-war-casualties.html In addition, the State of Texas was key to the United States’ reunification after the war, when, in a U.S. Supreme Court decision regarding Texas, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled the Union “perpetual and indestructible.” In Texas v. White, 74 U.S. 700 (1869) the Court ruled that the U.S. Constitution did not permit a state to unilaterally secede from the United States. The court deemed any such state declarations “absolutely null” under the constitution. Legal scholar Richard Zuczek has argued Texas v. White established that no state could choose to leave the Union, and that the U.S. Supreme Court was “explicitly repudiating the position of the Confederate states that the United States was a voluntary compact between sovereign states.” Zuczek, 649. See also: Robert Bruce Murray, Legal Cases of the Civil War (Mechanicsburg: Stackpole Books, 2003), 155–159. 84 Walter F. Bell, “Civil War Texas: A Review of the Historical Literature,” 292 Southwestern Historical Quarterly (2005, 109:2), 204–232. 85 DuBois, 552-553. In 1870 the U.S. Congress restored Texas to the Union, however it did not meet the requirements of statehood established after the Civil War. See also: Bell, 204–232; Joel H. Sibley, Storm Over Texas: The Annexation Controversy and the Road to Civil War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007); “The Archives War,” Texas Treasures – The Republic, The Texas State Library and Archives Commission. https://www.tsl.state.tx.us/treasures/republic/archwar/archwar.html Retrieved 2011-12-06 86 Texas and its citizens might be said to have been Civil War profiteers. DuBois details the Civil War-era Texas “war trade,” 552-553. 87 Fehrenbach, 395. 88 The Thirteenth Amendment, which was proposed and ratified in 1865 abolished slavery. “13th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution: Abolition of Slavery,” National Archives. http://www.archives.gov/historical- docs/document.html?doc=9&title.raw=13th%20Amendment%20to%20the%20U.S.%20 Constitution%3A%20Abolition%20of%20Slavery The Fourteenth Amendment, which was proposed in 1866 and ratified two years later created the privileges made the due process and equal protection clauses applicable to all persons. Eric Foner, “The Reconstruction Amendments: Official Documents as Social History,” The Gilder Lehrman Institute of American History http://www.gilderlehrman.org/history-by-era/reconstruction/essays/reconstruction- amendments-official-documents-social-history The Fifteenth Amendment, which was proposed in 1869 and ratified in 1870, prohibited discrimination in voting rights of citizens on the basis of “race, color, or previous condition of servitude,” “Primary Documents in American History – 15th Amendment to the Constitution,” Primary Documents of American History Virtual Programs & Services, Library of Congress. https://www.loc.gov/rr/program/bib/ourdocs/15thamendment.html See also: “The Constitution of the United States: Amendments 11-27,” United States National Archives. http://www.archives.gov/exhibits/charters/constitution_amendments_11-27.html 89 Lincoln’s executive order did not end the enslavement of Natives, which persisted well into the 20th century. Comprehensive work on the enduring Native enslavement has been done by James F. Brooks’ Captives and Cousins: Slavery, Kinship, and Community in the Southwest Borderlands (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002). In addition, The Other Slavery: The Uncovered Story of Indian Enslavement in America by Andrés Reséndez is a record of the enslavement and trafficking of North 293 American natives from the 1490s through the late 1800s. Reséndez argues the decimation of Native populations in North American is due to mass slavery, rather than disease or warfare (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Publishing, 2016). 90 “From Texas; Important Orders by General Granger. Surrender of Senator Johnson of Arkansas. A Soattering of Rebel Officials,” The New York Times, 7 July 1865. See: http://www.nytimes.com/1865/07/07/news/texas-important-orders-general-granger- surrender-senator-johnson-arkansas.html As Henry Louis Gates explains, many more slaves had been moved into Texas at the commencement of the Civil War: “Since the capture of New Orleans in 1862, slave owners in Mississippi, Louisiana and other points east had been migrating to Texas to escape the Union Army’s reach. In a hurried re-enactment of the original Middle Passage, more than 150,000 slaves had made the trek west, according to historian Leon Litwack in his book Been in the Storm So Long: The Aftermath of Slavery. As one former slave he quotes recalled, ”‘It looked like everybody in the world was going to Texas.’ See: Henry Louis Gates, Jr., “What Is Juneteenth?” The Root 17 June 2013 http://www.pbs.org/wnet/african-americans-many-rivers-to-cross/history/what-is- juneteenth/ 91 From Leon Litwack’s Been in the Storm So Long: The Aftermath of Slavery, quoted in Henry Louis Gates, Jr. “What Is Juneteenth?” The Root 17 June 2013. http://www.pbs.org/wnet/african-americans-many-rivers-to-cross/history/what-is- juneteenth/ 92 DuBois, 556. 93 Ibid, 558-559. 94 Rigler, 9 95 On the necessity for federal martial law in Arkansas and Texas see DuBois, 551-553. 96 Recer, 64-65. 97 Young, 1998, 63. 98 Robert Kagan, Dangerous Nation (New York: Random House, 2007), 274. 99 Luis Angel Toro, “‘A People Distinct from Others’: Race and Identity in Federal Indian Law and the Hispanic Classification,” OMB Directive No. 15, 26 Texas Tech Law Review (1995), 1246-1252, 1246. 100 Joe Tom Davis, Legendary Texians, Volume II (Austin: Eakin Press, 1985), 294 105; “Leander Harvey McNelly 1844-1877,” The Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum. http://www.texasranger.org/halloffame/McNelly_Leander.htm; Chuck Parsons and Marianne E. Hall Little, Captain L. H. McNelly, Texas Ranger (Austin: State House Press, 2001). 101 Davis, 106. 102 Harris and Sadler (2007), 16. 103 J. B. “Red” Dunn, Perilous Trails of Texas (Dallas: Southwest Press, 1932), 35-36. 104 Ibid, 102-03. 105 Ibid, 69-70. 106 Ibid, 73. 107 Jeffery Robenalt, “Leander H. McNelly and the Special Force,” Texas Escapes Magazine 1 March 2011. http://www.texasescapes.com/JefferyRobenalt/Leander-H- McNelly-and-Special-Force.htm; “Texas Rangers,” Texas State Historical Association. https://tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/met04; “John B. Armstrong, 1850-1913,” The Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum. http://www.texasranger.org/halloffame/Armstrong_John.htm Today a memorial to Salinas, erected by Mexicans, stands under a massive ebony tree in Los Ebanos, Hidalgo County (Farm Road 886) at the spot where Salinas was killed. It reads: “To citizen JUAN FLORES SALINAS Who fighting Died for his country November 19 1875.” See: “Las Cuevas Ebony,” Famous Trees of Texas: Texas A&M Forest Service. http://texasforestservice.tamu.edu/websites/FamousTreesOfTexas/TreeLayout.aspx?pagei d=16071 For full treatment of Callicott’s life and correspondence with Webb see “Bill 108 Callicott Reminiscences,” transcribed and annotated by Chuck Parsons, with technical editing by Pam S. Baird, Center for American History University of Texas, Austin, 2006. Available online as a Texas Ranger Hall of Fame E-Book: http://www.texasranger.org/E- Books/Callicott,%20William%20-%20Reminiscences.pdf The original preserved letters can be located in the Walter Prescott Webb Collection at the Center for American History, University of Texas, Austin. 109 Ibid, 3. 110 Walter Prescott Webb, The Texas Rangers (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1982 [1935]), 241. 295 111 Letter from Callicott to Webb, April the 28th, 1921. Parsons, 8. 112 Emphasis mine. Letter from Callicott to Webb, April the 28th, 1921. Parsons, 7. 113 Lee (1999), 2. 114 Parsons, 8. 115 Callicott’s recollections were meant specifically for Webb, which he made clear to Webb several times in 1874 writing, “Mr. Webb, I am not writing this to go into print. I am only writing to show you the chance I have had in the way of having my head properly vaccinated with book learning.” In another letter, Callicott emphasizes, “Mr. Webb, don’t let anyone else copy my writing as it is so badly spelled and written, and don’t have any of it put in newspapers, and when you are through with it don’t scatter it over your office for people to see. Let it all go up in smoke.” Later, after Webb’s urging, Callicott has a change of heart and agrees that Webb may share his stories with other Texas Rangers, who were assembling for a reunion, “Mr. Webb, you wanted to know if I cared if you showed my details of Ranger life to the boys. Now I will be glad for you to do it if you will copy them off in your own writing and not expose my bad spelling and writing,” Parsons, 10-11. 116 Ibid. 117 Ibid, 12. 118 Ibid, 13-15. “A Texan Idyl: The Fascinations and Harassments of Horse Thieving,” New 119 York Times, 6 July 1883, 2; “Judge Lynch’s Boom,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 26 June 1885, 4. 120 “Judge Lynch in Texas,” The New York Times, 23 January 1886, 5. “Lynch Law in Texas: Two Murderers Shot in Their Cell by a Mob,” The New 121 York Times, 16 May 1887, 1. “Wants to Be Hanged At Once: Negro Murderer in Texas to be Executed at 122 Time Fixed by Himself,” The New York Times, 30 April 1904, 1. “Texans Lynch a Negro: Quick Death for Man Who Attacked Two White 123 Women,” The New York Times, 30 July 1905: 2. “100 Farmers Lynch Negro: He Had Attacked a White Man in a Texas 124 Town—Mayor Pleads in Vain,” The New York Times, 17 September 1906, 1. 296 125 U.S. President Abraham Lincoln had unilaterally suspended the writ of habeas corpus on April 27, 1861, fifteen days after the beginning of the Civil War to thwart Maryland anti-war officials. Lincoln’s order was found unconstitutional when the U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals ruled in Ex parte Merryman, 17 F. Cas. 144 (C.C.D. Md. 1861) (No. 9487) that only Congress had the authority to suspend habeas corpus. See also: “Arrest of the Maryland Legislature, 1861,” Teaching American History in Maryland, Maryland State Archives http://teaching.msa.maryland.gov/000001/000000/000017/html/t17.html; Doris Kearns Goodwin, Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln, (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2006), 354-355; George Clarke Sellery, “Lincoln’s Suspension of habeas corpus as Viewed by Congress,” (Dissertation, University of Wisconsin, Madison, 1907), 11–26. 126 Federal efforts to stifle the terrorism of the Ku Klux Klan and other white supremacist organizations include the First Enforcement Act of 1870, which banned the use of terror, force, or bribery to prevent citizens from voting based on their race. Under this law, the U.S. President gained the ability to use federal forces to enforce the Act. Hundreds of members of the Ku Klux Klan were arrested on federal charges and fined for interfering with freedmen’s voting rights. Indeed, the first Ku Klux Klan was nearly eradicated within a year of the law’s passage. The First Enforcement Act of 1871 added federal supervision to local and state elections and created more severe fines and punishments. See: Robert J. Kaczorowski, “Federal Enforcement of Civil Rights During the First Reconstruction,” Fordham Urban Law Journal 23 (1995): 155-186; “Ku Klux Klan Bill Enacted–April 20, 1871,” The Miller Center, University of Virginia http://millercenter.org/president/about/historical-events#04_20; Richard Wormser, “The Enforcement Acts (1870-71),” Jim Crow Stories, Public Broadcasting Service (PBS). 127 Pollyanna B. Hughes and Elizabeth B. Harrison, “Charles A. Culberson: Not a Shadow of Hogg,” East Texas Historical Journal, Volume 11:2, 41-52, 41. http://scholarworks.sfasu.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1281&context=ethj 128 Charles A. Culberson was born in Alabama and the Culberson family immigrated from Alabama to Gilmer, Texas in 1858. John Henry Brown, “Charles A. Culberson,” Indian Wars and Pioneers of Texas The Portal to Texas History http://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth6725/ “Interview with Charles Culberson,” The Houston Post, 20 March, 1895; 129 Hughes and Harrison, 42. 130 “Judge Lynch’s Court: Interesting Recollections of a Cowboy,” The Atlanta Constitution (reprint from the Chicago News), 8 March 1886, 1. 131 Ibid. 297 132 Karlos K. Hill, “Black Vigilantism: The Rise and Decline of African American Lynch Mob Activity in the Mississippi and Arkansas Deltas, 1883-1923,” The Journal of African American History, Volume 95, No. 1 (Winter 2010), 26-43. Lynching statistics for Texas for the year 1891 are found in: “Crime in Texas,” Los Angeles Times, 10 August 1891, 4; and these can be compared with the national statistics released in 1892 in: “Work of Judge Lynch: The Victims of the Mob—A Ghastly Showing—Frightful Record in the South,” Chicago Daily Tribune 1 January 1892, 12. See also: “The Anti-Black Lynching Inventory of the South between 1882 and 1930,” at Project HAL: Historical American Lynching Data Collection Project http://www.people.uncw.edu/hinese/HAL/HAL%20Web%20Page.htm 133 Young, 63. The persistence of sundown towns is documented in James. W. Loewen’s Sundown Towns: A Hidden Dimension of American Racism (New York: Simon and Schuster Touchstone, 2006). Loewen also maintains an internet accessible database of current sundown towns—his database shows seventy-six sundown towns and counties in Texas currently. See: http://sundown.afro.illinois.edu/sundowntowns.php “From Court Room Texas Mob Drags Negros to Doom: Jim Wesley and 134 Reddick Barton Lynched at Hempstead for Assault and Murder. Mob Could Not Wait for Legal Execution. Allowed Negroes To Be Convicted Legally and Then Dragged Them from Court House and Hanged Them on the Public Square. Hangman Loses to Judge Lynch. Convicted Negroes Dragged from Court by Texas Mob. Mob Waited Till Blacks Had Been Legally Convicted and Then Seized Them and Hanged Them on Public Square at Hempstead. Governor a Bit Too Late,” The Atlanta Constitution, 22 October 1902, 1. 135 “To Check Lynch Law: Senator Gallinger Appeals for Federal Interference. Cites the Texas Horror. He Disclaims Any Desire to Provoke a Sectional Controversy, but Thinks that the Question Should Be Investigated—Senator Bailey Says that Congress Cannot Interfere with the States,” The Washington Post, 27 May 1902, 4. Bailey also argued against women’s suffrage and child labor laws using the same rationale of state’s rights. Sam Acheson, Joe Bailey, The Last Democrat (Freeport: Books for Libraries Press, 1970 [1932]); “Baily, Joseph Weldon,” Biographical Dictionary of the United States Congress: 1774-2005 (Washington D.C., Joint Committee on Printing, 2006), 595; Bob C. Holcomb, “Senator Joe Bailey, Two Decades of Controversy" (Dissertation, Texas Tech University, 1968). 136 “Texas’ Prohibition Fight: A Negro Preacher Only Escapes Lynching Because He Is a Mason—Bonded Warehouse Blown Up,” New York Times, 12 March 1903, 1. 137 “Lynch Negro in Texas,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 02 October 1903, 1. 298 138 “Negroes Fleeing in Texas: Whitesboro Will Soon Be Without a Colored Resident,” The Atlanta Constitution, 14 August 1903, 4. “One Way to Make Rusk County, Texas A White Man’s Country,” 139 Albuquerque Journal 15 October 1903, 1. See also: “Negroes Tortured in Texas: Internal Revenue Collector Makes Appeal to Gov. Lanham,” The Washington Post, 16 October 1903, 11; “Says Negroes Were Tortured: Revenue Collector Tells Story of Persecution in Texas,” The Brooklyn Daily Eagle 15 October 1903, 6; “Tells Terrible Tales of Cruelty Practices on Negroes in Texas,” Pittsburgh Daily Post 17 October 1903; “Webster Flanagan Appeals: Says the Cruelties Visited Upon Negroes in Texas Cannot Be Portrayed – Facts Suppressed,” The Huntington Herald 15 October 1903; “Would Protect Negroes,” Meade County News 29 October 1903, 2. “Texas Rangers Kill Mexicans in Battle – Troops Sent to Their Aid,” The New 140 York Times 10 November 1906, 3. The U.S. Calvary and Rangers broke up “political clubs” in Rio Grande City helping Mexicans to pay poll taxes and register to vote. Five Mexicans were killed. See also Chapter Six – Bodies of War, section titled “The War of Racial Containment.” 141 The Crisis: A Record of the Darker Races (New York: NAACP, 1910), General Collections, Library of Congress (026.00.00) Courtesy of the NAACP. 142 Booker T. Washington, “Gods of Hemp Rope Indicted: The American People Must Put Their Foot Down on Lynch Law,” The Chicago Defender, 30 March 1912, 1; “Lynching of Boy Deed of Fiends: Foulest of Blots on Good Name of Texas – Child of Only 13 Years Dragged Behind Horse,” Nashville Tennessean 25 June 1911, A1. The child’s weight may have been misreported—average weight for a healthy twelve- year-old is about ninety pounds; or, he may have been significantly younger—nine or ten years of age. The child’s name is not given in the media accounts; thus it is not possible to accurately determine his age at the time of his lynching. 143 Washington, 1912, 1. 144 William Keylor, “The Long-Forgotten Racial Attitudes and Policies of Woodrow Wilson,” Boston University: Professor Voices, 4 March 2013. http://www.bu.edu/professorvoices/2013/03/04/the-long-forgotten-racial-attitudes-and- policies-of-woodrow-wilson/ 145 Ibid; Dick Lehr, “The Racist Legacy of Woodrow Wilson,” The Atlantic, 27 November 2015. http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2015/11/wilson-legacy- racism/417549/ 299 Wilson’s racist policies that sought to reverse much of federal Reconstruction law has been under renewed scrutiny due to protest movements at Princeton University led by the Black Justice League. Wilson acted as Princeton’s President prior to being elected the 29th President of the United States. For more on reconsiderations of Wilson’s racist policies, see: Lehr; Keith Brown, “9 Scholars Examine President Woodrow Wilson’s Racial Views for Princeton U.,” NJ.com 25 January 2016. http://www.nj.com/mercer/index.ssf/2016/01/woodrow_wilson_a_racist_9_scholars_wei gh_in.html; Mary Hui, “After protests, Princeton Debates Woodrow Wilson’s Legacy,” The Washington Post 23 November 2015. https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/grade- point/wp/2015/11/23/after-protests-princeton-debates-woodrow-wilsons-legacy/; Max Kutner, “Princeton to Keep Woodrow Wilson Name Despite Protests,” Newsweek 4 April 2016. http://www.newsweek.com/princeton-woodrow-wilson-name-protests-443858 Similarly, Jovita Idár would offend Wilson after publishing several articles and editorials on the lynching of Mexicans in Texas by the Texas Rangers and local authorities. Idar’s family newspaper La Cronica had not been as overtly condemning of violence against Mexicans, but after joining El Progresso, Idar’s editorials, written from San Antonio, were far more political and searing. See also Chapter Three – “Massacre Resurgent,” n28. For more on Jovita Idár, see: Nancy Baker Jones, “Idar, Jovita,” Handbook of Texas Online http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/fid03; Laura Gutierrez-Witt, “Cultural Continuity in the Face of Change: Hispanic Printers in Texas,” Recovering the U.S. Hispanic Literary Heritage, Vol. II. (El Paso: Arte Publico Press, 1996). 146 A Letter to President Woodrow Wilson on Federal Race Discrimination (August 15, 1913). Printed document, National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. NAACP Records, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress (036.00.00) Courtesy of the NAACP. [Digital ID# # na0036p1]. 147 Keylor; Cripps, 52. 148 Joseph Matthew Sullivan, “The Lynching Record for 1916,” Journal of the American Institute of Criminal Law and Criminology, Vol. 8, No. 2. (July 1917), 302- 303. 149 Editorial, The San Antonio Express, 15 September 1915, 1. 150 “The Burden,” The Crisis, January 1916, 145. 151 Art historian Stephanie Morimoto has done thorough and incisive work on the lynching of Jesse Washington and an analysis of the Fred Gildersleeve, the professional photographer who captured the many stages of the torture and lynching. “The Utility of Murder: Fred Gildersleeve and the Lynching of Jesse Washington,” (Thesis, University of New Mexico, 2011) http://hdl.handle.net/1928/12831 300 The lynching postcard series by Gildersleeve of Jessie Washington’s torture and killing are reproduced in James Allen’s Without Sanctuary: Lynching Photography in America (Santa Fe: Twin Palms Publishers, 2000), 173-174, 165, plates 24-25. 152 Amy Louise Wood, Lynching and Spectacle: Witnessing Racial Violence in America, 1890–1940 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2009), 180-182. 153 “The Waco Horror,” Supplement to The Crisis Volume 12, No.3 (July 1916), 1-2. 154 Ibid, 6. 155 Ibid, 3. 156 Ibid, 2, 6. 157 Ibid, 5. 158 Ibid, 7. 159 Helen McClure, “‘Who Dates to Style This Female a Woman?’: Lynching, Gender, and Culture in the Nineteenth-Century U.S. West,” in Lynching Beyond Dixie: American Mob Violence Outside the South (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2013), 21-53. Wesley Hall Looney, “The Texas Rangers in a Turbulent Era,” (Thesis, Texas 160 Tech University, May 1971), 9-10. 161 “United States Committee on Public Information Official Bulletin Announcing President Denouces Mob Violence,” General Records of the Department of Justice National Archives, Identifier: 62771293 http://docsteach.org/documents/62771293/detail?mode=browse&menu=closed&era[]=the -emergence-of-modern-america&page=74 162 See full report of NAACP chapters in the NAACP Collection, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress (045.00.00) Courtesy of the NAACP. http://www.loc.gov/exhibits/naacp/founding-and-early-years.html 163 From a 1919 editorial on John R. Shillady attack in Austin, Secretary of NAACP: Talks about past mob violence “During the war American newspapers with few exceptions bowed to the fashion of tolerating with complacence bodily attacks upon exponents of unpopular causes, including pro-Germans, anarchists, members of I.W.W., and conscientious and religious objectors to war.” Herbert J. Seligman, “The Press Abets the Mob,” The Nation (4 October 1919), 460. 301 164 Thirty Years of Lynching in the United States, 1889–1918. New York: NAACP, April 1919. NAACP Collection, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress (045.00.00) Courtesy of the NAACP Digital ID # na0045p1 http://www.loc.gov/exhibits/naacp/founding-and-early-years.html National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, 1919. See more at: http://www.buffalolib.org/vufind/Record/911479#sthash.EwdvJJdh.dpuf. 165 See James M. Gregory, The Southern Diaspora: How the Great Migrations of Black and White Southerners Transformed America (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2005); Alferdteen Harrison, Black Exodus: The Great Migration from the American South (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1991); Florette Henri, Black Migration: Movement North, 1900-1920 (Garden City: Anchor Press, 1975); Carol Marks, Farewell—We’re Good and Gone: The Great Migration (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989); Isabel Wilkerson, The Warmth of Other Suns: The Epic Story of American’s Great Migration (New York: Vintage, 2010). 166 William H. Frey, “The New Great Migration: Black Americans’ Return to the South, 1965–2000,” The Brookings Institution, May 2004, 1–3. 167 David M. Kennedy, Over Here: The First World War and American Society (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 279, 281-2. 168 By 1900, Mexican nationals living in the United States reached over 100,000 for the first time doubled to over 220,000 in 1910, with another doubling to 478,000 by 1920. See: Arnoldo De León and Richard Griswold del Castillo, North to Aztlán; A History of Mexican Americans in the United States (Camp Hill: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 87, table 5.1, and 90, table 5.2; Brian Gratton and Myron P. Gutmann, “Hispanics in the United States, 1850-1990: Estimates of Population Size and National Origin,” Historical Methods (Summer 2000), 137-153. 169 Kennedy, 279, 281-2. 170 “The Cotton States and the Negro Exodus (From a Special Correspondent lately in America) ” The Manchester Guardian 20 July 1917, 8. 171 Límon, 14. 172 DuBois argues persuasively that the Civil War and Emancipation, were won not by Northern Union forces, but by “the withdrawal and bestowal of [Black] labor,” 57. 173 Clark, 473. 302 174 See Juan Mora Torres’ The Making of the Mexican Border: The State, Capitalism, and Society in Nuevo Léon, 1848-1910 (Austin: University Press, 2001) for an extended discussion on the tyrannical regime of Porfirio Diaz from 1876 to 1911, which was supplanted by the Madero revolution of 1911. In addition, a more specific regional history of the northern states of Mexico in this period can be found in Stuart F. Voss’s On the Periphery of the Nineteenth-Century Mexico: Sonora and Sinaloa, 1810- 1877 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press 1982). 175 George C. Kiser, ed, Mexican Workers in the United States: Historical and Political Perspectives,(Albuquerque: The University of New Mexico Press, 1979), 17. 176 Antonio Rios-Bustamante, Mexican Immigrant Workers in the U.S., (Los Angeles: Chicano Studies Research Center Publications, 1981), 23. 177 Ibid, 23. 178 Kiser, 20. 179 Foley, 43. Foley explains, “Mexicans built and followed Mexican railroads into northern Mexico, where the railways connected at border towns with Texas railroads.” Foley does not, like Ngai, point out that the Mexican railroad was a U.S. funded project. In the late 1880s, U.S stockholders in mining industry pushed for Mexican rail development to move mining freight along the Chihuahuan and Sonoran Desert and this was much of U.S. business interest was much of the impetus for the transcontinental railroad connections. By the 1900s, United States’ industry, including members of the Southern Pacific Railroad, were constructing rail not only in the United States and its territories, but also in Mexico (See David M. Pletcher’s “An American Mining Company in the Mexican Revolutions of 1911-1920,” The Journal of Modern History, 20:1, March 1948). Foley misses this crucial foundation for the population shifts emerging at the turn of the century in Texas—as Ngai writes, this migration follows the U.S. colonial incursion. 180 The anti-Asian Acts would include the Chinese Exclusion Act and the Gentlemen’s Agreement with Japan. 181 Foley, 42. 182 Kiser, 17. 183 Ibid, 3. 184 Indeed, between 1920 and 1929, approximately 427,000 Mexican nationals were admitted legally through the Exemptions to the Immigration Act of 1917. Rios- Bustamante, 24. 303 185 The stipulations of the first bracero program were that Mexican nationals coming to the U.S. as labor were to be predominantly male, and that they were explicitly not allowed to bring their families—wives, children or parents. Census statistics also point to the predominance of males moving into the southwest via these provisions. Thus, the 1917 Immigration Act essentially made the cultivation and nurturance of family illegal for Mexican laborers. The stipulations of the Act also restricted movement, employment prospects, congregation (no wives or children allowed to migrate), and naturalization. Immigration Act, 1917. 186 Alien Contract Labor Law, 1885. 187 Other limitations come into play, as during this period, the Census and Labor Statistics Bureaus did not use the relatively new category of “Hispanic.” Thus we must follow the trail of the “foreign-born white” (not classified by country of birth) in the years examined. Rios-Bustamante, 25. 188 In these regions, between sixty-nine and seventy percent of all foreign-born whites were Mexican nationals. Roden Fuller, “Occupations of the Mexican-Born Populations of Texas, New Mexico and Arizona, 1900-1920,” Journal of the American Statistical Association, 23:161, (March 1928), 64. 189 “Negro Migration to North Totals 350,000 in 1916 and 1917 – Lack of Labor I the North and General Dissatisfaction with Conditions in South were Principle Causes,” The Dallas Express 15 March 1919, 1. 190 Ibid. 191 “Social Notes,” The Dallas Express 5 April 1919, 4; “Texas Towns: Hillsboro,” The Dallas Express 5 April 1919, 7. 192 “For Action on Race Riot Peril,” The New York Times 5 October 1919. 193 Alana J. Erickson, “Red Summer,” Encyclopedia of African-American Culture and History (New York: Macmillan, 1960), 2293-4; George P. Cunningham, “James Weldon Johnson,” Encyclopedia of African-American Culture and History (New York: Macmillan, 1960), 1459-61; William M. Tuttle, Jr., “Violence in a ‘Heathen’ Land: The Longview Race Riot of 1919,” Phylon 33 (1972). 194 Ken Durham, “Longview Race Riot of 1919,” Handbook of Texas Online http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/jcl02 195 Tuttle. 196 “For Action on Race Riot Peril,” The New York Times 5 October 1919. 304 197 Ibid. 198 Tuttle. 199 Brent Staples, “A ‘Most Dangerous’ Newspaper,” The New York Times 10 January 2016, BR12. 200 Durham; Tuttle. 201 “Weekly Paper Published By Negro Is Under Ban,” El Paso Herald 24 June 1918, 7. 202 Tuttle. Without Sanctuary August 3, 1920 (plates 52-54), note pg. 184; “Lynch Postal 203 Clerk Who Demanded Rights,” The Chicago Defender, 10 July 1920, 1. 204 “Texas Lynchings Lead, with 12 in 6 Months: Tuskegee Institute Statement Summarizes Cases of Mob Violence,” The Washington Post, 1 July 1922, 3; “Lynch 60 in South in 1922: White Americans, 52 Negroes and 1 Mexican on List; Texas Leads,” The Washington Post, 31 Dec 1922, 4. 205 “Lynch 60 in South in 1922.” 206 Bryan Woolley, “At Its Peak, Ku Klux Klan Gripped Dallas,” The Dallas Morning News 19 April 2016 http://www.dallasnews.com/section-archives/125th- anniversary/headlines/20100515-at-its-peak-ku-klux-klan-gripped- dallas.ece?ssimg=13147#ssStory45722 207 “To Decorate Graves: San Antonio Confederate Veterans Will Observe Decoration Day,” The San Antonio Light 15 April 1917, 16. 208 Rebecca Schneider Performing Remains: Art and War in Times of Theatrical Reenactment (London: Routledge, 2011), 32. 305 I have never been satisfied with the Alamo and Goliad events, and always have felt that there was something yet due the Mexicans from us, and if there is a second call and for a war, the Mexicans will certainly get what is due them from the Texans. -Joseph Nichols1 The war is not meant to be won, it is meant to be continuous. –George Orwell CHAPTER SIX: BODIES OF WAR Sixty-nine years after the armed conflict between white colonists and Mexican federal forces at the Segunda Compañía Volante de San Carlos de Parras del Álamo in Coahuila y Tejas, México, the Texas State Legislature purchased the crumbling edifice of “The Alamo.”2 The complex of buildings and its surrounding three acres had served as a Franciscan mission, a Mexican Army fort, a U.S. Quartermaster’s Depot, a mercantile, and a grain warehouse.3 Though “The Alamo” did not become official state property until 1905, it had become the nostalgic cultural possession of white Texans immediately after their Texas Revolution in 1836; they rewrote the grounds on which the white colonists were defeated as the site of the sacred fall of their martyrs—a defeat that signaled their pre-destined victory against México.4 In a formalization of the narrative capture of The Alamo, fifty-five years after the armed struggle between white colonists and the Mexican Army, in 1891, a women’s group gathered outside the structure for a formal procession to 306 “honor the heroes from the battles of the Alamo and San Jacinto.”5 The Texas women paraded past the facade of The Alamo in “decorated horse-drawn carriages… and pelted each other with flower blossoms.”6 The event, called the Battle of the Flowers, domesticated and re-staged the Battle of San Jacinto—where white colonists in northern México seized both victory and revenge after their defeat at the Battle of the Alamo. However, the women in formal gowns did not stage their Battle of the Flowers at San Jacinto, a site over two hundred miles to the east, at the coast of the San Jacinto Bay. Instead, the re-enactment with flowers of the Battle of San Jacinto was staged at the grounds of The Alamo.7 The Battle of the Flowers “consisted of driving around the plaza in decorated vehicles and pelting the weather stained walls of the sacred pile with dainty spring blossoms, commemorative of the great event in which it figured.”8 It became an annual series of acts that work to institutionalize a new memory of the conflict with México.9 The event, organized and led by turn-of-the-twentieth-century Texan society “ladies” in horse-drawn carriages merged two events on a single site—the Battle of the Alamo, a loss for the white colonist fighters, and the Battle of San Jacinto, a later victory. In this conflation, the Texas re-enactors effectively rewrote defeat as triumph. The ambition was to reenact, while feminizing and sentimentalizing, the Texan battle at San Jacinto—a battle called “one of the most one-sided victories in history.”10 At San Jacinto, at least six hundred and fifty Mexican soldiers were killed, with three hundred captured (including the Mexican President Santa Ana), while eleven colonists were killed.11 Though the Battle of San Jacinto was won decisively in eighteen minutes by colonists and volunteer-combatants who included the Kentucky Rifles and filibusters from Tennessee, the hunting and killing of Mexicans continued for hours after the battle, 307 into the night. The Mexican soldiers, clearly out-numbered, abandoned their camp that had been overwhelmed in a guerrilla attack and fled. However, the Mexican infantry were pursued by the colonists on Mexican soil. The Mexicans were followed into the tall grass and marsh by colonists and their allies who shouted the war cry, “Remember the Alamo!”.12 As the Mexicans withdrew, the assembled colonists continued the slaughter, including the scalping of Mexican infantry; colonist officers Houston and Rusk tried with no success to stop the killing and torture. In response to “Remember the Alamo!” the retreating Mexicans yelled “Me no Alamo!” begging for mercy.13 Yet for hours, the killing of Mexicans was undiminished. The project of the domestication of the massacre of revenge at San Jacinto continues. The event, still held annually, has grown from the single flower battle re- enactment of women dressed in yellow with yellow hats, to a multi-day event as part of the larger Fiesta San Antonio that now draws over 350,000 spectators.14 The embodied annual erasure of brutality has continued, though it is an incomplete project. The Battle of the Flowers event aimed to transform bullets into flowers and combatants into “ladies,” yet the domestication of massacre has evidenced ruptures, as the events have articulated a consumption of militarism. In its earliest days, the commodification of commemoration and reenactment was emphasized. As Susan Bost writes, “…the Alamo commemoration, and the Battle of Flowers are contemporaneous markers of U.S. consumption.”15 Advertisements encouraged ladies to purchase finery for the San Jacinto Day events, “besides the entertainment of visitors it’s time we put on our best toggery. The ladies are expected to present in gay, gala attire looking as sweet as the rose they hurl at their pretended 308 enemies in time of peace.”16 Within a decade, the celebration had grown massively from a commemoration at the grounds of The Alamo to a city-wide week-long event. Indeed, the Fiesta San Antonio and the Battle of the Flowers expand and create central meaning in the twenty years in which San Antonio becomes modern (1891-1909).17 The El Paso Times described the events five-hundred and fifty miles away, alongside advertisements for rail fare for the Fiesta San Antonio that included the Battle of the Flowers: [P]ractically in progress all week, for the city has been in holiday attire since Monday in honor of her visitors… Excursion trains arriving hourly pouring crowds into the city and the town is jammed...all buildings are elaborately decorated and bands are filing the air with music.18 The Times described the annual festivities as ending with a formal charity ball where the king and queen of event were to be unveiled. However, the Battle of the Flowers would be challenged by the enduring language of masculinist militarism, where advertisements emphasized the event not as a peaceful, commemorative procession, but instead declared “For the Battle of the Flowers: It Will Be Fought Saturday.”19 In addition, while the organizers emphasized that the planning and execution of the event was accomplished exclusively by women, as the events grew, and its capital possibilities became evident, the leadership of the Battle of Flowers shifted—within its first decade, the parade’s leadership would be qualified and it would be described as “fostered by the patriotic ladies of the city, assisted by the businessmen.”20 As with many years, simultaneous with the event were planned conventions, in 1901, these included all male (often fraternal) groups like the Knights of the Royal Arch, Hardware Jobbers, and a gathering of one 309 FIGURE 31: Battle of Flowers, 1906. Colonel and Mrs. Frank H. Bushick Sr. in flower-adorned carriage with driver for parade. Reprinted by My San Antonio, compiled by Merrisa Brown and Mike Howell, mySA.com http://www.mysanantonio.com/fiesta/slideshow/Battle-of-Flowers-over-the- years-41975/photo-4377697.php hundred Texas mayors. In 1902, the Spanish War Veterans group began meeting at The Alamo grounds during the Battle of the Flowers for their annual reunion, where they were entertained by staged artillery drills by the Twelfth Cavalry.21 The parade proceeded centering men as historical actors and as contemporary military and political leaders with “various allegorical, historical, and trades display floats, public officials in decorated carriages, various private vehicles elaborately trimmed, part of the fire department with apparatus buried in masses of flowers and wreaths, regular soldiers.”22 As warfare expanded in Europe and the Mexican revolutions erupted across the geopolitical border, Fiesta San Antonio and the Battle of the Flowers’ organizers emphasized a modern militarism. In 1917, subcontractors for the fiesta were hired to add over twenty-two attractions to the events. The C.A. Wortham Company, which had 310 produced shows—in particular, circuses—for smaller Texas towns like Paris, Texas rolled into San Antonio connecting the entertainment with the technologies of militarization. As the Paris Morning News reported: The present world’s war has furnished a subject for a mechanical genius as he has builded [sic] well in producing a novelty that exhibits complete reproduction of a naval battle. The work is the result of the inventive brain of Capt. LaDare and it titled the “World at War.”23 The expansion of Fiesta San Antonio and the Battle of the Flowers, where flower blossoms substituted for bullets and bayonets, followed the disastrously violent 1915 parade. That year, the Battle of the Flowers devolved into dangerous commotion when two of the parade floats caught fire with “tens of thousands of spectators” watching in the business district. Two young women were burned, one hospitalized.24 During the same procession, a flower-decorated horse drawn carriage collided with an automobile, evidencing the challenge of sentimental period vehicles sharing the thoroughfare with motorized vehicles. As the horse-drawn carriages intersected with automobiles, drawing the spectators into the action, ladies and drivers used their horse whips to push back the crowds. 25 Today the Battle of the Flowers continues, with crowds of over 350,000 and nearly a quarter of its spectators from outside of the San Antonio area.26 The events are still declared as “produced entirely by women, all of whom are volunteers.” Yet, as in the earliest days of the event, a masculinist militarism is embodied throughout: the Texas Army National Guard places wreaths on the lawn of the Alamo as they march past in formation, various Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC) units perform drills to initiate the parade and the Battle of the Flowers, and military, college, and high school marching bands sonically overwhelm the decorated horse-drawn carriages and antique 311 cars. 27 The Battle of the Flowers is not simply a local attraction, or a commemoration of the battles of the Texas Revolution. Instead, it stands as an embodied reenactment that aims to make victory of loss—overwriting the defeat at the Alamo with the overdetermined victory at San Jacinto. It conflates the two, ever inscribing the revenge call of “Remember the Alamo!” at San Jacinto as the pre-destined colonial happy ending. As Rebecca Schneider explains in Performing Remains: Art and War in Times of Theatrical Reenactment, such events are acutely productive when we understand “reenactment as an activity that nets us all (reenacted, reenactor, original, copy, event, re- event, bypassed, and passer-by) in a knotty and porous relationship to time.”28 Since its inception, the Battle of the Flowers attempts at domesticating the revenge slaughter of Mexicans has been troubled by a persistent militarism. The embodied rescripting of both the Battle of the Alamo and the Battle of San Jacinto continued in the context of the U.S. war. Military investments that included the expansionism of the Spanish-American War, filibuster movements into Latin America and the Boer War, panic at the proximate Mexican revolutions in México, military expeditions into México and World War I each contributed to war reenactments in Texas. The Battle of the Flowers is but one example in Texas of what I have termed “nostalgic militarism.” One place we have seen nostalgic militarism is in nationalist epics—like Birth of a Nation, which longed for a Confederate heroism and Martyrs of the Alamo: The Birth of Texas, which rewrote loss as the first moment of predestined, ultimate victory. The films—like the Battle of the Flowers—restaged events, to, as Michel-Rolph Trouillot has explained, “give loss new meaning”29 But the restagings and reenactments in Texas would go a few steps further, where nostalgic militarism and the 312 re-enacting of war would help to create the conditions for war in Texas. As with framing lynchings as native massacre, “battles” and “wars” would be reenacted in the perennial lynchings of Mexicans with impunity. In Texas, lynchers would begin to disguise their acts as acts of war. They would emphasize theirs as a race war while nostalgically calling on the Civil War, the Texas War for Independence, the U.S.-México War, and wars of empire. Further, lynchers would actively work to create the conditions of war-and therefore the conditions for battle reenactment—in the México-Texas borderlands. There is considerable conflation and collapse as cycles of war, nostalgia, and reenactment are embodied by actors in Texas. In the nostalgic militarism for prior battles, the raced figures of the Mexican combatant and the white citizen-soldier are discursively constructed with both state power and cultural discourse. The narratives of Mexican threat bolster the creation of conditions for re-enactment of battle between the two figured adversaries. Further, the period between 1910 and 1919 not only engages the warfare of the Mexican revolutions and The Plan de San Diego, but importantly is shaped by and shapes the U.S. domestic front of World War I. In Texas, lynchers utilize nostalgia in its Bakhtinian form, as “historical inversion” where a construction of an ideal past is conjured and desired in place of a dissatisfying present.30 Lynchers in Texas acted on their always absent more perfect past to legitimate the anti-Mexican violence. As Lynda Hutcheon explains: Nostalgia, in fact, may depend precisely on the irrecoverable nature of the past for its emotional impact and appeal. It is the very pastness of the past, its inaccessibility that likely accounts for a large part of nostalgia's power… This is rarely the past as actually experienced, of course; it is the past as imagined, as idealized through memory and desire. In this sense, however, nostalgia is less about the past than about the present…. The 313 simple, pure, ordered, easy, beautiful, or harmonious past is constructed (and then experienced emotionally) in conjunction with the present— which, in turn, is constructed as complicated, contaminated, anarchic, difficult, ugly, and confrontational. Nostalgic distancing sanitizes as it selects, making the past feel complete, stable, coherent, safe … in other words, making it so very unlike the present.31 The nostalgia of The Martyrs of the Alamo and the nostalgia of The Battle of the Flowers, which both narratively frame colonial expansion and loss as leading to ultimate victory evidence the selection in service of the present. Acts of lynching and anti-Mexican violence were often enmeshed in a web of nostalgia for a virile manhood—variably white, American, Texian, Texan—powerful in both victory and victimization. The idealized Indian fighter, the Alamo defender-victim, the San Jacinto avenging soldier, the Confederate, the River Guard, the Border Guard, the patriot, the citizen-soldier prepared for battles that present in unending repetition. All of the archetypes have the ability to point proudly to “enemy kills” in service of tradition and nation. The structure of nostalgic militarism is initiated by the construction of “the enemy” utilizing narratives and visual representation with the ultimate aim of positioning killings as defensive combat, or war maneuvers rather than lynching. Our historical tracing of Coahuila y Tejas, the Texas Republic, and the State of Texas reveal the progression of the cultural creation that is the Mexican body. The Mexican body would be produced with “[h]atred and fear… to be despised yet also of awe with evil understood as the physical essence of their bodies… objects of cultural creation, the leaden keel of evil and mystery stabilizing the ship and course that is Western history.”32 Nostalgic militarism is a discursive act and also a set of practices in which lynchers’ utilize militia and military histories to construct on-going enemy threat. The functional structure of nostalgic militarism includes lynchers constructing an enemy—variously as invading 314 forces, combatants, and aliens. Donald Pease’s discussion of the state fantasy of the citizen-subject can be read to lynchers, like the assailants at Porvenir. Though Mexican witness-survivors report on the experience of loss of property, of terror, of violence, of dislocation, U.S. media posits the Calvary, Rangers and assembled ranchers as fighting the domestic front of World War I. Rather than discuss the murdered men, U.S. reportage and later narratives discuss the Sedition Act and suggest the victims were aiding the Germans and also resisting the draft by sneaking south across the border rather than registering for it. Further, they explain that this event was a response to the threat of the spread of socialism after the Mexican Revolution. My formulation of nostalgic militarism is distinct from other, similar ideas regarding anti-Mexican violence in Texas. For instance, William Carrigan works through perennial violence with the concept of a collective, community “local memory.” In his survey of “mob violence in the South,” Carrigan notes that areas of both persistent and episodic ethnic violence engage a “[l]ocal memory, constantly shaped and reshaped by specific events and the actions of particular individuals.”33 Carrigan’s intervention allows for a more precise study of the context of lynching, rather than a universal, nationwide understanding of simple causality. The “local memory” of Texans who committed lynching acts included a militaristic arc, beginning with the early tropes of the fight for Texas Independence. Texans would recall the many wars and attacks fought by white settlers, beginning with the colonization of Coahuila y Texas. Carrigan suggests acts of anti-Mexican violence were not always—or solely—racist acts. Instead, he points to the “local memory” that helped to animate anti-Mexican violence, explaining: 315 The motives behind the killing of individual Mexicans were complex. Mob leaders, for example, frequently accused them of criminal actions and unfair economic practices. Although mobs killed few Mexicans strictly because of their ethnic background, the mobs were animated by racism. Such prejudice was hardly surprising. The historical memory of most Anglo Texans viewed Mexicans through the lens of the Alamo, Goliad, and the U.S.-Mexican war.34 Carrigan’s intervention is important to point us toward the distinctive anti-Mexican attitudes and rhetoric of Texas. Yet, racist ideologies and practices, in this formulation, become subsumed into a less charged sense of “memory.” Further, while we must be attentive to the local state of affairs—how the lynchings of Mexicans in Texas are staged in conjunction with the local events of the day—we must work to expand our contextualization of the lynching of Mexicans. We must ask how localized power dynamics and the narratives of Texas Rangers, U.S. Calvary, and local white ranchers have been constructed in the context of U.S. ideologies of race, and practices of colonialism, expansion, and war. Nostalgic militarism aims to be attentive to each, along with local context. The Domestic Theater of World War I In Texas, lynchers drew on the national ideology of the Indian fighter, they coupled this with their regional struggle to break from México—establishing a Texas Republic, then state. The cycles of war and the individual investments in the expansionist wars against México have been traced by Paul Foos, who explains, “the years from 1835 to 1845 encompassed several invasions, occupation and wars involving Mexico and the short-lived Republic of Texas—which was, in essence, an American creation.”35 Foos’ work is critical to think through the intersections with the lynching of Mexicans. First, 316 that the labor and the rewards of violent territorial acquisition were personal and intimate forms of labor by those who first occupied Coahuila y Tejas, México as colonists, then declared independence for Texas. Second, that in an effort to acquire terrain, the United States compelled wars against México. And third, the cycles of war in the México-Texas region constituted interplay of Texas and national imaginaries. These cycles of war have been staged as race war, rather than war between two territorial powers, and they have been fought on the bodies of Mexicans, who, categorically, have been constructed as combatants and enemies of the United States. Acts of violence against Mexicans proceeded as lynchers nurtured and modeled their acts on narratives of anti-Indian violence, independence battles, the U.S.-México War, and Confederate heroism. Lynchers would augment their nostalgia for war with a living, national patriotism around World War I. In Coahuila y Tejas—after the first U.S. white immigrants arrived—to the World War I period nearly a century later, Texans would work to create continuing conditions for battle and war. They would specifically create conditions for race war, and lynching would become one site of nostalgic re- enactment. Of all the wars staged on the Texas terrain—the Texas War for Independence (which included the celebrated Battles at the Alamo, Goliad, and San Jacinto), the U.S.- México War, the Civil War, the Indian Wars, and World War I—I will emphasize the way in which anti-Mexican violence coupled the Battle at the Alamo with World War I. The Battle of the Flowers, a ritual which continues to today, helps us to bring these two sites of anti-Mexican violence together. In doing so, I discuss the re-enactments of race war and the building of these conditions; I sketch my formulation of “nostalgic 317 militarism;” and I point to how the Mexican has been figured as enemy and combatant— making his lynching not only not punishable, but specifically an act of patriotism. As noted in Chapter Four – Awful Lawful Texas, while most scholars who study south Texas at the turn of the twentieth century period emphasize the Mexican Revolution as bringer of disorder and violence, I seek to turn attention to the U.S. staging of the domestic theater of World War I. Often scholars describe the violence in Texas between 1910 and 1919 as the Mexican Revolution “spilling over,” but scholars are yet to frame military battles and maneuvers in Texas between 1910 and 1919 as World War I’s U.S. domestic front. While Texas has been understood as a peripheral “border state,” we might better recognize Texas in this period as the domestic theater of World War I. The home front was not peaceful. Indeed, the scale of militarization at the U.S.-México border in this period has yet to be fully explored.36 On World War I’s domestic front, anti-Mexican hostilities met with patriotic wartime rhetoric and Mexican people—most markedly men and boy children—were constructed as enemy bodies. In the period from 1910 to 1919, the México-Texas border is a literal war zone. Such an active war can be simultaneous with—and, indeed, be augmented by—nostalgic militarism, which invokes both local memory and an actively warring nationalism. While many historians have constructed specific causal links between anti-Mexican violence and the Mexican Revolution and/or the Plan de San Diego specifically, precious little attention has been paid to Texas as the domestic front of World War I. The World War I military buildup at the México-U.S. border and its accompanying propaganda are critical to an understanding of anti-Mexican violence in Texas, as the war and attendant narratives would give new opportunities for lynchers to alienize, foreignize and 318 seditionize the “bandit.” Further, the World War I staging at the México-Texas border consecrated anti-Mexican violence as patriotic violence. By arguing that the México-Texas border is a theater of World War I, I write against most Chicana/o Studies scholars who have described the México-U.S. border as a metaphorical war zone. In Anglos and Mexicans in the Making of Texas, 1836-1986 David Montejano describes south Texas between 1915 and 1917 as “a virtual war zone.”37 In relation to the period surrounding the lynching of Florencio García (between 1915 and 1917), both primary and secondary sources refer to the conditions in Texas as both a “Bandit War” and a “Border War.” An enormously instructive piece on the home front of World War I undertaken in Texas is Richard Ribb’s “José Tomás Canales and the Texas Rangers: Myth, Identity, and Power in South Texas, 1900-1920.” Ribb’s work gives some of the most detailed accounts of the militarization of the México-Texas border in this period.38 However, echoing earlier scholars, Ribb concludes that the anti- Mexican violence in Texas constituted a “Border War.” Ribb explains, In response to widespread raiding and violence by Border Mexicans, the U.S. Army militarized the border in 1915 and 1916 with all available regular troops and National Guard units, placing more than 50,000 troops in the Lower Rio Grande Valley alone. Many contemporary observers, especially Anglo ones, termed the period of conflict in 1915 and 1916 as the “Bandit War,” or “bandit troubles” … A more fitting term, however, is “Border War,” in recognition of the instrumental roles played not only by Border Mexicans, but also by the U.S. Army, civilians, and, particularly, the Texas Rangers in a volatile situation that many called a “reign of terror.39 Ribb first constructs a causality—that the raiding violence by Mexicans resulted in the militarization of the border by U.S. Army. He then suggests that “Border War” is the most fitting term for the Texas terrorscape between 1915 and 1916. Ribb’s work is some of the finest on the period; however, we must question this constructed causality, which 319 claims that the U.S. Army presence was in response to Mexican raiding parties. The U.S. Army, Texas Rangers, and a host of U.S. militia groups and citizens had swept the area in an unrelentingly violent fashion since the early colonist period that led to the battles of the Texas Revolution through World War I. Ribb also uses the phrase “race war” to describe the period, writing: The larger context of [Texas Representative J.T. Canales’] activity was the Border War of 1915-16, which had engulfed South Texas in a virtual race war… Of immediate concern were the Texas Rangers, whom he believed had turned a brush fire into the conflagration that scorched thousands of farms, ranches, and people, primarily Border Mexicans.40 While I have argued the figure of the Mexican was specifically and categorically raced, I also argue racist violence both marked and targeted the Mexican. In this way I deviate from Ribb’s analysis above. Other qualifiers have been used to describe the widespread practice of anti- Mexican violence in the period. In American Encounters: Greater Mexico, the United States, and the Erotics of Culture, José E. Limón evokes the concept of a social war: [S]ince the 1830s the Mexicans of south Texas have been in a state of social war with the ‘Anglo’ dominant Other and their class allies. This has been at times a war of overt, massive proportions; at others, covert and sporadic; at still other moments, repressed and internalized as war within the psyche, but always conditioned by an on-going social struggle fought out of different battlefields.41 The penchant to qualify, given the open and active combat against Mexicans in Texas is persistent, and puzzling. We must move away from the language of metaphor and understand the U.S.-México border as a literal war zone where Texas became the domestic front of World War I. There is ample clear evidence of the active war of maneuver and Texas as World War I’s domestic theater. For instance, we might take seriously the ruling of the Texas 320 State Court in the period. In 1916, José Antonio Arce, a Mexican National was convicted of murder and sentenced to death in Webb County, Texas. Arce had shot toward members of U.S. troops near Laredo, resulting in the death of a U.S. serviceman. Yet, two years later in 1918, his conviction was reversed by the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals, who ruled “the trial court did not have jurisdiction because a state of war was existing between the two countries.”42As explained by the Texas Appeals Court, We know, as a matter of history of the current events attending this trouble, that [sic] the United States invaded México with a column of troops under Gen. Pershing, and there may have been other like occurrences on the Rio Grande by the United States troops… [T]hey did occur, and, under the authorities, this brought about a condition of ‘war’ between the two countries. It was not what the authorities may term a complete state of war, but rather in the nature of an incomplete state of war. There was no formal declaration of war, as we understand the history of the times, between the two countries, where a state of war was recognized as existing between the two countries… That a state of warfare existed between the two countries is not questioned.43 The Texas Appeals Court, invoking the U.S. military expeditions into México, along with the violence in south Texas and U.S. troops amassed on the México-Texas border explained that a state of war clearly existed between the two countries though the United States had not officially declared war on México. Invoking the invasion of México with General Pershing’s pursuit of General Francisco “Pancho” Villa, the Court explained though this was “not a public or complete war, or not preceded by a declaration of war against México by the United States, it was an act of war… it was technically and within the limited meaning of the word ‘war.’”44 As further evidence of the active war in the México-Texas border, I outline state action and media, both of which proposed pressing threats: such as, the threat of Mexican nationalism, Mexican revolutionary factions, the fear of German intrigue and sabotage, 321 and “unpatriotic actions.” Along with nostalgic militarism, these discourses were contexts for the constructing of Mexican bodies as threats—not only as bandits (as standard for Chicana/o Studies scholars), but also as slackers (U.S. draft dodgers), potential anti- American conspirators, and enemy soldiers. I read the lynchings of Mexicans in Texas at the turn of the twentieth century as a critical part of the conversation of World War I; not a regional history, but a part of the history of an internationalized border, militarized far earlier than most histories of the border acknowledge. In the film Border Bandits, refusing the framing of anti-Mexican violence as bandit war, border war, race war, virtual war, or social war, historian Rudy Rocha proclaims, “There’s no such thing as the bandit war… this is a mass murdering of Mexicans and Mexican Americans.”45 I agree with Rocha in the total disavowal of the language of qualified war. Yet, rather than approach this period as a series of disorganized moments that in sum equal “mass murder,” I emphasize the lynching of Mexicans as connected to both nostalgic militarism and World War I. In doing so, I insist that the border’s history is a military history. The Soldiering of the Southwest46 In the World War I period, lynchers, in tandem with the state and the media, created a military campaign against civilians. Attention to racist violence in Texas demonstrates that the territorial wars of Texas Independence and the U.S.-México War were never temporally discrete, nor where they determinative. The nation-to-nation war gave way to waves of race war in which the United States and its white citizens attempt to solidify the permeable border. This has resulted in the ever-expanding militarization of the México-U.S. border. The rhetoric of siege and invasion was born at the Battle of the 322 Alamo, thus in “Bodies of War,” I trace the cycles of race war from the Alamo through the domestic front of World War I. If we think to the ways in which discursive formations help to determine what can be produced, we note that the coverage of the event in U.S. regional newspapers and national newspapers, such as The New York Times betray the ways in which the World War I period affect and infect questions of border maintenance. We note the determining shadows of the archive constructed by and about the U.S. Calvary and the Texas Rangers and their actions. We see multiple reconfigurations of the victims of lynching at Porvenir and other disappearance lynchings as not only “bandits,” but also as combatants, spies, and conspirators against the United States. Dialectically, U.S. press accounts of assailants insist that white killers have a role in World War I; insist that the home front isn’t peaceful; and insist that the massacre of Mexican men and boys is part of the greater U.S. military project. Indeed, where questioned about their role in the Porvenir lynchings, the Rangers admit to their actions, and ask for more ammunition and a raise. The Rangers who kill Mexicans in Texas repeatedly ask that their labor at the international border be recognized as a military labor (equivalent to soldiers) in the domestic front of the war. They seek recognition of their labor as related to the overall nationalist goal, inserting their individual acts as a part of the overall state project. They attempt to become recognized as a militarized force rather than domestic peace officers, and the write—lynchings, such as those at Porvenir—as a war narrative. Illustrative is one of the key witnesses in the investigation of the disappearance lynching of Florencio García—Captain Charles F. Stephens. Captain Charles F. Stephens 323 arrived in the Brownsville area in December of 1917, charged with finding cattle rustlers who were suspected of moving cattle south into Matamoros, México. Stephens, however, was most concerned with proving himself of some service in World War I. The United States had declared war on Germany in April of 1917 and Stephens pursued what he determined was the German threat in Texas and México. After receiving requests to explain the killing of Florencio García, Stephens explained to Assistant Attorney General Woodhul that the accusations against the Rangers were simply distractions to discredit the Rangers not only in their work against generalized banditry, but also the Rangers’ patriotic work in defense of the country.47 For Stephens, the service of the Rangers was not local, but national in scale. Captain Stephens was convinced that the labor of the Texas Rangers was part of the larger war effort. In letters regarding the abduction and killing of Florencio García exchanged between Captain Stephens and Assistant Attorney General Woodhul, Stephens diverted attention from claims of possible Ranger misdeeds to what he expressed as his own efforts supporting the United States in World War I, writing: [E]ver since I have been active in breaking up some of this German spy work and German propaganda in this valley, there has been a kind of underhand work being done against my Company, either to hurt my Company, or to hurt Gov. Hobby’s candidacy for Governor, for having Rangers breaking up and interfering with this German propaganda.48 The correspondence between Stephens and Woodhul reminds us that in looking at Texas at the turn of the twentieth century, we must keep in mind multiple states of play. When asked to address the concerns about his men’s possible transgressions, Stephens injects suspicions of international intrigue and what he perceives as the German threat on the México-U.S. border. 324 As Mae Ngai explains, these men understand themselves as fighting an internal border while also positioned on an international border.49 In this far earlier measure of the persistent militarization of the México-U.S. border, with military, paramilitary, and committees of vigilance, we witness the middle level effort of redefining and maintaining the border because, as Erica Lee writes, the nation is determined not by the center but by agents on the periphery.50 Importantly, the U.S. Cavalries and Texas Rangers’ actions demonstrate that they had declared war on particular bodies, rather than a nation’s Army. The war of the races they sought to continue nostalgically drew on the very struggle of white colonists against México during the Texas Revolution and the Battles of the Alamo and San Jacinto. In the U.S. English language reportage, which is dispersed across the nation, and importantly to the North and North East metropolitan centers, we begin to see the raced bodies powerfully configured. While historians have looked at the media and assailant narratives as evidence of Mexican Revolution Spill-Over, I read them, instead as expressions of U.S. white masculinity’s nostalgic militarism, which sought to create and reenact conditions of war—in particular, race war. The media narratives were clearly narratives of south Texas as an international border—one that is militarized earlier than previously recognized. We note the waves of white Texans seeking warfare, the tradition volunteerism/filibusters, the moving in and out of México, as with pursuits after “bandits,” into Veracruz in, and after General Francisco “Pancho” Villa during Pershing’s Punitive Expedition. The marking of Mexican bodies with their vulnerability to violence demonstrates the attempt at solidifying the emergent racial—and embodied— definition of The Border. 325 For instance, in Texas at the turn of the twentieth century, images of refugees seeking safety from the fractured and embattled Mexican would be circulated locally and in the greater United States. In these images, Mexicans would be framed as various forms of threat. Fleeing Mexican families would be constructed as a danger to the nation, as bandits, seditionists, and combatants. In the image “Mexican Army on the Moove [sic],” FIGURE 32: Mexican Army on the Moove [sic], n.d.; University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, http://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting the Rescuing Texas History Collection, El Paso Public Library, El Paso, Texas. children helping to carry the load of their families—who have walked their household possessions and domestic pets across the Chihuahuan desert—are labeled combatants, even if sarcastically. Here we might again insist that these images are not evidence, but rather, constructed as an argument, which reinforces a worldview of threat of penetration. The discourse of every Mexican as possible combatant in this period would be used to 326 justify anti-Mexican violence and the lynching of Mexicans in Texas. Anti-Mexican alarmism that accompanied the refugee families moving north across the geo-political border was stoked by local and national media that announced the Mexican threat on front-pages next to headlines on the European theater of war. Photographers, such as Robert Runyon, G.J. Kavanaugh, and Walter H. Horne assembled at the México-Texas borderlands in search of both adventure and commerce. Their images would be sold to newspapers, local citizens, and U.S. soldiers deployed to the border. The business opportunity for chroniclers of the continuing war at the México- Texas border was enormous—Ribb estimates that fully eighty-five percent of all U.S. troops were stationed at Texas-México border in this period.51 In a letter to his mother, Horne—owner of the Mexican War Photo Postcard Company—reported “business is simply great… I am making 5,000 postcards a day. Supply post exchanges and stores all along the border.”52 The postcards did an enormous amount of work to make the figure of the Mexican legible to a national consumer audience. The Mexican body “on the move,” the Mexican body as permanently displaced, was critical to this figure as it was raced against the belonging of U.S. settler-citizens. The figure of the Mexican as always potential enemy/potential combatant, was bolstered by the idea of the Mexican—either U.S. born, naturalized, newly immigrated, or refugee—as alien to the United States. The racing of the Mexican was not about an abstract “otherness” or simple foreignness. The Mexican was raced as specifically alien. In Orientals: Asian Americans in Popular Culture, Robert G. Lee makes a critical distinction between the alien and the foreign. As Lee explicates, the ‘alien’ is a person who is “immediate and present yet hav[ing] a foreign nature or allegiance,” a constructed 327 enemy in close proximity.53 For Lee, the alien is “a racial category,” one which is assigned to particular categorical bodies.54 My work takes particular inspiration from Lee’s Orientals, which aims to “map the history of the Oriental” as a racial category. Lee traces six historical constructions of Asian-Americans as pollutant, coolie, deviant, yellow peril, model minority, and “gook.”55 Like the ‘Oriental,’ the Mexican has been raced and figured variously as non-citizen, alien, bandit, combatant, seditionist, and threat. The invention of the Mexican as specifically alien to the United States can be historicized, as modeled on the method of Lee. The alien, as Lee writes, is an historical construction based on media forms as well as legal structures—to this formulation I would add rituals of public violence. Indeed, though not his focus, Lee’s work is replete with anti-Asian violence, beginning with the thirty-eight percent increase in anti-Asian hate crimes from 1993 to 1995, to the 1996 racist murder of Vietnamese-American Thien Minh Ly. Lee’s work threads back to the mid- to late-19th century cutting of Chinese immigrant queues in California, understanding these acts as purposefully analogous to the taking of Native scalps.56 Further, Lee discusses the Rock Springs, Wyoming Massacre of 1885, where two-hundred white miners attacked the town’s Chinese residents, killing twenty-nine and driving over six-hundred Chinese residents out of Rock Springs. As Lee explains, Rock Springs was the most notorious of many acts of violence against Chinese immigrants in the decades of the 1870s and 1880s, but hundreds of Chinese were driven from their homes in small towns and cities up and down the West Coast, and an untold number were murdered.57 While Lee does not label these racist killings as lynchings, I would argue that such anti- Asian violence is certainly within of this category of violence. While rituals of public violence are constructors of raced figures, Lee’s focus the 328 historicization of the discursive construction of the raced ‘Oriental’—created in community and in law in the mid-nineteenth century. The Mexican as alien was similarly an historical product of popular media and legal structures. This alien, regardless of citizenship status, was suspected as never fully loyal to the United States—or in the language of World War I-era Texas, “100% American.”58 The racist panic that constructed the Mexican as alien during a time of war, and at the domestic site of war, was promoted by both state power and cultural institutions, such as film, local and national newspapers, and the monitoring of “Americanness” in everyday life. On the Texas landscape, citizens would be encouraged to begin identifying those “American in name but Mexican in sympathy.”59 The role of both the state institution actors and cultural agents in marking and targeting Mexicans as alien cannot be overstated. As Lee insists, “[a]lienness is both a formal political or legal status and an informal, but by no means less powerful, cultural status.”60 The construction of the Mexican as alien threat drew on and re-created a logic of a shared, besieged white U.S. history. By pairing contemporaneous bandit, slacker, and seditionist reportage with mythic narratives of prior combat, perpetrators of anti-Mexican violence could write their atrocities as both heroic and patriotic. Further their nostalgic militarism would circulate a souvenir culture to anti-Mexican violence that enshrined commemorations and monuments in various forms in an effort to solidify their fabricated histories of both victimization and victory. The lynchers who drew on and re-produced the apparatus of nostalgic militarism framed their killings as a necessary fight against their constructed enemy, and their attacks often utilized military insignias, symbols, naming, organizational structures, and military-grade weapons. The nostalgic militarism 329 executed by lynchers in Texas effectively worked to create the conditions of domestic theaters of war.61 By focusing on the nostalgic militarism of lynchers, we witness the ways in which internal landscapes become realized into external geographies. Though it is impossible to access the interiority of historical actors, we might look to speech acts and rhetorical practices to position the ways in which those who lynched Mexicans in Texas embodied structures of domination. Donald Pease’s work on the imperial-citizen-subject gives important insight in this realm. In The New American Exceptionalism Pease examines the relationship between the U.S. state and its citizen- subjects and explores the complicated interplay of state constructions that mediate an individual citizen’s interiority. Pease terms the complex state constructions “state fantasy” explaining that the state fantasy is “the dominant structure of desire out of which U.S. citizens imagine their national identity.”62 Pease’s psychoanalytic focus on internal desire and fantasy creates a broader terrain than my own; I instead center practice. Yet, Pease’s formulation is useful to apply to lynchers in Texas—for instance the assembled committees of vigilance and/or local authorities such as the Texas Rangers. As Pease would explain, in the case of these lynchers—all citizen-subjects—they do not simply believe themselves to be governed, but also understand themselves as inhabiting the site of construction and maintenance of the state. The lynching of Mexicans evidences the ways in which vigilance committees, local Texas ranchers, Texas Rangers and members of the U.S. Calvary desire to be actors in the construction of the state fantasy of colonialism and expansion and understand themselves as maintainers of nation-state boundaries. Pease importantly distinguishes that the U.S. citizen is not simply a nation-state 330 subject-citizen, but instead identifies with the fantasy of American exceptionalism that valorizes U.S politics and culture as the basis for global democracy. This fantasy was especially potent as ideological realignments proliferated in Europe and anti-colonial and independence movements were initiated globally—from the Cuban War of Independence that began in 1895; to the armed anti-colonial liberation movement of the Philippine Revolution that began in 1896; to the 1905 Russian Revolution that included massive labor strikes against oppressive Tsarist rule; to the 1908 Indonesian independence movement fighting against Dutch rule; to the violent uprisings for agrarian resource- redistribution in the Mexican revolutions beginning in 1910; to the Irish movement for Home Rule beginning in 1912 and erupting in the Easter Rising of 1916; to the Turkish War of Liberation that began in 1919. It is with this framework of thinking through the imperial-citizen-subject that we can begin to explore the nostalgic militarism violently enacted by lynchers. I take Pease’s imperial-citizen-subject as the basis for actions in the México-Texas borderlands of the citizen-soldier. Pease explains that there is an active determining of belonging that includes performances of state surveillance by imperial-citizen-subjects on the bodies of immigrant populations. These active determinings by imperial-citizen-subjects constructed race populations and other minorities, along with social and political dissidents. In the World War I period, as evidenced by the letters and testimonies of those involved in Florencio García’s lynching, those killing Mexican men were playing out their “state fantasy” of patriotic, anti-subversive, anti-German national service. Yet, what charges this state fantasy is a specific nostalgic militarism. Lynchers imbue their “state 331 fantasy” with rhetoric of past conflicts, battles, attacks. Lynchers draw on and feed a nostalgic militarism that constructs the Mexican male body as enemy and combatant— not only in the present conflict, but in an epic of conflicts. Thus, in enacting their nostalgic militarism, these imperial-citizen-subjects (including local authorities) understand themselves as citizen-soldiers and create the conditions for reacting battles. Lynchers and anti-Mexican attackers would perform a doubling of violence in the World War I period—as Harris and Saddler explain, “From the Rangers’ point of view, the war was a splendid opportunity to kill Mexicans and get paid for it. They remembered the Alamo and Goliad with a vengeance.”63 State actors, like local peace officers, U.S. Calvary, and Texas Rangers would be joined by “citizen posses scouting both in Cameron and Hidalgo Counties.”64 James B. Wells, an influential Texas attorney and cattle rancher called for the Cattle Raisers Association to be armed against enemies, and the State Council of National Defense, co-coordinated with “commanding officers in Brownsville in running down German propaganda.”65 Just as the figure of the alien Mexican was constructed in law and popular media, the white Texas citizen-soldiers was dialectically produced. In addition to the Loyalty Rangers and Special Rangers deputized on demand (as discussed in Chapter 4 – “Awful Lawful Texas”), local militias like the Brownsville rifles formed groups as citizen- soldiers. Indeed, as early as 1911, Sherriff Sanderson of the Big Bend area asked the Texas Governor for permission to organize an “Anglo home guard.” 66 Local militias were formed to guard the Laredo armory in the case of unlikely invasion.67 Reportage on the México-Texas border emphasized the cooperation between citizen-soldiers and state power. In 1913, a few days before deis y seis de Septiembre (September 16th), when 332 Mexicans on both side of the geopolicital border celebrated the initiation of the Mexican War of Independence against Spain, the U.S. Army sent orders for soldiers and civilians to hunt Mexican smugglers and bandits. Acting on orders from General Bliss, all troops stationed on the border between Eagle Pass and Laredo have taken the field in an effort to capture Mexican gun smugglers… The soldiers are co-operating with citizen posses which are closing on the bandits. From every town near the border posses are being rushed to the assistance of the troops and Sheriff Gardner. More than a hundred ranchmen are in the field, and the battle is expected hourly.68 In The New York Times report, the mob hunts for “bandits” would be rescripted as “battle.” By 1917, “Patriot Home Guards” were organizing with local drug stores and grocery stores were being transformed into “recruiting stations” for men who could “march and shoot a rifle.”69 White Texans deemed unqualified for military service were asked to volunteer to protect the homeland, surveying for domestic threats. Such volunteerism echoed earlier forms of white military adventurism in the borderlands—such as the filibusters of the U.S-México War. These armed volunteers would act as “imperial-citizen-subjects” on the domestic front of World War I. Of the power exercised by state actors in concert with FIGURE 33: “Home Guard San Antonio,” San Antonio Light 15 April 1917, 16. 333 citizen-soldiers, Texas Ranger Eadds explained “I have the right to summon [sic] citizens as a posse to assist me in the execution of the law, and have done so on many occasions.”70 Interestingly, it was also charged that the Rangers used deputization in order to encourage the conditions of war on the México-Texas border. This would also allow many to avoid the European theater of war. Mrs. Virginia Yeager of San Diego, Texas spoke bluntly regarding the abuses and murders of Mexicans by Rangers throughout south Texas. Yeager was a landowner who had documented complaints against Ranger drunkenness and firing weapons in town indiscriminately.71 When testifying about the Rangers, Yeager was given a deferential audience in spite of the objections of inquisitor, Mr. Knight. As Mrs. Yeager detailed tortures and beatings in Cameron County, Mr. Knight objected several times, yet referencing two key elements that gave her testimony both authority and legitimacy, Senator Page asked that Mrs. Yeager continue. Senator Page blocked the objections to Yeager’s testimony saying “if an outrage toward a citizen of Texas, especially a lady, can be shown this Committee ought to hear it, we ought to relax the rules [against hearsay] to that extent.”72 Mrs. Yeager’s U.S. citizenship status, along with polite respect for her white womanhood allowed her to both be called to testify before the 1919 Joint Committee and to be fully heard, unlike the many Mexican women who had petitioned local and Mexican national authorities regarding the disappearances and lynchings of their fathers, husbands, and sons.73 Confirming Yeager’s charge that many Loyalty and Special Rangers avoided military service and evaded Selective Service, we note that the single, twenty-eight year old Texas Ranger John Sittre who first abducted Florencio García had been exempted from service in the U.S. Army for “being a ranger.”74 334 The domestic front of World War I and the nostalgic militarism of citizen-soldiers resulted in white Texans acting as soldiers, both in and out of U.S. uniforms. The Mexican enemy would be constructed dialectically against state actors and the citizen- soldiers. The Mexican could be one or many things at once, so potent was his threat—at times combatant, at times subversive, and at times the “slacker,” as we saw in the lynching of Florencio García. While white Texans utilized deputization to actively avoid Selective Service, it was the raced Mexican body that would be termed “slacker” and exposed to reprimand via violence or threat of violence. Justice of the Peace H.J. Kirk described the troubling numbers of Mexicans fleeing Texas for México to the same Joint Committee in 1919: I do know that we are interested down there and we want a quiet country and we don’t want the people that is doing the work, that [sic] we regard as good Mexicans, we don’t want them to leave, and they have been leaving there for some cause in an alarming way. It was a common occurrence to see team after team loaded with household goods going across into México.75 When asked by Senator Williford, “Isn’t it a fact that the Mexicans left to keep from going in to the United States Army?” Justice of the Peace Kirk replied: No, they were too old for that, and a great many of them left children there and daughters that instead of going to México, they has [sic] a little job there in Brownsville, working in stores, they said, some of whom I married and their husbands deserted them, they came to me and I asked them why their parents were all leaving, and I know the general answer that they have always given me. They said that they were afraid of the Rangers, afraid of the Rangers, that has been the talk right straight along.76 Thus, Kirk confirms that in his experience, contrary to accusations by Texas Rangers and Senator Williford, Mexican men were not attempting to evade Selective Service registration (as was claimed of Florencio García), but instead Mexican men were fleeing the terror, violence, and widespread lynching in Texas. The domestic theater of World 335 War I in Texas was being fought on the raced bodies of Mexicans. As civilians-soldiers armed themselves, joining the military and police forces of their region, they would mark and patrol the borders of race. Nicolas Villanueva writes, “The region was engrossed in its own war, one that did not have a line of division along a border; the line was between two races that lived uneasily alongside of each other in the Big Bend.”77 Once the conditions for war were created on the México-Texas border, infused with a nostalgic militarism to participate, the actors in the domestic theater emphasized war as race war. They created the figure of the Mexican as alien and combatant and then fought their constructed enemy. Interestingly, Lee describes the ‘aliens’ as “objects or persons whose presence disrupts the narrative construction of the community.”78 However, in Texas, the Mexican as alien was not disruptive. Instead the Mexican alien has been productive of white community and key to Texas’ narrative structure. The figurations in play on the México-Texas borderland are co-constructed— there can be no citizen without alien, no patriot without traitor. And the construction of the alien allowed for the discursive creation of battling armies, of a race war. Taking by force a massive amount of territory from México in both the Texas War for Independence and the U.S.-México War would not sate the U.S. expansionists, and white Texans least of all. They would continue to create the conditions for wars of maneuver—from Indian Wars to the Texas War for Independence (remembered for the Battles of the Alamo and San Jacinto), the U.S. invasion of Mexico, and the home front of World War I. However, importantly, these cycles of war would be discursively constructed as battles of races rather than territorial entities. An editorial printed in 1910 by Thewas supportive of the Texas Ranger force 336 Texas has lately shown signs of getting rid of the Rangers. Of old, the Rangers guarded the frontier, and the Texas of today has no frontier. Indians have passed into history… But Mexico has a northern frontier…Let the Texas Rangers be preserved for the good of all of us. While they exist in Texas, we will not permit the Mexicans to whip us.79 The race war in Texas was communicated as a national conflict. As the U.S. military buildup increased on the México-Texas border, Texan nostalgic militarism would be made legible to a national audience. In the words of attorney and cattle rancher James B. Wells, “War conditions made different conditions everywhere.”80 Those who would attack civilian non-combatants in efforts to remove entire or dominate raced populations continued to conceal their attacks as “war” and “battle” in the long tradition of attacks on indigenous peoples. The figuring of Mexicans as bandit, subversive, enemy, followed the framing of indigenous peoples as such. In the World War I period, the practices of a violent patriotism—like the lynching of Florencio García—fed and fed on nostalgic militarism. The War of Racial Containment Some may argue against the México-Texas border as the domestic front, as there was no declared war against México. However, limiting the category of U.S. war to only those officially declared would erase countless U.S. fields of war. Indeed, only five times in its entire history has the United States officially declared war. These five declarations include: The War of 1812, the U.S.-México War (1846), the Spanish American War (1898), World War I (1917), and World War II (1941). U.S. involvement in myriad military conflicts—such as the Philippine American War (beginning in 1898), the invasion of Veracruz, México (1914), the Korean War (1950), the Vietnam War (beginning in 1964), the Persian Gulf War (beginning in 1991), the Bosnian War (1992), 337 the War in Afghanistan (beginning 2001), and the Iraq War (beginning 2003)—have not been formally declared wars. In over one hundred and twenty-five military conflicts, a U.S. President has authorized the use of military force against a foreign nation without a formal Congressional Declaration of War. Such was the case at the México-Texas border, which was staged as the domestic front of World War I. Importantly, however, at this theater of war, the war would not be fought against a territorial power, but instead against ‘the Mexican.’ I assert that the México-Texas border is a literal war zone where south Texas became the domestic front of World War I, and this war was fought against Mexican communities and upon the bodies of Mexican men and boys. As we document and probe lynchings in Texas, we explore the continued machinations of regionally-enacted coloniality and U.S. empire, rather than simply racial “otherness.” Any work on Texas is work on an international border, one which is militarized long before the institution of the U.S Border Patrol in 1924.81 Between 1910 and 1919, mass movements of U.S. troops joined the local citizens, local authorities and Texas Rangers in policing the boundaries of the border. The invention of the vigilante was accompanied by the invention of the white citizen-soldier, where white masculinity is further—and often formally—militarized. Thinking through the figurations of the Mexican as not only “bandit” but as specifically non-citizen, alien, anti-American subversive, and enemy combatant in a time of war helps us to more fully understand the working symbolic language of power in Texas. Shifting associative rhetoric of Mexican men utilized the existing bandit outline, and imbued it with the intrigue of World War I. In exploring the figuration of Mexican bodies through performance and narratives, we trace the discursive formation of both Mexican and white citizen-soldier bodies. 338 Connecting these figurations and the culture of terror cultivated in Texas, we begin to locate the U.S. domestic front of World War I. The construction of the Mexican body as precisely a military threat to the nation—as subversive, as enemy, as combatant, as alien—narratively conjoins the lynching of Mexicans with a patriotic cause and patriotic duty.82 The patriotic lynching of Mexicans has been a component of the continuous war on the México-Texas international border. Indeed, the unrestrained “disappearances” and lynchings draw on a continuity of a militaristic tradition in Texas, which proceeds through the Indian Wars, the Texas War for Independence, the U.S. Mexican War, the Civil War, and to the home front of World War I. The lynching of Mexicans would become one expression of the long tradition of military adventurism in Texas. The inversion of invader and the ‘broken border’ rhetoric still heard today began in Texas and became a crucial site to dispute a porous boundary where the white Texan created a potent fiction of constant threat. The creation of the Mexican as alien, enemy, and combatant drew substantially on Texas narratives of Mexican invasion and white Texan heroism. The Mexican as invading enemy would be confirmed by the narrative field amassed about the invasión estadounidense a México [the United States’ Invasion of Mexico] also known as the U.S.-Mexico War of 1847. President James Polk, who advanced an expansionist agenda, would convince the U.S. Congress to declare war on México and subsequently annexed fully one-third of Mexican Territory. Though the United States, like the colonists in Coahuila y Tejas who declared their “Texas Independence,” violently encroached on northern México, the U.S. national story 339 became—and has remained—the story of Mexican threat. The U.S.-México War and subsequent annexation attempted to settle the national boundary between México and the United States, yet the racial boundaries of the white Texan imagined community have never been fully solidified.83 Like the battles of the Texas Revolution that drew numbers of volunteers from outside of Coahuila y Tejas, the assembled U.S. invasion during the U.S.-México War included state volunteer regiments, U.S. Army, and Texas Ranger companies. Indeed, the enthusiasm for invading México gained Tennessee the moniker “the Volunteer State.”84 U.S. volunteers assembled state by state, and included “hordes of camp followers, who sometimes took on fighting roles.” The volunteers for the war of expansion swelled to 73,532 men—58,812 who actively served in battle—against the relatively small number of 26,922 of regular U.S. Army.85 As Carrigan details, though settlers in central Texas were waging campaigns against Native peoples on “the Indian frontier,” the area “produced a large number of volunteers. Mounted volunteers from the Lone Star State— calling themselves the ‘Texas Rangers.’”86 In a truly fascinating palimpsest of war, and as an early invocation of nostalgic militarism, Amy Greenberg’s discussion of U.S. masculinity includes the volunteer combatants who “carried copies of the best seller History of the Conquest of México by the esteemed Massachusetts historian William Prescott, and they experienced México in part through Prescott’s romantic vision of the European conquest.87 Prescott influenced many to view Latin America as a stage for romantic and exciting adventures among an effeminate and weak race.88 As the volunteers marched armed into México, they read of Hernan Cortez’s defeat of the racially inferior Aztecs, as written by a proslavery intellectual. 89 Prescott was but one 340 layer of nostalgic rhetoric. Nationally, both the Texas revolution and the invasion of México were justified by rhetorics that inverted the narrative of conflict and invasion. These conflicts would discursively suffer a chronotropic collapse. As William Carrigan writes: English speaking residents of Texas and the Americans who cheered Texas independence remembered conflict with México as a struggle against an oppressive enemy seeking to crush the democratic and constitutional rights that had been promised to the early colonist. The influential United States Magazine and Democratic Review defended the War for Independence by observing that the “independence of Texas was complete and absolute. It was an independence, not only in fact, but of right.” México had “deceived” Texans and sought to have them “enslaved” under a dictatorial government. Such editorials helped justify the annexation of Texas and the U.S.-Mexican war that soon followed, and they also created a powerful set of memories celebrating the use of violence against México and Mexicans.90 Importantly, the “memory” of which Carrigan writes is not a mental exercise, but instead, the conflation of multiple conflicts—positioning México as the aggressor and invader in each—that resulted in action. The battles of the Texas Revolution and the U.S.-México War did not determine winners and losers, instead these conflicts determined the raced and killable body—determined prey. Utilizing nostalgic militarism, lynchers in Texas between 1848 and 1919 often posed their killings as the leavings of war and narrated their anti-Mexican violence as “battle.” Two years after a clear victory against México, white Texans violently expelled Mexicans from their homes in Central Texas as a continuation of the war.91 Mexican freighters who hauled food and merchandise in ox-carts between the south coast of Texas to the interior were murdered and attacked, their carts destroyed by white Texans for over two years in attempts to terrorize and dominate the Mexicans. So profound was the anti- Mexican violence, which included beatings, burnings of carts, and lynchings, then Texas 341 governor Elisha M. Pease declared to the State Legislature: “It is now very evident that there is no security for the lives of citizens of Mexican origin engaged in the business of transportation, along the road from San Antonio to the Gulf.”92 In 1857, several Mexicans were lynched and hanged on the oak tree at the Goliad Courthouse, many believe in revenge for the Battle of Goliad twenty years previous.93 The lynchings at Goliad and the unrelenting attacks on Mexicans were termed “The Cart War of 1857,” a war rhetoric that continues in histories written to date, as though the racist attacks and lynchings were a continuation of “war” with México. At the turn of the twentieth-century, a global political realignment was in the midst. Armed anti-colonial and liberation movement were followed by the first socialist revolution on the globe—the Revolución Mexicana—which would be declared November 20, 1910 from San Antonio, Texas where a group of Mexican exiles refused the re- election of Mexican President Porfirio Diaz. In this moment, the México-Texas border became part of the global ideological battle. Francisco Madero declared himself the elected leader of México in the Plan de San Luis Potosi, charging electoral fraud by Diaz after thirty-five years of oligarchy. Madero, who had fled to San Antonio, urged the nullification of the 1910 presidential election and directed Mexicans to take up arms against the Diaz regime.94 Though there were no immediate effects on the United States, the U.S. government was intolerant of a socialist revolution on its territorial borders. Moreover, the State of Texas reacted most strongly of all Mexico’s bordering states—Arizona, New Mexico, and California. As early as 1911, Oscar Branch Colquitt, the Governor of Texas began to argue for federal military funding for Texas. Colquitt would fight to have the 342 Texas Ranger force expanded and federally subsidized, arguing directly to U.S. President Taft. In September—the month that the Plan de San Louis Potosi began the series of Mexican revolutions—Colquitt and Taft met in the state’s capital, Austin. Governor Colquitt explained he “conferr[ed] with the President with reference to defending the Texas border against Mexican incursions and robber bands.”95 At the time, the Texas Rangers were a much diminished force, numbering only twenty-five official Rangers in four companies—Amarillo, Austin, Harlingen, and Ysleta.96 Undoubtedly Colquitt’s advocacy for enlarging the Ranger force and for positioning them not as domestic peace officers, but rather, as an international military force would encourage the increased policing of Mexican bodies as well as anti-Mexican violence in the México-Texas borderlands.97 Colquitt argued for the Rangers as an international guard force successfully, receiving the full federal funds he requested. The federal support directly from the President allowed Colquitt to double the Texas Ranger force. As Harris and Saddler explain, “for the only time in the history of the United States, the federal government agreed to subsidize a state police force to defend the American border.”98 Though they had previously acted as regional and state officers, after 1910, Governor Colquitt directed the Rangers to “focus on protecting the border.”99 Colquitt’s anti-Mexican militarism would quickly amplify. He would urge President Taft to take a decisive role in the Mexican revolutions, urging the President to occupy Ciudad Juarez itself.100 The Governor later began to argue that Texans must shift attention “from protecting the border against Mexicans to combating internal subversion by Hispanics.”101 For instance, when “political clubs” were observed supplying citizens figured as Mexican with poll tax money and/or receipts “insisting that they be allowed to 343 vote” in Starr County, Colquitt sent a troop of Texas State Calvary and all of the Texas Ranger force to intervene. The intervention included the Calvary and Rangers travelling by train to Rio Grande City. The troops sent by Colquitt pursued a group of Mexicans, who they claimed had fired upon them and who they accused of killing District Judge Stanley Welch. After killing four Mexican men, the commander of the Rangers telegraphed “We are just starting now to scene of trouble to hold inquest and will investigate murder of Judge Welch upon return.” Thus, by their own reporting, not until the morning after killing the four Mexican men was the investigation of the Judge’s murder to begin.102 The situation of hunting and killing Mexicans emerged from U.S. citizens of Mexican descent and their allies forming groups that would help them to access political and electoral participation. Further, the killing of the four Mexicans, which began as an investigation into Mexicans who were voting in local elections, was labeled a “battle” in national media: “Texas Rangers Kill Mexicans in Battle.” 103 It is clear that augmenting the anti-Mexican, nostalgic militarism of white Texans, state power created the conditions for the domestic front of war in the México-Texas borderlands. The troop levels alone speak to the conditions of war on the border. In May of 1916 U.S. President Wilson ordered the National Guards of Texas, New México, and Arizona to the border.104 That same month the U.S. Army built a cavalry outpost overlooking Candelaria, Texas, which would be under the command of Captain Leonard F. Matlock, who had served in the Spanish-America war in Puerto Rico and Cuba. And just over a month later “to bolster American troop strengths along the border,” President Wilson ordered the National Guards of all the states into active duty to defend the border.105 Wilson also called on state militias to join the military buildup at the 344 geopolitical border. Indeed, “Wilson privately began drafting a declaration of war that emphasized the failure of Carranza to secure the border. The secretary of war granted General Funston permission to declare martial law when and where he saw fit.”106 Indeed, within months of Wilson’s first order, “there were more than 110, 957 officers and enlisted men of the Guard stationed on the border.”107 In April of 1918, it was announced that “telephone connections between American border towns and Mexican towns are being suspended for the period of war to prevent American military information reaching German agents in México.”108 The cutting of telephone and telegraph lines was frequent in south Texas. During the inquiry of the rampant killings of Mexicans in south Texas at the Joint Investigation of the Texas Rangers, questioner Tidwell plainly stated, “Don’t you know that there was constant warring between the United States troops on the border and those on the other side and that they frequently engaged in encounters along the Rio Grande?”109 This extreme U.S. militarization and the discussions of an official declaration of war along with the use of martial law is incontrovertible confirmation of the state of war at the México-Texas border. The President would go further than discussing possible “martial law,” using the media to declare aliens a threat to all military outposts—outposts that were proliferating throughout Texas. Wilson’s alien proclamation, published in April 1917 “in all the newspapers” declared “that aliens must not go within three miles of any fort in the United States while the war was going on with Germany.”110 However, it was clear that war was also being declared on “alien bodies” in Texas. While Neutrality Violations were frequent and often profitable for white merchants—Mexicans as “aliens” were more often accused of violating neutrality, and 345 the constant figuration of the Mexican body as seditionist or traitor constructed a pre- or post-mortem justification for murdering Mexican men. It was rare for non-Mexicans, with the exception of Germans, to face accusations that led to lethal consequences. The various Federal Acts passed during the World War I period helped to race Mexicans, along with Germans, in Texas. Congressional Acts against disloyalty; for instance, the Espionage Act 1917 for those accused of causing insurrection within the military, the Selective Service Act, and the Sedition Act, were abstract federal laws that could be broadly deployed against Mexicans constructed as alien, foreign, seditionist or “disloyal.”111 Further, the four 1798 Alien and Sedition Acts passed by the Federalists in the U.S. Congress were revived and retooled into the 1918 Alien Enemies Act, which would codify new and more difficult naturalization rules and which would criminalize speech and acts critical of the U.S. government. Media promoted the Sedition Act in particular, arguing that by increasing official oversight on dangerous speech, mob violence would be prevented.112 In his testimony to the Joint Investigation of the Texas Rangers, Colonel H.J. Slocum of the 13th Calvary explained that his forces, who were stationed at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio and numbered between 6,000 and 7,000, were men whose main objective was “the enforcement of the Federal Law… especially the laws of Neutrality.”113 He explained that he held “enemy aliens” suspected of anti- American or pro-German propaganda in the U.S. Calvary Guard House. 114 The acts of the state worked toward racial containment by creating new justifications for Mexican targets of lynching. The staging of the domestic front of the war as a race war was reinforced by Governor Ferguson, who in 1916 declared all Mexicans must prove their complete loyalty to the United States, with the insinuation that 346 is was natural to be suspicious of any Mexican person in Texas.115 Ferguson articulated that Mexicans could demonstrate their loyalty by reporting “suspicious” Mexicans to local, state, or Army authorities.116 A full two years later, the justifications for profiling Mexicans and understanding them as combatants continued. In his memo titled “General Conditions” Ranger W.M. Hanson described “acts of lawlessness… transporting slackers and deserters to Mexico… bandits near the river.” Hanson describes a store near Roma, robbed of mescal “by a party of men from Mexico, all dressed alike in uniform and armed as the Mexican soldiers are armed in Mexico” declaring, “They were, presumably, Mexican soldiers.”117 As raced bodies were marked and targeted in the México-Texas borderlands, active and witnessable performances of U.S. patriotism were increasingly required. Bodies were surveilled by the state; and, bodies were also surveilled by community. Acts of the state—including federal laws, and local ordinances—would work toward racial containment while socio-public performances of patriotism became increasingly critical in protecting one’s citizenship status and safety in the local community. As the U.S interest in global ideological realignments increased, and as the domestic theater of World War I was assembled, the creation of the figure of the “100% American” amplified.118 State and civilian efforts to stamp out “unpatriotic actions” during wartime created a new context for the construct of Mexicans as threats to the nation. Here the figure of the Mexican “bandit” would become specifically emphasized as potential anti- American conspirator.119 As far as Illinois, Mexicans were threatened with lynching based on an anti-Mexican vitriolic nationalism. On the West Side of Chicago, two Mexicans were pursued for not giving appropriate respect the U.S. flag during wartime: 347 [A]t 8 o’clock last night [two men] were attracted by the shouts of the two Mexicans as they stood in front of a house from which an American flag fluttered… an angry mob of 1,500 men and boys beat them up [two Mexicans] and tore most of their clothing off them. Somebody cried, “Lynch the Mexicans!” One man found a rope and a search was started for a pole or a tree. Both of the Mexicans broke away… “To heel [sic] with the American flag,” one of the Mexicans is said to have shouted as he spat on the emblem.” “Damn the flag and the country, too” said his companion who also is said to have spat on the flag.120 Texas’ anti-Mexican rhetoric that figured the Mexican as alien, enemy, and combatant had become a national discourse. As the U.S interest in the European theaters of war increased, and as the revolutionary forces of various movements in México continued to struggle for land reform and against class-power imbalances, the dialectic creation of the Mexican body, as anti-American conspirator, subversive, threat, “slacker,” was shaped against the U.S. white patriot body of the citizen and citizen-soldier. Both figures have been shaped by violence and threat of violence.121 Subjects—voluntary and victim—in the terrain of the U.S. domestic front of World War I were affected, indeed, infected by nostalgic militarism. While state actions worked toward racial containment and created the conditions for a race war, the Texan community would be conscripted to record quotidian loyalties and disloyalties, drawing boundaries of national belonging daily. Texas newspapers echoed national calls for demonstrations of “broad patriotism.”122 These appeals to nationalism would be augmented with the nostalgic militarism of Texas conflicts. As the Dallas Morning News reminded its readers, “All native Texans are the descendants of patriots, martyrs of the Alamo and Goliad. The present war is being fought for the same thing, only on a larger scale.”123 Throughout Texas, patriotic public expression, such as 348 giving blood to the Red Cross, participating in “loyalty parades,” and buying Liberty Bonds became visible measures of allegiance to the nation during a time of war.124 The character of militant, nationalist entreaties invoked the cycles of war in Texas. U.S. Secretary of the Treasury William G. M’Adoo traveled to Dallas for the Texas State Fair in 1917 to urge the purchase of Liberty Loans—also known as war bonds. In an address to over 7,000 attendees, which went on for seventy-two minutes and was characterized as a “lay sermon,” M’Adoo married U.S. nationalism, Confederate pride, and a nostalgic militarism particular to Texas. He declared: As long as the hero blood of the Alamo martyrs shall run red in Texas’ veins, neither Kaisers nor armies can tear the Lone Star of Texas from the American flag… So long as the blood of the heroes of the Alamo courses in the veins of Texas freemen, they can never darken the light or remive [sic] from the azure glory of the American flag the great Lone Star of the State of Texas… I am a Southerner, as you are. My father fought in the ranks of the Gray. I am proud of it. In all the history of the world there were never greater soldiers than those noble soldiers of the South. Wilson is a man with Lincoln’s vision. 125 Describing the U.S. suspicion that there has been a threat that México would align with Germany, M’Adoo concluded, “You people under that plan would have again been under the Mexican flag in the future.” The audience met this remark with a mix of concern and laughter.126 The sale and purchase of Liberty Loans involved the entire community. Groups of Boy Scouts, who wore their uniforms to school, sold the bonds. Lists of those who purchased the war bonds were published daily—with first and last name and amount purchased.127 The Brownsville Herald used militaristic language; described how those selling war bonds were “armed with application blanks, check books, questionnaires, 349 loan flags, and buttons. Every street and alley in the city is being combed by the committees.” In addition, any person in Brownsville who did not buy a war bond was required to complete a questionnaire that detailed their reason.128 The Dallas Federal Reserve Bank documented every person in the county who failed to buy bonds, and declared those who did buy bonds “100% American.”129 In Brownsville, an ambulance with a large bell sat outside of the bank and would “peal forth the tiding every time an application blank [was] received and someone else joins the 100 per cent American column.” 130 The 100% American designation had numerous community implications— newspapers urged boycotts of those who didn’t buy bonds. They also adopted the figure of the unpatriotic, disloyal slacker against the 100% American, with the Liberty Loan Central Committee publishing lists of “bond slackers.”131 Importantly, the daily lists of war bonds buyers were absent any Mexican surnames. In an effort to prove the patriotism of the Mexican workers on his ranch and perhaps protect them from any reprisal, J.L. Goode of Rio Honda wrote a letter to the paper listing Mexican subscribers to the Liberty Loans, explaining: The population of this community being almost entirely of Mexican birth—only tow [sic] Americans—I consider this showing excellent and will appreciate it if you will give the list the publicity it deserves. From personal canvas, I find these people full of patriotism, and it is their desire that the citizens of Cameron County know where they stand.132 Whether or not a bell was rung for each of the Mexican farmhands is unknown. Community pressure to give visible evidence of patriotism was felt by land holders and ranchers throughout Texas. By 1917, Colonel Ike T. Pryor of Denton and President of the National Live Stock Association had met with area ranchers and proceeded to telegraph President Wilson to offer “more than 1,000,000 livestock 350 producers of the country as a means of simplifying the problem of feeding the army and the people during the war.” The National Live Stock Association then generated an exhaustive list of every volunteer rancher for the effort. 133 In another effort to make patriotism observable, Mayor Ed McCullough of Waco issued a proclamation where local businesses must close for half an hour each day “to pray for allied victory… The mayor says there is abundant evidence in past history that in answer to prayer, ‘God has turned the tide of battle.’”134 Such visible practices of patriotism evidence the union of state power with community enforcement. Print Cultures of War The militarization of the México-Texas border has been continuous. Governor Colquitt would be successful in arguing for an even more robust state-sponsored antagonism against Mexicans in Texas as early as 1910, receiving federal subsidies for the Ranger force and arguing for an invasion of Ciudad Juárez that same year. The discovery of the Plan de San Diego in 1915 would become a new rationale for attacking and lynching Mexicans, after which General Francisco “Pancho” Villa’s move with his Division del Norte into Columbus, New Mexico (three miles inside the U.S. border with México) in March 1916 became the newest justification for the killing of Mexicans in the United States.135 Before dawn on March 9, 1916 members of General Villa’s troops (but not Villa himself) moved into Columbus, New Mexico focusing attacks on Camp Furlong as well as local businesses including the Commercial Hotel, the Columbus State Bank, and the Lemmon and Romney mercantile store.136 The assembled Villistas killed eighteen, eight of whom were U.S. soldiers, and left eight wounded. The incursion of the Villistas and 351 the subsequent U.S. Federal forays into México between 1917 and 1918 known as “Pershing’s Punitive Expedition” would leave many more Mexicans dead. The Mexican General’s incursion and the U.S. pursuit by General John J. “Black Jack” Pershing— aided by over 10,000 U.S. troops—would become a new site of the production of the Mexican. The region and nation would be flooded with an enormous generation of narratives, local and national newspaper reportage, photography, postcards, and films that would re-mark the Mexican—all Mexicans—as domestic threat and combatant. The town of Columbus was established late in the New Mexico territorial period—in 1891—and was later moved to meet the El Paso and Southwestern Railroad Line.137 While the town and its surroundings would be the stage for many vicious campaigns of removal against the Chiricahua Apache, it would be General Villa’s one- day attack that would seal Columbus, New Mexico in local, national, and international histories. At the time of Villa’s incursion, the town’s residents numbered just over seven hundred.138 The community was not new to Villa, in fact, he had a long-standing relationship to the locals and just two years earlier had given a speech in Columbus for which residents gathered excitedly. General Villa had been in contact with U.S. authorities as the United States closely watched for the successor to Mexican President Diaz, who had fled the country for France. As the Mexican revolutions proceeded and as power continued to shift between revolutionary leaders, Villa felt that the United States would eventually accept and welcome him as México’s new leader. In 1913, Villa met with U.S. Calvary General Pershing at Fort Bliss in El Paso, Texas, and there he was positioned as a gentlemanly leader alongside Pershing in images that circulated in media and on postcards. However, by the time of Villa’s incursion into Columbus, he was 352 constructed almost exclusively as a raider and bandit, rather than the possible national leader of a peaceful México. After his incursion into Columbus, Villa’s Wanted poster would circulate internationally, further encasing him as the archetypal Mexican bandit. FIGURE 34: General Pershing with Pancho Villa before Villa became an enemy of the United States. Robert Runyon Collection, “Copy Photo: Alvaro Obregon Francisco “Pancho” Villa, and John FIGURE 35: Proclamation $5,000 J. Pershing, August 27, 1914,” The Center for American History Reward from Columbus, New Mexico and General Libraries, University of Texas at Austin. Chief of Police, March 9, 1916. Reproduction Number 00196. Knowledgeable of the importance of image as film’s popularity increased in both the United States and México, Villa crafted his own image.139 The domestic front of World War I at the México-U.S. border becomes clear as we trace Pershing’s Punitive Expedition that began in New Mexico and crossed into México and Texas. Further, Generals Villa and Pershing embody the archetypes of the two figures of race war constructed upon the domestic front. In Villa, we see the Mexican bandit cum combatant, and in Pershing, the white U.S. citizen-soldier. Importantly, the Mexican as non- combatant, as citizen, as refugee, as women, as child, as members of communities, and families, are all erased. The representative figures of the Mexican and white combatant in another iteration of race war displace all from view. 353 Importantly, U.S. General Pershing would continue his service in World War I in the European theater, being highly decorated, and it is often written that his combat in the borderlands and México was a rehearsal for his service in World War World I. However, the Punitive Expedition was indeed his service in World War I—the domestic theater. This domestic front of World War I is also the ground for new military technologies and technological training. U.S. troops led by General Pershing took the occasion during their four Punitive Expeditions to test munitions, strategies, and armored vehicles, and the first war trucks in México for the European theater. For instance, in December 1916, while conducting target practice and giving demonstrations to officers in México, U.S. troops worked at improving their fire control in battle, utilizing new technologies to direct pistol firing while charging, and machine gun troops engaged in daily drills. As The San Antonio Light reported, The regular life of the soldiers has steadied their nerves, and the clear air of the Mexican plateau region make sighting easy… When ammunition arrives, another interesting test will be made, that of determining how effectually the present three-inch field gun will demolish barbed wire entanglements, trenches and bomb proofs. A line of fortifications has been constructed as nearly like those in Europe as possible. The artillery will be allowed to work on these under conditions that would obtain in actual war and the results of their fire will be noted.140 In “No Place of Refuge: Mexicans, Anglos, and Violence in the Texas Borderlands, 1900-1920,” Nicolas Villanueva argues that the war maneuvers actually decreased lynching of Mexicans. I argue that, instead, the active state of war on the México-Texas border war allowed new forms of camouflage—here lynchers once used Indian massacre and the pursuit of bandits to disguise their anti-Mexican violence, the domestic theater of World War I now allowed lynching to become “battle” and dead Mexicans would 354 become bodies of war. A print culture overtly celebrating the lynching of Mexicans was then possible. The postcard circulation of dead Mexicans was a new kind of currency that was sent nationwide—this currency gained popularity from the “bandit raid” postcards of Runyon, and saw an enormous increase during Pershing’s Punitive Expedition. While Robert Runyon sold images of “dead Mexican bandits,” Kavanuagh’s postales and the W.H. Horne company traded in another kind of Mexican combatant image. In Ringside Seat to a Revolution: An Underground Cultural History of El Paso and Juárez: 1893- 1923 David Dorado Romo rightly calls essayist Susan Sontag to task for her claim that the Spanish Civil War was the first professionally photographed war, “covered in a modern sense.” Of Sontag’s claim in Regarding the Pain of Others, Romo asks: I wonder how much Sontag knew about the Mexican Revolution—which broke out twenty-five years before the Spanish Civil War. The photographic coverage of the revolution along the U.S.-México border already had all the markings of modernity. Hordes of professional photographers and filmmakers swarmed the border to shoot the Battle of Juárez in 1911. They came as photographic correspondents for newspapers and magazines, as postcard salesmen, tourists, souvenir hunters, adventurers, spies, itinerant portrait photographers and as Hollywood moving picture cameramen in search of action shots for their silent films and newsreels. Their pictures and newsreels were often seen throughout the world within a matter of days.141 Romo speaks to the ubiquity of “Mexican Revolution” images, and I would add that many of the images understood as Mexican Revolution images are actually representations of the U.S. military buildup of the domestic front of World War I. In each case, the figure of the Mexican is a focus, and is written as combatant—though we cannot take this for fact. A significant portion of these images disguise anti-Mexican violence and the lynching of Mexicans as battle photography. In both the México-Texas border 355 region and the larger nation, the visual language of the Mexican as threat and combatant fed the rhetoric and the practices of boundary maintenance. The continual militarization of the México-Texas border has resulted in a number of brutal images taken of Mexicans. Some of the most promiscuous have been postcards published by Kavanaugh’s War Postals and the W.H. Horne Company that depicted “action shots” of U.S. troops, Mexicans, and countless non-combatants.142 Striking about these mass produced postcards is the array of dead and mutilated Mexican bodies— souvenirs of violence displaying disemboweled Mexican boys, mass burials and burnings of Mexican bodies, and active firing squads. The brutal images of human torture, suffering, and killing sit alongside mundane images of U.S. army camps, military parades and mess halls. The coupling of the spectacular and the routine as articulations of U.S. dominance writes Mexicans and México as both sustained threat and yet conquered on multiple registers. As with other versions of representations of violence, these photos and postcards were part of the action of the invasion of México and circulated an ideology of U.S. dominance as they were sent out of the border region into the broader United States. FIGURE 36: Postcard of U.S. soldier smiling over bodies The theaters of violence, of dead Mexicans. Otis A. Aultman Photo Collection, El Paso Public Library. the public staging of sadistic rituals 356 upon raced bodies bring to mind anthropologist Victor W. Turner, who adapts Hayden White’s narrative theory of the “social drama” to socio-cultural systems. Turner explains that “social dramas are lived and experienced within groups of shared values and/or interests and, importantly social dramas invoke that group’s ‘real or alleged common history.’143 The performances produced and reproduced in the public sphere by groups with perceptions of shared values or histories have the interconnected aims of reflecting the attitudes of its producers or actors, reifying or shifting the perceptions of its viewers, and reproducing terror for its intended victim group. In Turner’s reformulation of White’s work on historical narrative, the social drama is not bounded by a beginning, middle or end; but, rather, the social drama is “a spontaneous unit of social process and a fact of everyone’s experience in every human society.”144 We witness the temporally unbounded nature of lynching in the rearticulations of anti-Mexican violence in Texas. The social dramas, where Mexicans are publicly and ritually tortured and killed exist in tandem with media accounts, and visual narratives, such as film dramas and postcards. The modes of staging and re-enactment are multiple. In violent anti-Mexican public performance, we witness the invocation of a shared white Texas history, raced constructions of belonging, and, importantly such acts are attempts at reproducing and recirculating terror. Analysis of performativity rituals that act to create or reinforce stances of exclusion and inclusion are particularly salient in the discussion of violence against Mexican bodies. Lynchings staged for the camera do the work of redressing particular ruptures in the social drama. The social drama consists of four phases: “breach, crisis, redress and either reintegration or recognition of schism.”145 The photographic image must be understood as integral to the lynching ritual with the camera being directly implicated in 357 the violence and as a component of the events rather than as incidental to them. The photographer has not simply “captured” the violence, the photographer has been a part of that violence. The circulated imagery of terrorized bodies reflects a socially constructed reality that exercises power and authority, and seeks to reinforce the subjugated position of raced bodies. As Romo has documented of over 15,000 postcard images of the period, Certain images were bought by the American public; others were not. Americans preferred clearcut shots that cropped out the ambiguity and complexity of their subject matter. They preferred picturesque scenes which reinforced popular visons and racial stereotypes of “Old Mexico.” They liked postcards of revolutionaries with comical hats, executions, adobe hovels, downtrodden refugees crossing the Rio Grande, and other scenes showing the brutality of the Latin race... Images that didn’t fit the clichéd stereotypes of the Mexican border were left buried and unpublished in archives for decades.146 Horne, for instance, created the postcard “Pouring Oil on Body to Be Cremated” (figure 32), which shows the bodies of Mexicans who have been killed, then tied together in wood piles to be burned. A U.S. Calvary member pours accelerant on the murdered Mexican men while no less than ten other men look on. This gathering of men, however, is not as simple as cremation, it is a ritual burning of Mexican bodies in an effort to exact revenge and to display power—a clear social drama with the camera as one of the main actors. The figure of the Mexican has not only been killed, but will now be evaporated into ash. Recalling the work of Mary Douglas on permeable boundaries as abominations, the crisis and breach for white citizen-soldiers and citizen subject—as the U.S. fought global wars of ideological realignment; and as Mexican revolutionaries struggled to re- imagine a México absent U.S. social, political, and military interventions; and as General Villa’s troops crossed into Columbus—was profound. In response, the U.S. Calvary performed purity rites of immolation, reducing the offending Mexican figure to ash, 358 while also freezing the purifying act in a collectible and tradable representation. Turner further concludes that the ritual may be sacrificial. He writes: In order to limit the contagious spread of breach, certain adjustive and redressive mechanisms, informal and formal, are brought into operation by leading members of the disturbed group, the mechanisms for redress are many—one of which is the performance of public ritual. Such ritual involves a literal or moral ‘sacrifice,’ that is, a victim as scapegoat is offered for the group’s ‘sin’ of redressive violence.147 FIGURE 37: “Pouring Oil on Body to Be Cremated,” W.H. Horne Postcard. We note the centering of bodies in the photo-postcard with one soldier (right), hands folded looking into the camera as the stacked bodies are soaked with oil. Just beyond the Mexican bodies centered in the postcard, more charred sacrificial bodies lie. The redressive anti-Mexican violence would be circulated nationally. The postcards, another form of lynching postcards, were sent to families and friends. In this case, the postcard was sent home by a soldier from South Carolina’s 13th Calvary. Importantly, in 1908, the U.S. Postmaster General banned lynching postcards 359 from being distributed by U.S. mail carriers.148 Yet, as condemnation for lynching postcards was being expressed at the federal level, the images of brutalized and dead Mexicans was seeing its peak of production and postcard circulation. Such postcards, “souvenirs of a particular world view,” asserted white dominance on a Mexican landscape, and helped to invent the killable, alien, enemy, combatant, Mexican.149 In the case of the Kavanaugh and Horne postcards, the images of dead Mexicans assert ahistorically that Mexicans are the invaders of the U.S. nation, and that they suffered daily, though after sending in over 7,000 U.S. troops to capture Villa with heavily armored tanks and artillery, the Pershing Expedition was ultimately a failure.150 Molly Rogers, in the History of Photography journal, writes about photographs as key souvenirs of modernity. Rogers, defining souvenirs not as objects, but rather “signif[ying] site[s] of meaning” explains: The souvenir is an unusual object; one that is invested with an aura of actuality even as its meaning is constructed by elements unrelated to the original experience. The souvenir is a visual record of a singular experience, but it is not evidence of what one saw, it does not encapsulate the experience of an event, but its meaning… The photograph as an object of nostalgia, particularly lends itself to the role of souvenir… The subject* of the souvenir photograph becomes imprisoned in an idea, forced to play a part imposed upon it.151 Postcards and photographs—as representations of social dramas and souvenirs of anti- Mexican violence attempted to construct white dominance over the raced Mexican body. Again, lynching is profoundly connected with the modern, rather than common understanding of lynching as primitive, ignorant, lawless, and characteristic of an undeveloped frontier. Lynching souvenirs have included body parts and hair, yet they have consisted as frequently of photographs, postcards, and film. Connecting lynching souvenirs with modernity, Ken Gonzales-Day invokes Walter Benjamin: 360 Writing on the rise of the souvenir industry in nineteenth-century Europe, Walter Benjamin (1842-1940) linked the industry produced souvenir to the self-alienation brought on by commodity culture. He argued that the consumer, separated from the means of production and seduced by la modernite (symbolized by the industrially produced memento), was no longer able to distinguish between the self and those objects with which one surrounds oneself, but what Benjamin probably never imagined was that this flotsam of the industrial age would also become the primary source material to help recover the history of lynching—for what is the lynching postcard if not the ultimate in “dead possessions.152 The postcards of the W. H. Horne Company act as the “dead possessions,” marking the U.S. domination of the Mexican. In Horne’s “The Body of Pablo López” (figure 33), the social drama is perfectly staged between U.S. soldiers and Mexican “combatants.” The image consists of U.S. soldiers with two Mexicans, one Mexican victim propped in an almost intimate embrace by a grinning U.S. soldier whose commander looks on from behind. The bleeding Mexican in suit jacket has been stripped from the waist down, though the contents of his breast pocket are still tucked away. Because we know it is unlikely that the Mexican man would lose only the bottom half of his clothing in battle or in an attempted escape, we know he has been stripped of his trousers and shoes, and after which—in almost sentimental modesty for the purpose of a postcard picture—the exposed genitals of the dead man have been covered with a burlap sack. Even dead, even limp, even stripped, the Mexican must be surrounded by many, his threat is so great. While undoubtedly a commercially viable product, Horne attempted to increase the value of this image by labeling the postcard “The Body of Pablo López.” Pablo López had been implicated in the raid on a train that was traveling between Chihuahua City and the Cusihuiriáchic (Cusi) mines, at Santa Isabel, Chihuahua. Sixteen U.S. mining employees were killed during the taking of the Cusi train in January 1916. Pablo López, a Villista, was accused 361 of leading the deadly attack.153 López was also listed among the “wanted” on the Proclamation $5,000 Reward from the Columbus, New Mexico Chief of Police (figure 30). The dead man in Horne’s image, however, is not Pablo López.154 Yet, identifying the man who has been killed, stripped, and posed as Pablo López would surely have increased the value and sale of Horne’s postcard. The killing of mine workers at Cusihuiriáchic (Cusi) was reported locally, nationally, and internationally, and after the sensational coverage, Mexicans in West Texas were subject to attack. Within a day of the killings at Cusi, as the U.S. mine workers’ bodies arrived in El Paso, white Texans organized “indignation meetings” and over forty Mexicans were treated for their wounds from unprovoked attacks; over two hundred Mexicans who were subjected to violent terrorism fled El Paso as white cattlemen insisted they would “clean the streets of Mexicans.”155 By the time “The Body of Pablo López” postcard was available, an El Paso FIGURE 38: “The Body of Pablo Lopez,” W. H. Horne postcard. Photograph posed in Columbus, New Mexico, 1916. El Paso Public Library. Reprinted in David Dorado Romo, Ringside Seat to A Revolution: An Underground Cultural History of El Paso and Juárez, 1893-1923 (El Paso: Cinco Punto Press: 2005), 162. 362 postcard company—potentially Horne’s—had marketed, in a perfect encapsulation of nostalgic militarism—a card that read: Remember the Alamo, Did we watch and wait? Remember the Cusi, Shall we watch and wait?156 The bloody, lifeless Mexican, stripped and propped for the trophy photo, is accompanied by the body of another dead Mexican just on the edge of the frame, who awaits photographic capture. Because these images were not understood as lynching photos, but instead staged as the “remains of war,” they were distributed through the U.S. mail, which had, years previous, disallowed the distribution of lynching postcards. Photographs and commercial postcards were utilized by the actors in the México-Texas social drama. These souvenirs of border violence and trophy photos attempted to rewrite all anti- Mexican violence as war. These new “sites of meaning” also become sites of meeting. The Patriotism of Race The nostalgic militarism operational in creating the conditions for war on the México-Texas border not only drew on the U.S. history of warfare with the bounds of the nation and on its borders; this nostalgic militarism also drew on a history of U.S. imperial adventures, and in doing so, utilized both ideological modes and material technology and practices. As Europe’s imperial wars were fought in Africa between Germany, Britain, and the Dutch, the United States was developing its expansion into the Pacific. In 1882, U.S. Navy Commodore Robert Shufeldt, serving under President Chester Arthur, compelled Korea to sign a trade treaty, explaining that U.S. oceanic expansion was as much as a sanctioned union.157 The Pacific is the ocean bride of America—China and Japan and Korea— 363 with their innumerable islands hanging like necklaces about them, are the bridesmaids, California is the nuptial couch, the bridal chamber, where all the wealth of the Orient will be brought to celebrate the wedding.158 Veterans of U.S. imperial conflicts in the Spanish-American War of Cuba, Guam, the Philippines, and locations in Latin America would bring their wars to the México-Texas border. The remnants of imperial desire and conflict would be enacted by the filibuster, the mercenary, the soldier for hire, who would turn his attention to the Mexican. The figure of the nation-protecting white soldier was constructed upon the filibuster’s military adventurism. These veterans, volunteers, and filibusters became the literal embodiment of U.S. expansionism and colonialism. At the turn of the twentieth-century, global wars of empiric expansion became referents for nostalgic militarists. In many cases, veterans, volunteers, and filibusters staged proxy wars on the bodies of Mexicans. The cultures of terror described by Taussig became circuits of terror, where the globalization of colonial torture techniques was relocated to the México-Texas borderlands. Understanding the operationalization of nostalgic militarism against Mexicans allows us to reflect more broadly on anti-Mexican violence—as linked to a ritual tradition with an expansive international context (in addition to U.S. white supremacy). Simple U.S. patriotism would draw on the “race patriotism” that had developed between the United States and Britain. Though expressed as a new mapping of trade relations, global white supremacy would be enacted in Britain’s African colonial expansion and the United States’ wars in the Pacific.159 In 1902, Andrew Carnegie powerfully argued the white supremacist racial realignment of global trade would be ordered by “the Patriotism of Race.” In “Anglo-American Trade Relations” Carnegie swooned: We have had many proofs recently of the familiar adage blood is thicker than water, very much thicker as I believe, between the members of our 364 own race. In the evident drawing together of the English-speaking race and all that this implies we see the dawn of a new sentiment rising—the Patriotism of Race, a sentiment of pride and devotion in the race now given by one half of the race to the Union Jack and by the other half of the race to the Stars and Stripes—the other of the two flags which united hold sway over all English-speaking men, for no community exists speaking our tongue which does not hold allegiance to one or the other of these symbols. The silver lining to the clouds of war which, alas! the two branches of our race are at present engaged is that it has so turned out that these now stand closer to each other than at any time since they separated.160 Many of the race patriots, who constructed their understanding of Mexicans on the rhetoric and practices of the Spanish-American War, and even the Boer War, would find a new battle terrain at the México-Texas borderlands. The Philippine-American War, FIGURE 39: “Kill every one over ten.” – U.S. General Jacob H. Smith. Bottom caption: “Criminals Because They Were Born Ten Years Before We Took the Philippines,” New York Journal 5 May 1902, front page. New York Journal 365 Bottom caption: "Criminals Because They Were Born Ten Years Before We Took the which followed the Spanish-American War and was fought between 1899 and 1902 would witness several armed resistances to U.S. rule. The vicious conquest by the U.S. troops was well known to the U.S. mainland.161 As Philip Ablett describes in his summary of U.S. reportage of the U.S. atrocities in the Philippines: The atrocities of American troops included: the torture of suspected rebels; refusing to take prisoners; wholesale massacres of entire villages of men, women and children; and starvation resulting from relocating large populations. A variety of torture techniques were used to extract information from Filipino prisoners, the most notable of which was the so- called Water Cure. This involved forcibly pouring several gallons of water into the mouth of a pinioned victim until their stomach distended in excruciating pain. The water was then squeezed out, sometimes by a soldier jumping on their stomach.162 The U.S. combatants who had served in other U.S. sites of imperial war took Mexican civilian populations in Texas as proxies for empiric conflict. The constructed fear of insurrectionists and the racing of brown bodies informed those who sought to continue their colonial service at the México-Texas border. Indeed, William Taft referred to the Governor of the Philippines as “America’s ‘little brown brother.’”163 Shades of imperial paternalism and racist violence that was unleashed upon the Philippines by U.S. forces would be enacted in Texas. U.S. General Pershing, who led U.S. troops into México into the ultimately failed pursuit of General Villa had previously served in the Philippines as the Governor of the majority Muslim Moro Province. 164 Ranger Henry Ransom, who was implicated in the Ranger atrocities investigated by the Joint Committee had served in the Spanish- American War against the Philippines Insurrection before becoming a Ranger. 165 Knowing of his training in torture techniques and the crushing of popular uprisings in the Philippines, when Texas Governor James Ferguson appointed Ransom a Ranger Captain, 366 Ferguson explained it was in an effort to control Mexican bandits: “I don’t care if he kills every last one of them… I’ll pardon him when I get the chance. A bad disease calls for a bitter medicine.” 166 Today the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum itself points to Ransom’s “abuses of power” and connects his tactics against Mexicans in Texas to his service in the Philippines. Unfortunately, caught up in the spirit of the times, some of the people hired on as part of an expanded Ranger force to put an end to the disorder actually created even larger problems… Among them was Captain Harry Ransom, who used methods that he had seen pioneered in the Philippines against the Moros. W. W. Sterling later commented that Ransom, because of his previous experiences, had “place[d] little small value on the life of a law breaker.’167 Second only to Ranger Ransom for his use of the techniques of empiric wars in the México-Texas borderlands was Captain Leonard F. Matlock. Stationed at Candeleria, Texas in late 1916, and commanding one-hundred and twenty-five mounted troopers in Troop K of the 8th Calvary—Matlock began his military service during the Spanish- American War, and he served in Puerto Rico and was later stationed in the Philippines.168 Twenty years later, Matlock brought the Philippine War home. Captain Matlock mimicked the U.S. occupation in the Philippines in 1899, when the U.S. commanders created mandatory identification cards that Filipino civilians had to carry at all times. Members of the U.S. military forced any Filipino civilians found without identification cards into concentration camps.169 In 1917, citing conditions of war, Captain Matlock declared Candelaria, Texas “under military law” and he targeted Mexicans specifically. Candelaria was the Presidio County seat bordering San Antonio del Bravo, Chihuahua.170 Much of Candeleria’s economy was based on selling wheat and corn to the U.S. Army at Fort Davis and Fort Stockton. In addition, Mexican families farmed cotton for the 367 Kilpatrick operation, which paid each laborer fifty cents per day in scrip that could only be redeemed at the Kilpatrick General Store.171 When Captain Matlock and his troops arrived, Matlock and his troops searched every Mexican home in Candelaria. Matlock instituted identification cards for Mexicans, which they must carry at all times and he had Rangers, local officers, and volunteer home guards disarm Mexicans.172 The constant surveillance and the disarming of Mexicans made them subject to daily harassment and more vulnerable to violence. In addition to the veterans of the Spanish-American and Philippine-American Wars, even the commercial photographers who raced to the border as the domestic front of World War I was staged and the Mexican revolutions continued—had involvement in U.S. wars of empire. Jimmy Hare, correspondent from Collier’s Magazine went to El Paso in 1910 after having covered the 1898 Spanish-American War in Cuba and the Philippines. Romo writes that the joke of the time was “It’s not officially a war until Jimmy Hare gets there.” In fact, Romo credits Hare for the naming of revolutionary fighters in Mexico “insurectos.” Romo explains that previously Mexican revolutionaries had been called “pronunciados” or “revolutionists” in the U.S. press, but due to Hare’s influence, the label “insurecto” or insurrectionist became popularized. Hare chose this label based on “the antigovernment revolutionaries in the Philippines whose struggle Hare had covered a decade before.” 173 Further, many men involved in the Boer War—fighting on both the sides— located to the México-Texas border. 174 There were enough Boer War veterans in Texas, that they created their own colonial settlements, one in Fabens Texas and others in the Mesilla Valley bordering New Mexico.175 U.S. Colonel Giuseppe Garibaldi, who was 368 heavily involved in action around El Paso and Ciudad Juarez proudly discussed his Boer War service and regularly met with groups of men—now in Texas—who also served there.176 Major Frederick Russell Burnham became a critical recruiter of “Special Peace Officers” throughout Texas in October 1909, in search of “Mexican bandits.”177 The connection to Texas was not one-directional, in fact many Texas adventurers had joined in the patriotism of race and traveled to fight the Boer War. U.S. Foreign Services Officer has compiled a list of U.S. adventurers who volunteered for service in the Boer War and describes, “Arthur Conan Doyle was also in South Africa at the time, subsequently writing a definitive history of the war. He reported that an entire squadron of Roberts’ Horse was composed of ‘Texas cowboys.’”178 The anti-Mexican violence and lynching disguised as remains of war in Texas were active practices of a militarist nostalgia. Thus, while many of the narrative and visual references for the legible form the lynching of Mexicans would take in Texas were those of Native massacre—as seen in Chapter Three – “Massacre Resurgent”—these violences were being enacted within the context of active, domestic theater of war. The posing of the lynching of Mexicans as the leavings of battle, the defeated combatants, is purposeful. Civilian-soldiers would trade on the militarization of the border during the World War I period, continuing to frame the Mexican as invader, combatant, and threat. Military-grade weapons would be normalized and widely available to fight the figure of the Mexican bandit-combatant even after the end of World War I. For instance, the Tommy Gun,” developed for trench warfare in Europe (but not off the assembly line until 1921) was marketed specifically to Texas Rangers and ranchers.179 The now surplus 369 military submachine gun was first demonstrated to domestic U.S. Army and Marine Corps, but sales were initially low and the target of the Tommy Gun became local and State law enforcement specifically at the México-Texas border.180 181 The Auto Ordnance Corporation, developer and producer of the Tommy Gun had conducted tests on human cadavers and live cattle in slaughterhouses to determine that their weapons caused maximum mutilation when using “larger, slower velocity ammunition.” After demonstrating the damage possible from the portable submachine gun, the Tommy Gun was marketed specifically to Texans using the visual rhetoric of a frontier landscapes and cowboy heroes (figure 35). In his history of the FIGURES 40-41: Thompson Submachine Gun Advertisement, Auto Ordnance Company, 1921. 370 development of the Thompson submachine gun, or Tommy Gun, P. Antill confirms that the marketing strategy was effective, writing, “Texas Rangers, cotton farmers, cattlemen, and plantation owners acquired the military submachine gun in earnest.”182 The marketing did not only reference the white Texan hero, but reminded civilian-soldiers of the ever-present Mexican bandit threat. Mexican bodies and their vulnerability to violence demonstrates the attempt at solidifying the emergent racial—and embodied—definition of The Border. These attempts by Texan lynchers became stages for reenactments of an epic of conflicts—an unending race war. As Mike Cox has explained of Rangers and volunteers in Texas, “they felt they were fighting a war, refighting the Texas revolution.”183 Acting with a militaristic nostalgia for the Texas War for Independence—including the Battles at the Alamo, Goliad, and San Jacinto—the U.S.-México War, and U.S. imperial adventures, Texan lynchers constructed a Mexican threat to attack. In addition, these perpetrators of anti-Mexican violence helped to create and maintain the conditions for the domestic front of World War I. Crystalizing the nostalgic militarism, in 1917, the Fiesta San Jacinto and The Battle of the Flowers was merged with military maneuvers at Camp Wilson. Crowds of spectators abandoned the Alamo for the maneuver field, where troops displayed military might under the command of Brigadier General James M. Parker. The San Antonio Light devoted pages to excitedly describing the spectacle: [Visitors] began arriving at the field as early as 8 o’clock in the morning. The hills that surrounded the big maneuver field were black with people, and the Austin road for several miles was lined with automobiles four and five abreast. A squadron of Texas Calvary was necessary to police the field in order that it be kept open for the maneuver… The flashing sabers and the speed of the horses made the scene an inspiring one. 371 The battle began about 10 o’clock and lasted for three hours. It carried out the plan of actual war in minute detail, even to the work of the hospital corps, and the signal corps which are not called upon in ordinary maneuvers.184 Thus, in an amazing feedback loop of conflict, the massacre of Mexicans—and victory of white colonists—in the marshes of San Jacinto were displaced to the Alamo—where the Mexicans were initially victorious over the colonists. The San Jacinto massacre’s bullets and bayonets were replaced with ladies in yellow gowns tossing flower blooms, only to be replaced again, by Brigadier General Parker who reenacted war with his troops “in minute detail.” Alongside the reenactments that joined The Texas revolution of 1837 to World War I, throughout Texas, Mexicans were disappeared and lynched in numbers that exceed the Latin American’s “Dirty Wars.” These lynchings were stagings and reenactments, as well. The cyclical chronotopic collapse had the effect of creating an enemy in Texas who is timeless. This nostalgic militarism had the effect of constructing a war that cannot, but must, be won. 372 Notes to Chapter Six 1 Joseph Nichols to Henry Hutchings, May 13, 1916, File 401-554-18, TSA, cited in John W. Weber, III., From South Texas to the Nation: The Exploitation of Mexican Labor in the Twentieth Century (University of North Carolina Press, 2015), Chapter 1, note 78; John W. Weber, III., “The Shadow of the Revolution: South Texas, the Mexican Revolution, and the Evolution of Modern American Labor Relations,” (Dissertation, The College of William and Mary, 2008), 79-94. 2 Laura Hernández-Ehrisman, Inventing the Fiesta City: Heritage and Carnival in San Antonio (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2008), 18. 3 Richard Flores, “Adina de Zavala and the Politics of Restoration,” in Adina de Zavala, History and Legends of the Alamo and Other Missions in and Around San Antonio (Houston: Arte Publico Press, 1996), v-lviii. Much of the narrative of the “martyrs” of the Alamo is discussed in Chapter 5 – 4 Domination and Demarcation. 5 “About Fiesta San Antonio,” Fiesta San Antonio – 125 Years http://www.fiesta- sa.org/p/about/916 6 Ibid. 7 Interestingly, the Texan “Battle of Flowers” was an imitation of the Mexican holiday of Combat of Flowers, which takes place on the Sunday nearest Cinco de Mayo, the national holiday celebrating the defeat of the French at Puebla in 1862. “Mexicans Energetic in the Pursuit of Leisurely Fun,” The El Paso Herald, 31 March 1911, 4. 8 “Battle of the Flowers In San Antonio: Great Celebration With Many Novel Features In Alamo City,” The El Paso Herald, 20 April 1901, front-page. 9 An excellent and deeply researched work discussing the origin and progress of The Battle of the Flowers and the transformation and commercialization of The San Antonio Fiestas is Laura Hernández-Ehrismans Inventing the Fiesta City: Heritage and Carnival in San Antonio (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2008). 10 Stephen L. Moore, Eighteen Minutes: The Battle of San Jacinto and the Texas Independence Campaign (Plano: Republic of Texas Press, 2004), 210. 11 Jesús F. de la Teja, ed. Tejano Leadership in Mexican and Revolutionary Texas (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2010, 215); Stephen Hardin, Texian Iliad – A Military History of the Texas Revolution (Austin, University of Texas Press, 1994), 215; Amelia W. Williams and Eugene C. Barker, eds., The Writings of Sam Houston, 1813–1863, 8 Volumes (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1938–43; reprinted, Austin 373 and New York: Pemberton Press, 1970); Stephen L. Moore, Eighteen Minutes: The Battle of San Jacinto and the Texas Independence Campaign (Plano: Republic of Texas Press, 2004), 274, 364. 12 Davis (2006), 271; Hardin, 213: “San Jacinto Battlefield,” National Historic Landmarks. National Park Service. http://focus.nps.gov/pdfhost/docs/NHLS/Text/66000815.pdf 13 Hardin, 211-215. 14 “About Fiesta San Antonio: Events,” Fiesta San Antonio – 125 Years http://www.battleofflowers.org/events/about-the-parade/ Suzanne Bost, “Women and Chile at the Alamo: Feeding U.S. Colonial 15 Mythology,” Nepantla: Views from the South (2003), 493-522, 507. 16 Advertisement: Dakowitz Bros. The San Antonio Daily Express 13 April 1902, 25. 17 Hernández-Ehrisman, 56. 18 “Battle of the Flowers In San Antonio: Great Celebration,” (1901), front-page. 19 Emphasis mine. “For the Battle of the Flowers: It Will Be Fought Saturday, the Twentieth of April,” The San Antonio Daily Express 17 March 1900, 11. 20 “Battle of the Flowers In San Antonio: Great Celebration,” (1901), front page. By the 1870s, the trading town of San Antonio had grown to one of Texas’ largest cities, with a population of just under 40,000 people. Its growth was largely due to the gains the town made during the Civil War, when this key exchange point of the Confederate state acted as a military center, as well as distribution center for cotton, wool, munitions, and cattle. The building of the San Antonio Railway in 1877 further increased the population of those moving to Texas from U.S. southern state migrants. For more on San Antonio’s growth and import as a trading center, see: T. R. Fehrenbach, “San Antonio, TX,” Handbook of Texas Online http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/hds02 21 “Spanish War Veterans,” The El Paso Herald, 8 April 1902, 2. 22 “Battle of the Flowers In San Antonio: Great Celebration” (1901), front-page. 23 “Clarence Wortham Carnival Coming,” The Paris Morning News, 20 April 1917, 3. The Battleship Texas, used in World Wars I and II, is now moored in San Jacinto Park 374 near the strip of land where the colonists pitched their camp before the Battle of San Jacinto. The battleship was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1977. “San Jacinto Battlefield: Where the West Was Won,” Texas Highways: The Travel Magazine of Texas 13 July 2012 http://www.texashighways.com/the-magazine/item/1917-san- jacinto-battlefield-where-the-west-was-won 24 “San Antonio Fiesta Draws Immense Crowds,” The Corpus Cristi Caller 22 April 1915, 1. 25 Ibid. 26 “About Fiesta San Antonio,” Fiesta San Antonio – 125 Years http://www.fiesta- sa.org/p/about/916 27 “About Fiesta San Antonio – Events,” Fiesta San Antonio – 125 Years http://www.battleofflowers.org/events/about-the-parade/ 28 Schneider, 31. 29 Trouillot, 2. 30 Bakhtin, (1981), 147-148. 31 Linda Hutcheon, “Irony, Nostalgia, and the Postmodern,” Criticism and Theory (University of Toronto English Library, 1997). http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/criticism/hutchinp.html#N27 32 Taussig, 9. 33 Carrigan, (2006), 12. 34 Ibid, 29. 35 Paul Foos, A Short, Offhand, Killing Affair (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 2002), 6. 36 The anthology that considers U.S. military and civilian involvement during the period of the Mexican revolutions, War along the Border: The Mexican Revolution and Tejano Communities is edited by Arnoldo De León (University of Houston, 2012). While this is an important contribution to regional and borderlands histories, this anthology’s emphasis on the Mexican Revolution as the only war affecting or in play on the México- Texas border continues the erasure of the domestic front of World War I. 37 Montejano, 117. 38 Charles H. Harris and Louis R. Sadler also point to the militarization of the 375 México-Texas border in incredible detail, pointing to primary sources on both sides of the geo-political border. However, they frame this military buildup as Mexican Revolution Spill-Over. See their work on the period: The Texas Rangers and the Mexican Revolution: The Bloodiest Decade, 1910-1920 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2004) and The Secret War in El Paso: Mexican Revolutionary Intrigue, 1906-1920 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2009). 39 Ribb (2001), 79. 40 Emphasis mine. Ibid, 1. 41 Emphasis mine. Limón (1998), 15-16. 42 “Bridges Not Closed Order Misunderstood,” Brownsville Herald Vol 24, No. 240 17 April, 1918, 1; Investigation of Mexican Affairs, 3279-3284; José Antonio Arce et al. v. State of Texas, 202 S.W. Tex. Crim. Rep. 951 (17April 1918, [1916]) “Webb County: District Clerk’s Criminal Court Case Papers, 1915-16,” MSS., Group 5–27 of Texas State Library, Regional Depository, University of Texas, Pan American. South Texas Archives, Edinburg, Texas. 43 Investigation of Mexican Affairs, 3279. 44 Ibid, 3279-3280. Brig. Gen. Enoch II. Crowder, Judge Advocate, for the United States Army expanded: It is thus apparent that under the law there need be no formal declaration of war; but that under the definition of Vattel a state of war exists, so far as concerns the operation of the United States troops in México, by reason of the fact that the United States is prosecuting its rights by force of arms and in a manner in which warfare is usually conducted. The statutes which are operative only during a period of war have been interpreted as ralating [sic] to a condition and not a theory… I am therefore of the opinion that the actual conditions under which the field operations in México are being conducted are those of actual war. That within the field of operations of the expeditionary force in México, it is a time of war within the meaning of the fifty-eighth article of war. If there was a state of war between the two countries, actual and complete, or inchoate and incomplete, then it became an international or Federal question, and not a State matter… So, from this viewpoint, we are of the opinion that this judgment should be reversed. Investigation of Mexican Affairs, 3281. 376 45 Interview with Rudy Rocha, Kirby Warnock, dir. Border Bandits (Dallas, Texas: Trans-Pecos Production, 2004), film. 46 The Soldiering of the Southwest adapted from the Frederic Remington painting “Soldiering in the Southwest-The Rescue of Corporal Scott,” Harper’s Weekly 21 August 1886, 529. Library of Congress Catalog Number 89714479; reproduction number LC- USZ62-97957 (black and white film copy negative). 47 Letter from Captain Charles F. Stevens to Assistant Attorney General Walter F. Woodhul, Mercedes, Texas, 23 May 1918. Departmental Correspondence II, 1906-1943, Texas Adjutant General’s Department. Archives and Information Services Division, Texas State Library and Archives Commission. 48 Ibid. 49 Mae M. Ngai, Impossible Subjects: Illegal Aliens and the Making of Modern America (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2014). Erica Lee, At America’s Gates: Chinese Immigration during the Exclusion Era, 50 1882-1943 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2003). 51 Interview with Richard Ribb, Kirby Warnock, dir. Border Bandits (Dallas, Texas: Trans-Pecos Production, 2004), film. 52 David Dorado Romo, Ringside Seat to a Revolution: An Underground Cultural History of El Paso and Juárez, 1893-1923 (El Paso: Cinco Punto Press: 2005), 152-153. 53 Lee (1999), 3. 54 Lee (1999), xi. Laura E. Gómez’s discussion of Mexican-American as a racial—rather than ethnic—category also argues along these lines. See Manifest Destinies: The Making of the Mexican American Race (New York: New York University Press, 2008). 55 Ibid, xi, 10-11. 56 Ibid, x, 40. 57 Ibid, 64. 58 “Brownsville Subscribers Fourth of Its Quota of Loan,” Brownsville Herald 7 April 1918, 1; “Employees On Ranch Subscribe to Bonds,” Brownsville Herald Vol. 24, No. 245 22 April 1918, 1; “Texas News In Brief,” Denton Record-Chronicle 17 April, 1917, 2. 377 59 Harris and Sadler (2007), 136. 60 Lee (1999), 3. The Mexican, like the Oriental as “alien” (rather than “foreign”) also relied on the person being near, in close proximity. Such a formulation can also be seen in today’s anti-Mexican/anti-immigrant 61 campaigns, as discussed in Conclusion – Antigone’s Refusal. 62 Donald E. Pease, The New American Exceptionalism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2009), 1. 63 Harris and Sadler (2007), 15. 64 J.T. Canales, questioning James B. Wells, TRI: Volume II, 692. 65 Testimony of James B. Wells, TRI: Volume II, 705. 66 Harris and Sadler (2007), 95. 67 Ibid, 82. 68 “Hunt Mexican Murderers” (1913), 3. 69 “Home Guard San Antonio,” San Antonio Light 15 April 1917, 16. Figure 33. 70 Statement of J. J. Eadds, Investigation J.J. Eadds: Murder of José Gomez Salinas, Exhibit D-5, TRI: Volume II, 763. 71 “Claim Rangers Add to Border Terrorism: San Diego Woman Testifies They Were Abusive and Discourteous,” The Dallas Morning News 6 February 1919, 1-3; Ribb (2001), 244. 72 Senator Page in response to objections to Mrs. Virginia Yeager’s testimony, TRI: Volume I, 306. 73 For the many petitions, affidavits, and testimonies from Mexican women regarding anti-Mexican violence, see Chapter Two – Los Desaparecidos and Chapter Four – Awful Lawful Texas. 74 Testimony of Texas Ranger John Sittre, TRI: Volume III, 1550. 75 Testimony of H.J. Kirk, TRI: Volume II, 604. 76 Ibid, 604-605. 378 77 Villanueva, 184. 78 Lee (1999), 3. 79 New York Times editorial 28 November, 1910. Cited in Harris and Sadler (2007), 54. 80 Testimony of James B. Wells, TRI: Volume II, 701. 81 In Migra! A History of the U.S. Border Patrol (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010), Kelly Little Hernandez does enormous work on the U.S. Border Patrol, surveying its institution as a relatively small set of officers and responsibilities to its shift toward a massive police force and presence in the U.S.-México borderlands. Hernandez’s work with local and recovered archives and U.S. and Mexican official archives focuses on the daily work of the U.S. Border Patrol in policing and controlling Mexican bodies to the present. 82 The long history of non-declared U.S. wars and the legal rationales for such actions were outlined by John Yoo, former Deputy Assistant U.S. Attorney General in the Office of Legal Counsel, Department of Justice, during the George W. Bush administration. You would also invent the figure of the “enemy-combatant” over an actual militarized state force that has been used since 2001. The Administration of U.S. President Bush and the legal mind of John Yoo would create the figure of the enemy- combatant, that works, effectively like the war against Mexicans at the turn of the twentieth-century period. The anti-Mexican violence in Texas underwritten by the state demonstrate that defining raced bodies as enemy-combatants in the absence of a war against another state is neither new nor novel. Further, the killing of Mexicans throughout the period utilizing the anticipation of possible threat shows the Bush Doctrine of preemptive war finds its genesis in this place and period. For more on the Bush Doctrine and the history of non-declared U.S. wars, see: John Yoo and Robert J. Delahunty, “The President’s Constitutional Authority to Conduct Military Operations Against Terrorist Organizations and the Nations that Harbor or Support Them,” Harvard Journal of Law and Public Policy, Vol. 25, 2002, 487-515. 83 Here I am invoking the Benedict Anderson’s foundational concept of the “imagined community,” which in particular looks to the textual tradition as a key tool for the creation of nationalist borders. This is an especially powerful framework as we look at cultural production, including visual narratives and media. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (New York: Verso, Revised Edition, 2006). 84 Foos, 9. 85 Ibid, 85. 379 86 Carrigan, 23. See Chapter 3 – Massacre Resurgent for more on the original anti- Indian mission and practices of the Texas Rangers. 87 The city of Prescott in Yavapai County Arizona was designated the Territory of Arizona’s capital in 1864 and the city was named in honor of William H. Prescott during a public meeting of the settlers. Will Croft Barnes, Arizona Place Names. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1960), p. 354; Byrd H. Granger Arizona’s Names: X Marks the Place (Falconer Publishing Company, 1983), 500; Jay J. Wagoner, Arizona Territory 1863-1912: A Political History (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1970), 36. 88 Greenberg, 79. 89 Elizabeth Fox-Genovese and Eugene D. Genovese, The Mind of the Master Class: History and Faith in the Southern Slaveholders’ Worldview (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 203-206. 90 Carrigan (2013), 17. 91 The white Texans also accused Mexican communities of assisting enslaved peoples into México. Arnoldo De León and Robert A. Calvert, “Civil Rights,” Handbook of Texas Online http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/pkcfl 92 Pease’s declaration was delivered on November 30, 1857after he was petitioned by the Mexican Minister in Washington, Manuel Robles y Pezuela and U.S. Secretary of State Lewis Casse. The declaration in full can be accessed at: Pease to the Texas Legislature, November 30, 1857, Records of Elisha M. Pease, Texas Office of the Governor, Archives and Information Services Division, Texas State Library and Archives Commission https://www.tsl.texas.gov/governors/earlystate/pease-cartwar-1.html For more on the “Cart War,” see: Reports of the Committee of Investigations, sent in 1873 by the Mexican Government to the Frontier of Texas; J. Fred Rippy, “Border Troubles along the Rio Grande, 1848–1860,” Southwestern Historical Quarterly 23 (October 1919). 93 Simon Romero, “War of Words Divides Residents of Texas Town,” The New York Times, 19 July 2003; “The Cart War Hanging Tree: Goliad, Texas,” Texas Escapes Online Magazine: Travel and History http://www.texasescapes.com/TexasHistory/TexasHistoricTrees/Goliad/GoliadHangingT ree.htm 94 Francisco Madero’s “Plan de San Luis Potosi” was translated and published in the investigation of conditions of Americans in México. United States Congress, Senate Subcommittee on Foreign Relations, Revolutions in Mexico, 62nd Congress, 2nd Session (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1913), 730-736. 95 Harris and Sadler (2007), 75. 380 96 Ibid, 29. 97 “O.B. Colquitt, “I Will Guard Texans, Declares Colquitt,” The New York Times 26 February 1913, 2. 98 The federal funds allowed Colquitt to increase the Texas Rangers twofold to forty-two total men. However, the federal subsidy ended January 31, 1912 after the U.S. Secretary of War found there was no reason for the subsidy. After the federal funding-cut in 1912, the Texas Rangers were again reduced to twenty-one Rangers total. Harris and Sadler (2007), 15, 86-88. 99 Harris and Sadler (2007), 77. 100 Ibid, 90. 101 Ibid, 135. 102 “Texas Rangers Kill Mexicans in Battle” (1906), 3. 103 Ibid. 104 Glenn Justice, Little Known History of the Texas Big Bend: Documented Chronicles from Cabeza de Vaca to the Era of Pancho Villa (Odessa: Rim Rock Press, 2001), 113. 105 “On August 19, 1919, troopers of the Eighth Cavalry crossed into Chihuahua at Candelaria on the last American punitive expedition into Mexico during the Mexican Revolution,” Glenn Justice, “Candelaria, TX,” Handbook of Texas Online http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/hnc06 106 Rogers to State Department, telegram, June 18, 1916, quoted in Johnson, 142. 107 Justice (1992), 113. 108 “Border Phones Out for Period of War,” Brownsville Herald Vol. 24, No. 233 8 April 1918, 1. 109 Colonel Aurelio Farfan, question by Mr. Tidwell, TRI Volume II, 636. 110 Ibid, 635. 111 Johnson, 149. 112 The U.S. media helped to pass the Sedition Act. Most U.S. newspapers “showed no antipathy toward the act” and “far from opposing the measure, the leading papers seemed actually to lead the movement in behalf of its speedy enactment.” James 381 R. Mock, Censorship 1917 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1941). 113 TRI: Volume I, Testimony of U.S. Army Colonel H.J. Slocum, 168. 114 Ibid, 171-172, 178. 115 Villanueva, 232, June 19, 1916. 116 Of the timing of Ferguson’s published proclamation Villanueva explains, “Ferguson delivered his demands as American involvement in World War I appeared imminent and as rumors of a possible alliance between Germany and Mexico intensified.” Further, Villanueva reproduces the Ferguson “Loyalty Proclamation” in full, 226, 227, 233. 117 Memo, “General Conditions,” from W.M. Hanson, Ranger Inspector to Jas, A. Harley, Adjunct General, 15 October 1918 Exhibit F-1, TRI: Volume III, 801-802. “Brownsville Subscribers Fourth of Its Quota of Loan” (1981), 1; “Employees 118 On Ranch Subscribe to Bonds” (1918), 1; “Texas News In Brief” (1917), 2. 119 While the bandit figure has been standard investigative ground for Chicana/o Studies scholars, the specific associations with “bandit” that have shifted markedly over time have not received sustained attention. 120 The men who attempted the dual lynching were known. Their full names, John Romagnano and John Roland, were published along with their street addresses. “2 Insulters of Flag Saved from West Side Mob,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 11 June 11, 1918, 3. “Brownsville Subscribers Fourth of Its Quota of Loan” (1981), 1; “Employees 121 On Ranch Subscribe to Bonds” (1918), 1; “Texas News In Brief” (1917), 2. C. G. Woods, “Broad Patriotism Will Enable Us to Win Success in Arms,” 122 Corsicana Daily Sun 19 October 1917. 123 “Urges Rotarians to Give Liberally to the Red Cross,” Dallas Morning News, 22 June 1917, 11. 124 Ibid. 125 “7,000 Hear M’Adoo Urge Liberty Bonds,” Dallas Morning News, 22 October 1917, 1. 126 Ibid. 127 As one of the most exhaustive examples, see: “661 More Buy Liberty Bonds: 382 Tuesday’s Total of Subscribers of War Loan of Nation is 2989,” El Paso Herald 13 June 1917, 2. See also: “Brownsville Subscribers Fourth of Its Quota of Loan” (1918), 1. 128 Emphasis mine. “City Unites in Big Parade in Behalf Third Liberty Loan,” Brownsville Herald Vol. 24, No. 245 22 April 1918, 1. 129 “Liberty Loan Drive in Cameron On In Earnest: Government Wants Names of Those Who Are Able To Invest and Refuse to Do So.” Brownsville Herald Vol. 24, No. 233 8 April 1918, 1; “Brownsville Subscribers Fourth of Its Quota of Loan,” Brownsville Herald 7 April 1918, 1. 130 Emphasis mine. “City Unites in Big Parade in Behalf Third Liberty Loan,” Brownsville Herald Vol. 24, No. 245 22 April 1918, 1. 131 “Brownsville Subscribers Fourth of Its Quota of Loan” (1918), 1. 132 “Employees On Ranch Subscribe to Bonds” (1918), 1. 133 “Texas News In Brief” (1917), 2. “Urges Prayer Each Day By Businessmen,” Brownsville Herald Vol. 24, No. 134 245 22 April 1918, 1. 135 Francisco “Pancho” Villa was born Doroteo Arango Arámbula June 5, 1878. 136 The mercantile was owned by Ernest V. Romney and Peter K. Lemmon, who had migrated from the Mormon colonies in northern México in 1913. Deming Headlight, 13 December, 1912, cited in Brandon Morgan, “Columbus, New Mexico, and Palomas, Chihuahua: Transnational Landscapes of Violence, 1888-1930,” (Dissertation, University of New Mexico, 2013), 243. 137 Excellent work historicizing the violence between the northern state of Chihuahua and the New Mexico Territory and later State of New Mexico has been done by Brandon Morgan, who specifically aims to trace Villa’s incursion, not as an isolated incident, but as one expression of the dialectic of border violence that includes the indigenous, Mexicans, and U.S. troops. Of Columbus’ “second founding,” in 1907 see “Columbus, New Mexico, and Palomas, Chihuahua: Transnational Landscapes of Violence, 1888-1930,” (Dissertation, University of New Mexico, 2013), 27. For more on the reconceptualization of the border terrain at Columbus, see Brandon Morgan, “Columbus, New Mexico: The Creation of a Border Place Myth, 1888–1916,” New Mexico Historical Review 89.4 (2014), 481-504. In addition, regional historian Joyce Reynolds’ Pancho Villa & Columbus, New Mexico proves informative and presses upon local memory (Deming: J. Reynolds Photo & Computer Works, n.d.), as does the study by the New Mexico’s State University at Las Cruces, “Columbus New Mexico: in History of the Columbus Raid (Las Cruces: New Mexico State University Board of 383 Regents). 138 James E. and Barbara H. Sherman, Ghost Towns and Mining Camps of New Mexico (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1975), 51–54. 139 Villa hired a personal biographer and photographer, who followed his military actions and he had close ties to the Hearst corporation in the United States. Bill Rakocy, Villa Raids Columbus, N.M., #2 (El Paso: Bravo Press, 1991), 97, 111. See also Romo, 162. “Troopers in Mexico Learning to Shoot: Rifle and Pistol Practice and Fire 140 Control Among Steady Drills,” San Antonio Light 22 December 1916, 12. 141 Romo, 155. 142 Carefully collected postcards in leather scrap book binders can be found in archives such as The Centre for Southwest Research. The binders, consisting of photographs and photomechanical postcards by Kavanaugh’s War Postals and El Paso’s W.H. Horne postcard company, represent U.S. General Pershing’s Punitive Expedition. For more on the expansion of war postcards during the World War I period and the Mexican revolutions, see also: Romo, 155-172. Romo reproduces numerous images generated in this period throughout his work as well. 143 The “alleged or shared history” might be reminiscent of Carrigan’s “local memory,” as well as Anderson’s “imaged community.” White and Turner’s formulation is also generative for “nostalgic militarism,” which helps to animate and reenact anti- Mexican violence. Particularly helpful is White and Turner’s attention to the embodied staging of conflict and redress. Victor W. Turner, “Social Dramas and Stories About Them” in On Narrative (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981), W.J.T. Mitchell, ed., 137-164, 145. 144 Ibid, 145. The performative practices of groups targeting Mexicans and other raced bodies can also be called “dramas of living” (a phrase coined by Kenneth Burke) where “[t]here is an interdependent, perhaps dialectic, relationship between social dramas and genres of cultural performance. Life, after all, is as much an imitation of art as the reverse.” Ibid, 149. 145 Ibid, 145. 146 Among the images that were not widely published by the media or purchased as postcards are Samuel Tinoco’s photographs of middle-class revolutionaries in soft focus and his studio portraits of General Francisco “Pancho” Villa and his wife (1913), along with Ester Lovell’s portraits of African American and Afro mestizo women who joined Madero’s revolutionary forces. Romo, 156. 384 147 Turner, 147. 148 Richard Lacayo, “Blood at the Root,” Time Magazine 2 April 2000. http://content.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,42301,00.html Molly Rogers, “The Slave Daguerreotypes of the Peabody Museum: Scientific 149 Meaning and Utility” in History of Photography 30:1 (Spring 2006), 38-53, 51. 150 Jacobs, 1997. 151 Rogers 2006, 51. 152 Gonzales-Day 2006, 113. 153 Miguel Antonio Levario, Militarizing the Border: When Mexicans Became the Enemy (College Station: Texas A&M Press, 2012), 38. 154 In fact, López admitted to helping lead the Columbus raid, and he was carried out of Columbus wounded to Ascencion in Chihuahua. López was later deposed at the Chihuahua Penitentery and was executed facing an abobe wall by the Mexican Federales on June 6, 1916. He was executed for leading the attack at the Cusihuiriáchic Mines. Rakocy, 162. 155 Villanueva, 230-231. An excellent transnational study of the anti-Mexican violence in El Paso after the raid at the Cusihuiriáchic Mines is Miguel Antonio Levario’s “¡Muerto a los gringos! The Santa Ysabel Massacre and the El Paso Race Riot of 1916,”in Militarizing the Border: When Mexicans Became the Enemy (College Station: Texas A&M Press, 2012), 38-52. Though I quarrel with Levario’s framing of the unrestrained, brutal attacks on Mexicans in El Paso as a “riot,” the massive archive of evidence that Levario has marshalled in his work creates important ground for further study. 156 “El Paso Quiet After Night of Fighting,” The Boston Globe, 14 January 1916. 157 Kevin Phillips, William McKinley: The American Presidents Series: The 25th President, 1897-1901 (New York: Times Books, 2003), 89-90. 158 Quoted in Piers Brendon The Decline and Fall of the British Empire, 1781- 1997 (New York: Vintage Books, 2010), 217. See also: The United States Army and Navy Journal and Gazette of the Regular and Volunteer Forces, Volume 21: 22 December 1883 (New York: Army and Navy Journal Incorporated, 1884), 419. 159 Of global empiric expansion and the Patriotism of Race, Byron Farwell notes, “William Jennings Bryan, Andrew Carnegie and many other Americans were 385 embarrassed by the striking parallel between US and British policy of the day: just as Britain was forcibly subduing the Boers in southern Africa, American troops were brutally suppressing native fighters for independence in the newly-acquired Philippines. Echoing a widespread American sentiment of the day, Mark Twain declared: “I think that England sinned when she got herself into a war in South Africa which she could have avoided, just as we have sinned in getting into a similar war in the Philippines.” In spite of such sentiment, the government of President McKinley and the jingoistic newspapers of William Randolph Hearst sided with Britain.” “Taking Sides in the Boer War,” American Heritage, April 1976, 22-25. http://www.ihr.org/jhr/v18/v18n3p14_Weber.html 160 Andrew Carnegie’s chapter, “Anglo-American Trade Relations,” in The Empire of Business importantly articulates the inextricable relationship between the development of global capital and race hierarchy (Garden City: Doubleday, Page, and Company, 1902 [1913]), 119. See also: Andrew Carnegie, “The Upward March of Labor,” in Problems Today: Wealth, Labor, Socialism (Garden City, NJ: Doubleday, 1908, 1933), 43-46. [This essay was written in 1885.] http://www-personal.umd.umich.edu/~ppennock/doc-Carnegie.htm 161 The U.S. occupation of the Philippines that followed the Spanish-American War resulted in an estimated 250,000 and 600,000 in Philippine casualties. Philip Ablett, “Colonialism in Denial: U.S. Propaganda in the Philippine-American War,” Social Alternatives Vol. 23 No.3, Third quarter, 2004, 22-8, 25. For more on the U.S. actions in the Philippine-American War, see: Christopher Einolf, America in the Philippines, 1899-1902: The First Torture Scandal; Michael H. Hunt, Arc of Empire: America’s Wars in Asia from the Philippines to Vietnam; Brian McAllister Linn, Guardians of Empire: The U.S. Army and the Pacific, 1902-1940; David J. Silbey, A War of Frontier and Empire: The Philippine-American War, 1899-1902; and Donald Smythe,“Pershing and the Disarmament of the Moros,” Pacific Historical Review August 1962. 162 Ablett, 26. The “water cure “used against Filipino combatants and civilians is the predecessor of “water boarding,” a torture technique that the U.S. Administration of President George W. Bush practiced and argued for in the “Torture Memos” by John Yoo. See here note 82. 163 J. Tebbel, America’s Great Patriotic War with Spain: Mixed Motives, Lies and Racism in Cuba and the Philippines, 1898–1915 (Vermont: Marshall Jones Company: 1996), 341. 164 During a rally for his candidacy for the nomination of the Republican Party, Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump mentioned Pershing’s service in the Philippines. Trump delivered an anecdote in which he claimed Pershing, who served in 386 the Moro Province (1909-1913) executed Muslim insurrectionists with bullets dipped in the blood of pigs: They were having terrorism problems, just like we do. And he caught 50 terrorists who did tremendous damage and killed many people. And he took the 50 terrorists, and he took 50 men and he dipped 50 bullets in pigs’ blood — you heard that, right? He took 50 bullets, and he dipped them in pigs’ blood. And he had his men load his rifles, and he lined up the 50 people, and they shot 49 of those people. And the 50th person, he said: You go back to your people, and you tell them what happened. And for 25 years, there wasn’t a problem. Okay? Twenty-five years, there wasn’t a problem. (The Washington Post, 20 February 2016) As he as continued to repeat the anecdote—discredited by historians—Trump has displayed his own nostalgic militarism. In his memoir Pershing does not detail his own behavior regarding the use of pigs in various forms to subject Muslims to religious terror. He does, however, describe commanding officer in the Philippines, U.S. Colonel Frank West, who ordered that Muslim insurgents’ bodies “were publicly buried in the same grave with a dead pig. It was not pleasant to have to take such measures, but the prospect of going to hell instead of heaven sometimes deterred the would-be assassins.” From John J. Pershing, John T. Greenwood, ed. My Life Before the World War, 1860-1917 (Lexington: University of Kentucky, 2013) cited in Louis Jacobson, “Donald Trump cites dubious legend about Gen. Pershing, pig’s blood and Muslims,” Politifact 23 February 2016. http://www.politifact.com/truth-o-meter/statements/2016/feb/23/donald-trump/donald- trump-cites-dubious-legend-about-gen-pershi/ 165 “Captain Henry Lee Ransom, Texas Rangers, Texas, End of Watch: Monday, April 1, 1918,” Officer Down, Memorial Page http://www.odmp.org/officer/16763- captain-henry-lee-ransom 166 Jim Coffey, “Will Wright: Rangers and Prohibition,” Texas Ranger Dispatch Magazine Issue 20, Summer 2006, 7. http://texasranger.org/dispatch/Backissues/Dispatch_Issue_20.pdf 167 Ibid. 168 “Return of the 8th Regiment of Calvary - November 1917,” The Big Bend District, 1914-1915 and 1917-1920; records of the United States Army Continental Commands, 1821-1920; Record Group 393, Washington National Records Center, Suitland, Maryland. See also Leonard F. Matlock, Col G.T. Langhorne to Mr. J.D. Jackson, Alpine Texas, 2 September 1918, The Big Bend District, 1914-1915 and 1917- 1920, Record Group 393, Washington National Records Center, Suitland, Maryland. 169 Ablett, 26-27. 387 170 Virginia Madison and Hallie Stillwell, How Come It’s Called That? Place Names in the Big Bend Country (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1958). 171 Mark Wasserman, Capitalists, Caciques, and Revolution: The Native Elite and Foreign Enterprise in Chihuahua Mexico 1854-1911 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1984), 110; Justice (2001), 122. 172 Harris and Sadler (2009), 137; Interview of Pat H. Greene by author Glenn Justice, 5 August 1984 cited in Justice (2001) 137, 206 note 307. 173 Romo, 157. 174 Harris and Sadler (2009), 42-43. 175 Ibid, 43; Martin Donell Kohout, “Fabens, TX,” Handbook of Texas Online, http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online/articles/HGF01 176 Giuseppe, Garibaldi, A Toast to Rebellion (Garden City: Garden City Publishing, 1935), 218-223, cited in Harris and Sadler (2009), 42. 177 Harris and Sadler (2009), 15, 250. 178 Benjamin N. Brown, “Americans Who Fought in the Anglo-Boer War,” Military History Journal Vol. 15 No 6 (December 2012) http://samilitaryhistory.org/vol156bb.html 179 Antill, P. “Thompson Sub-Machinegun,” (11 May 2010). http://www.historyofwar.org/articles/weapons_thompson_submachinegun.html 180 Ibid. 181 A handful of years later, in 1927, the Tommy Gun was used by the U.S. Marines in the jungles of Nicaragua. The first shipment proved so successfully that the Marine Corps ordered two hundred additional Tommy Guns. Ibid. 182 Ibid. 183 Interview with Mike Cox, Kirby Warnock, dir. Border Bandits (Dallas, Texas: Trans-Pecos Production, 2004), film. 184 “Sham Battle Thrills Crowd of Spectators: More than 5000 Soldiers Take Part in Maneuvers at Camp Wilson: Believed 25,000 People Saw Spectacle and Applauded Soldiers,” The San Antonio Light Vol. XXXVII, NO. 2. 21 April 1917, 1. 388 Respectfully submitted to the Nineteenth Century civilization In “the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.” -Ida B. Wells-Barnett1 CONCLUSION: ANTIGONE’S REFUSAL In Fall City, fifty-miles southeast of San Antonio; fifty-miles southeast of the iconic Alamo Mission, Erlinda and Antonio Tijerina raised their family in a one-room home. Seven children—Anselmo, Cristóbal, Josefina, Maria, Margarito, Ramón, and Reies—helped their parents sharecrop the hand-harvested cotton fields that offered finger-shearing bolls three, sometimes four, times a year.2 The wages paid by local landowners to the Tijerinas and other Mexican families left them hungry—they hunted for jackrabbits and ground squirrels for sustenance; the children often had only pecan bark tea as dinner. Reies—Erlinda and Antonio’s fifth child—was born in 1926. As Erlinda weeded and cleared the fields, he would find his first cradle a half-full cotton sack. For their entire lives, Erlinda and Antonio’s children would recall the indignities of Texas sharecropping—their family short paid, or not paid at all after a season’s work; traveling to work the fields barefoot; sleeping on side roads with one person awake and on watch for the Klan who would take their paltry wages.3 What Reies recounted with clarity in his adulthood was a memory that folded in on itself. It was a memory of his 389 grandfather; of his father’s Achilles heel, and of his mother’s fortitude.4 Reies, who would become a land grant activist garnering international attention, recalled the generations of suffering and survival. My grandfather, Santiago Tijerina, was hanged by Texas Rangers. My father, one of his tendons was cut when three men ganged up on him. My grandfather when they had strung him up for something someone else had done, that Mexican border judge said ‘wait a minute, I’m not sure it’s the same one,’ so they cut him down… My father was a Laredo border land grant owner. He was attacked many times. Finally he survived, but he always dragged one leg. They’d cut him back here—he couldn’t work very good and relied on my mother. I remember seeing her carrying him on her back to the fields to clear the land.5 The late Reies López Tijerina, an imposing and polarizing figure of 1960s Chicanismo, would later organize farmworkers in Shamrock, Texas. He would demand repatriation of land granted by Spanish Land Grants, which had been guaranteed by the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. He would encourage an armed insurrection of New Mexican land grant heirs. He would petition to the United Nations on behalf of Mexicans in the United States. He would appear on FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover’s “rabble rouser index”; and, he, along with Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzáles, would act as the Latino leader of the 1968 “Poor People’s Campaign.”6 In Tijerina’s testimonio of the brutality of the south Texas cotton fields, we recognize the ways in which these lived violences came to animate Tijerina’s land grant struggle a generation later. Historian Lorena Oropeza explains of Tijerina’s activism, “no person did more to shift our understanding of the history of the American West from a celebratory tale of ‘manifest destiny’ to the now-prevailing notion of a ‘legacy of conquest’… he led an anticolonial movement within the continental United States… he developed a devastating critique of the American empire at the height of the Cold War.”7 The lived experiences of terrorism and racist violence, of low wages, 390 of sharecropping, and of migrant work in beet fields and auto factories, led Tijerina to confront both private land owners and industrial magnates, along with complicit state power.8 Ultimately, Tijerina would be taken by complications of diabetes and die broken physically and mentally in El Paso, Texas.9 Tijerina’s recollections powerfully echo testimonies of others in Texas terrorized by lynching and threat of lynching. Like scores of Mexicans, Tijerina was part of a community whose members found their lands and homes taken, their movement constrained, and themselves left with little ability to resist violent force upheld—or even wielded—by the state. What Tijerina’s recollections highlight, as well, is the key place of women, and the specific kinds of unrecognized, gendered labor within these terrains of terror. Erlinda carried the wounded Antonio on her back through rows of cotton for their day’s work, and then she carried him back. Erlinda’s body was they very multiplying of labor: she would deliver the laborers (Antonio and the children) after, no doubt, tending to the needs of the laborers; she would then set down the laborers in the cotton fields and begin to labor herself. The gendered work done by Erlinda would swell profits for land owners, providing them many more hands at no additional cost. Erlinda’s work would be the work of survival, work she would continue in terror of what resistance might bring. Reies López Tijerina’s description of his mother Erlinda with Antonio on her back to and from the fields makes manifest the labor of women in terrorized communities. Histories of lynching have been framed as masculine narratives—peopled with male assailants and male victims. And while historically the scholarly field of lynching is generally gendered as male and concerned with the suffering of the male body, in order to fully fathom cultures of terror, we must work to make visible the gendered labor of survival, of 391 mourning, of insistence on justice, of petitioning to power, and of nurturing community and children within the overlying systems of racist dominance done by women. This labor is impossible to overstate. Just as we work to uncover and to insist upon the names of men lynched, ad just as we insist on identifying their lynchers, we must insist on the names of women within these terrorscapes and their gendered forms of labor. Each of the women in this study is known because she has acted in ways that are visible (as with Erlinda); because she has courageously uttered words; because she has called out and has addressed power; because she has signed a statement with her x mark. We might identify a sort of beginning here, paging through though this text, noting the names of the women who have populated these lynching fields: Ida B. Wells-Barnett Vicki Belen Elizabeth Till-Mobley Elida Tobar Daughter of Thomas Moss Susan Merritt Felipa Mendez Castañeda Jovita Idár Juana Bonilla Flores Virginia Yeager Francisca Hernandez-Morales Erlinda Tijerina Alejandra Lara Nieves Josefina Tijerina Librada Montoya Jáquez Maria Tijerina Diorica McAllen-Pérez Crystal Dillman Eliza Pérez These are the women of Texas who, like Erlinda Tijerina, have carried the weight of racist violence on their backs. Yet, for every name recovered, there are scores of women whose names we cannot know—where the archive gives us only ‘daughter of,’ ‘wife of,’ ‘sister of,’ ‘mother of,’ ‘grandmother of.’ It is here we must as scholars and historians take an ethical leap, making efforts to conjure the faces of this labor and this loss—as Emmanuel Lévinas presses us to do. In Humanism of the Other Lévinas urges us to feel the summons of responsibility to another’s suffering even absent a call.10 He asks that we 392 insist on recognition and encounter, even in the absence of speech—that we offer our own non-reciprocal responsibility in the face of another’s suffering. The response to Lévinas’ urgent duty, the ethical responsibility to the physical facts of the body of another—in particular their suffering—opens new terrains of consideration. For instance, for each lynching, for each attempted lynching, we might begin to search for the bodies who surround the victim(s) and the assailant(s). In seeking out—in aiming toward the Other—the profound ripple effects of terror enter our awareness.11 As I have attempted to argue, to make meaning of the full flesh of the histories of lynching, we are required to understand the ritual murder as one that aims to kill the individual, and also to race, terrorize, and dominate entire communities—communities comprised of women and children, who live and re-live threats, tortures, maimings, and murder. Lynching is utilized to race, to police, to terrorize, and to dominate communities. Lynching attempts the complete refusal of social and political life via terror of entire communities—lynching and threat of lynching is active social murder, rather than passive social death. Lynching in Texas has policed who has the rights of land ownership, the rights of business ownership, voting rights, the right to move, to travel roads and bridges, to enter and exit communities. Lynching, the public display of brutalized bodies, the public display of the living body, brutalized, broken, and in its final hours, tied, roped, and killed with open community sanction has affected men and women in Mexican communities. Ours is, it seems, perhaps, an obvious move—to recognize the gendered effects of lynching. Yet, the existing historical and analytical landscape examining the lynching of Mexicans and anti-Mexican violence has become dense with revisionist histories and counternarratives where scholars have chosen to celebrate the 393 rugged individual and the masculine hero while disappearing the female and the “unheroic.” For instance, the celebration of figures such as Joaqúin Murrieta, the Cortina brothers, Pancho Villa demonstrate this. In his field-transforming With His Pistol in His Hand: A Border Ballad and Its Hero, Americó Paredes importantly gave a rehistoricization of the irrepressible Gregorio Cortez Lira and his fight against the Texas Rangers. The Tejano scholar and folklorist who was raised in Brownsville helped to set the foundation for scholarship on Mexican Americans, and enlarged the field of ethnography and anthropology to “folk traditions” previously underrecognized. Paredes was one of the first to pose a scholarly counternarrative on Gregorio Cortez in With His Pistol in His Hand (1958).12 Paredes also reportedly wrote his work with a pistol in his drawer, as he was threatened for working against the then-accepted and acceptable Texas scholarship in Austin that valorized the Rangers.13 Paredes collected and analyzed border corridos to celebrate Gregorio Cortez’s resistance to legal injustice.14 Paredes constructed a virile story, containing moments of confrontation with social injustice and racist terror in Texas. Though there are many variations of the corrido, in most versions, “El Corrido de Gregorio Cortez” triumphantly ends: Then said Gregorio Cortez, And his voice was like a bell, “You will never get my weapons Till you put me in a cell.” Then said Gregorio Cortez, With his pistol in his hand, “Ah, so many mounted Rangers Just to take one Mexican! Yet, these corridos—and the specific focus on the corrido tradition—keenly concentrate 394 on the constructed Chicano hero. The exotifying anthropological interest in the contemporaneously popular corrido tradition, which also acted as an embodied form of newsgathering and disseminating, is a largely masculinist narrative, populated by unsubdued heroes such as Gregorio Cortez and Joaquin Murrieta, and performed by men in the company of men. Thus, drawing upon and channeling the U.S. narrative tradition of rugged individualism, Paredes would mislay the stories of the countless Mexicans, including women and children terrorized and murdered in the hunt for his hero of legend. The narrow focus on the masculine body and its recognizable actions of heroic resistance and flight have stripped all others from the ballad archive. Gregorio Cortez was sought for killing a Texas sheriff. He escaped capture and during the search for Cortez, increased violence was directed against Mexican communities in the Texas counties of Gonzales, Refugio, Hays. After a long manhunt that involved hundreds of Texas lawmen and laymen, Cortez was arrested, tried and imprisoned. In Gonzales County, after his first trial as he was appealing a guilty verdict, Cortez was attacked by a mob of over three hundred who attempted to lynch him. Yet Cortez was never lynched and after serving twelve years, he was released. His legend grew to encompass numerous border ballads—or corridos—and Paredes’ work introduced the Cortez legend to a wider audience. Further in 1981, Chicano film star Edward James Olmos produced and starred in the feature film The Ballad of Gregorio Cortez. The narrative energy surrounding Cortez has been immense, yet Ken Gonzales- Day adds a forgotten footnote to the Cortez story: The saddest part of the story lies in the many accounts of those who had, or who were believed to have, helped him in whatever way they could during his flight from the sheriff’s posse. In San Diego, a Mexican was killed as part of the “Cortez gang,” and others were captured or killed. In 395 Belmont, Texas, a Mexican was hanged to death and another shot dead when they refused to disclose information about the “gang.”15 Paredes’ focus on celebrating Cortez’s masculine and rugged individualism, rather than the necessary aid of Mexican communities surviving under oppressive U.S. expansionism, and further punished during the hunt for Cortez, has effectively erased the numbers of brutalized and murdered Mexicans. We know, for instance, that Cortez’s mother, wife and children were each abused and jailed by local authorities—some reportedly receiving gunshot wounds. Another of Cortez’s friends who helped in his escape watched as his own wife and children were also jailed. Yet, the focus on a masculine heroism of resistance has disappeared these women and children who were so critical to Cortez’s horseback escape.16 Their aid is rendered backdrop to the true protagonist of the story in both the corrido tradition and Paredes’ study of that tradition. Further, as he completed his work, Paredes wrote out the women in Mexican communities in order to craft the stories of Chicanismo’s Great Men. Though Paredes would spend an enormous amount of his academic career collecting oral histories and conducting interviews, very few women would be elevated in to the main text of his works (though some would be footnoted and several would appear in bibliographic citations). For instance, in 1954, Paredes interviewed Martina Briseño in her home. Paredes’ notes include Briseño telling the story of the lynching of Carlos Guillén, “a flirtatious young man,” “a good dancer,” but like Nora Aréchiga, another woman interviewed by Paredes, Briseño would inform, but not appear in his main text.17 An important outlier is Josefina Flores de Garza, who spoke with Paredes in 1954 about the lynching of her father in front of their family’s Brownsville home as “the family waited in the house.” Flores de Garza, reported Paredes was reluctant to speak with him a full 396 forty years later: “It still upsets her a great deal to talk about the killings… she seems to be afraid that if she says something critical about the Rangers they will come and do her harm.” The terror continued to be felt by de Garza and her mother after the killing of her father and brothers. She described that after a group of Texas Rangers shot her father, her two young brothers “ran to him when he fell, and they were shot as they bent over their father.” Paredes inserts only that small portion of her interview and concludes that he had found from other sources that Josefina Flores de Garza had been driven “temporarily insane” from what she had witnessed and experienced. He explained, “For two days her mother lived in the house with a brood of terrified youngsters, her deranged eldest daughter, and the corpses of her husband and sons.”18 The suffering of Josefina Flores de Garza is a significant resonance of Juana Bonilla Flores who committed suicide after her husband’s lynching at Porvenir and whose son Juan received electro-shock therapy for the violent night terrors until he died at the age of one hundred and five.19 The reverberations of terror through time and generation are key effects of the terrorism of lynching. Yet, after the one-page summary of Josefina Flores de Garza’s experience and her reluctant interview, Paredes proceeds to discuss the violence against Mexican men— and emphasizes this violence was aimed at the disentitlement of these men, though in lynching after lynching women and children would be violently and involuntarily displaced. What of them? What of the women who watched as their husbands and sons were taken away to accomplish what I have termed “disappearance lynchings”? What of those made to watch as their husbands, brothers, fathers, and son were lynched? What of the women who stayed near through the entire public ritual, and stayed close as the bodies lay—waiting for the safety of retrieval and burial? What of the women who in fear 397 for their own lives—as at Porvenir, and as with Florencio Garcia’s wife—would ask for the bodies of their family members to give them a proper burial? What of these Antigones, who at risk of death, insisted in claiming the bodies of their dead; insisted on holding the bodies of their dead; insisted on kissing the bodies of their dead though the power of the state deemed these bodies pollutants, bandits, combatant, non-citizens? These women go unrecognized partially because victims of community violence, terror, and lynching in Texas have fallen victim to the romantic tradition of Chicano revisionist historians, who have constructed masculine individual heroes—unsubdued rebels—while ignoring scores of dead victims and those who survived, terrorized and traumatized. Continuity, ≠ Historical Analogy Such would be the case for Crystal Dillman who has fought publically for justice in the lynching of her fiancé, Luís Ramírez. Ramírez was lynched by a group of four men in Shenandoah, Pennsylvania in 2008. The lynching, a public beating that left Ramírez unconscious was documented in photographs: “Blows had struck the 25-year-old illegal Mexican immigrant with such force that they left a clotted, bruised impression of Jesus Christ on the skin of his chest from the religious medal he wore.”20 Ramírez’s lynching followed the anti-immigrant rhetoric and ordinances in Hazleton, Pennsylvania ten miles away.21 The Mayor of Hazelton pushed forward anti-immigrant legislation explaining he wanted the region to be “the toughest place on illegal immigrants in America… And I will get rid of the illegal people. It’s this simple: They must leave.”22 The local rhetoric would adopt and deploy the figure of The Mexican as “illegal,” – a reminder of the work in Chapter One of this project – The Word Become Flesh. The invented social object, 398 ‘the illegal,’ would invoke its unspoken opposite, the citizen. Marking one as within the privileges and protections of the nation, the other outside. Thus, the language, as J.L. Austin reminds us, does something. In the months that preceded the attack on Ramírez, this language articulated community relations and social positions that marked bodies as abusable, as killable. Indeed, after his killing, the media reports would use the word, “illegal,” “illegal immigrant,” “immigrant,” and “Mexican” to qualify the man who was brutally and publically murdered. Yet, Dillman, the fiancée and mother of Ramírez’s two children Kiara and Eduardo, would refuse this language.23 She would appeal to local, state and federal authorities. She would contact media and supply images of Ramírez as family man as he lay dying. She brought the story of Ramírez’s lynching to People Magazine, seeking to use the visual image to combat the anti-immigrant rhetoric. Dillman’s use of the domestic, suburban magazine was similar to Mamie Till-Mobley’s FIGURE 42: “A Town Torn Apart,” People Magazine, 6 September 2008. allowance of Jet Magazine at her son Emmett Till’s funeral. Jet Magazine published images of the child Till in his casket, along with images of he and his mother 399 together prior to his killing. The images of Till-Mobley grieving, faint, near the body of her child ignited the 1960s Civil Rights movement as the brutality of Emmett Till’s lynching was laid bare for the nation.24 However, Dillman’s work with national and local media would see only marginal success—though she provided images of their family life together in Shenandoah, including Ramírez with his children. People Magazine selected a photo of Dillman herself at a vigil for Ramírez. For many, this would emphasize the framing of Dillman and Ramírez as an “inter-racial” couple. Further, People Magazine would qualify her lynched fiancé’s name as “Illegal Immigrant Luís Ramírez,” and suggested the group attack may have been a simple “drunken brawl.”25 They would also decline to publish the brutal images of the dying Ramírez. The UK Guardian would publish the images FIGURE 43: Luís Ramírez. UK Guardian: U.S. News 16 December 2009. provided by Dillman of Ramírez in the hospital, his head swollen, before being taken off life-support.26 Like Till-Mobley, Dillman would insist on releasing photos of the broken body declaring “she would spend the rest of her life seeking answers—and justice—for 400 the man she has lost as she struggles alone to raise her three young children. ‘My life is forever destroyed,’ said Dillman, who was twenty-four at the time of her fiancé’s death.27 Like the wives, children, and families of terrorized by lynching and anti-Mexican violence, Dillman would leave town fearing for the safety of herself and her children. It is helpful here to revisit the definition of lynching I have put forth, given the unstable, shifting, and often ambiguous definitions in the literature: Lynching noun (verb form “to lynch”) A lynching is an act that aims to kill. This act is performed publicly or is meant to be witnessed via artifacts, such as photographs, souvenirs, oral and written accounts. Lynchings are “public” in that they are intended to be witnessed, remembered, recorded, and recirculated. The group of assailants acts with confidence of impunity and/or implicit or explicit community endorsement. The group of assailants targets a victim of a defined categorical group. This group of assailants draws on and contributes to dominant constructions of particular bodies in defined categorical groups as killable. Assailants who practice lynching aim at dominance and or terror through public acts of torture and or murder. Assailants who practice lynching intend to create collective memories of terror and dominance.28 The lynching of Ramírez manifests the key characteristics of a lynching: It was accomplished by a group publicly who targeted Ramírez as a ‘Mexican,” who was “illegal.” Throughout the investigations witnesses pointed to the assailants yelling racist epithets, including “Spic!” and threatening Ramírez’s friends who tried to come to his aid.29 In 2008, Marcelo Lucero of the Long Island village Patchogue, was figured, like Ramírez, specifically as a Mexican invader; thus, borrowing the movable, constructed rhetoric of Texas. He was killed by a group of seven men.30 Lucero, a thirty-year-old worker at a dry cleaning shop was surrounded and attacked by seven men in a parking lot of the Long Island Rail Road train station. Lucero and an unidentified friend were victims 401 of what is referred to locally as “Mexican hopping” or “beaner hopping.” This practice of groups of young men attacking Mexicans is a documented frequent activity in the area. Lucero’s friend, Angel Loya, who was with him at the time of his lynching, described the attack during the criminal trial of one of the lynchers, Jeffrey Conroy. Loya testified as a group of seven came toward Loya and Lucero, “They started to insult us,” Loja said. “‘Hey, fucking nigger; fucking Mexican; fucking illegals, you come to this country to take our money.’”31 Lucero then attempted to fight back an onslaught of blows, and was ultimately stabbed to death.32 Though both Loya and Lucero were Ecuadorian, both men were figured as Mexican by their attackers. Indeed, of the seven who attacked them, the majority admitted to prior attacks on “Mexicans,” including two earlier on the very day they lynched Lucero.33 Racist terror was not new to the area; in 2001, two Mexican day laborers were beaten and in 2003, a Mexican family’s home was burned in neighboring Farmingville.34 Further, in Long Island, the figure of the Mexican was also the figure of the “illegal.” LatinoJustice Puerto Rican Legal Defense and Education Fund reported that after Lucero’s lynching, “dozens of immigrants told federal and county officials about hate crimes they suffered and reports made to officers who failed to investigate.”35 Hector Sierra, beaten on the same day that Lucero was killed, was a naturalized U.S. citizen, originally from Columbia. 36 Journalist Mirta Ojito investigated the Lucero lynching and described the rhetoric of “illegals” in the area” Not every Hispanic person who lived in Patchogue was undocumented… I think people who were Hispanic in Suffolk County were fair game. Nobody was going to stop and ask you, “Do you speak English? Do you have papers? How long have you lived here?” It was an anti-Hispanic feeling even if they wouldn’t put it that way. In their words they would say it was against quote unquote “illegals.” But I think illegality is difficult to separate from being Hispanic in this country. 37 402 The labeling of all “Hispanic” bodies as “Mexican,” and all Mexican bodies as “illegal” as part of a long tradition can be directly traced to the border maintenance of the México- Texas borderlands. The rhetoric of the “illegal” is key as it conjoins the community action of lynching with the language and authority of the state. The group of seven lynchers would act out their nostalgic militarism, imagining themselves as having a role in maintaining the U.S. border, in protecting the United States from “the illegal.” Further, though the attacks—the “beaner hoppings”—were illegal acts of harassment, assault, terror, torture, attempted murder, murder; the attackers would act with impunity and the sanction of the state. As local pastor and community organizer Allan Ramírez described, “Before Marcelo was killed, if you reported a hate crime in Patchogue the cops would ask you what country you were from. They would not even file a report on the hate crime, but they would notify immigration about you. Between 2000 and 2010, hundreds of people from around here were deported.”38 Thus, not only would the terrorists of communities figured as “Mexican” or “illegals” act with impunity, their actions would be endorsed by local officials. Communities subject to racist violence would also fear the actions of the state. 39 I argue the U.S. production of race relies on violence and the threat of violence; thus, I assert the attacks on Ramírez and Lucero would create didactic social events, a potent structuring ritual of race. Further, these lynchings would act to terrorize any person who might be marked and figured as “Mexican” and/or “illegal.” As we trace the ritual murder of lynching, it is important to insist that the killings of Ramírez and Lucero are not an historical analogy, but a continuity. As a didactic social event that worked to mark race and had continued potency, the lynching of Marcelo Lucero would become 403 activated again during the 2016 U.S. presidential primaries. The Republican frontrunner, Donald Trump—campaigning on anti-immigrant rhetoric—would appear at a fundraiser two hundred yards from where Lucero was lynched. Many have understood this event as symbolic gesturing toward anti-immigrant and racist groups and individuals. 40 In contemporary lynchings, like those of Ramírez and Lucero, we continue to witness the patterns of torture, terrorism and murder seen at the turn of the twentieth century. The visual symbolic language that helps to race and construct bodies outside of the nation continues in current anti-immigrant rhetoric. Yet, we note in the agency of Crystal Dillman the utilization of the image as counternarrative—much like Mamie Till- Mobley’s insistence that “I wanted the world to see what they did to my baby.” Critical to the study of racist violence is an emphasis on visuality. As we proceed we must think also on how attacked communities marshal the visual as evidence of brutality as well as human suffering. For instance, Rosario Lucero, Marcelo Lucero’s mother created a procession of Lucero’s ashes, and the family continues to mark the FIGURE 44: Rosario Lucero carries the urn with the ashes of her son anniversary of Marcelo Lucero, November 20, 2008, by Roberto Puglla, EPA. Lucero’s killing.41 Though I have set forth the critical import of Coahuila y Tejas/The Republic of 404 Texas/The State of Texas in understanding the ways in which the ‘The Mexican’ has been constructed and raced, I argue that this invention has been both enduring and movable, creating what I have termed “terrorscapes,” bringing together the work of Arjun Appadurai and Michel Taussig. Together Taussig’s cultures of terror, created by state action and inaction and Appadurai’s notion of a movable social imaginary help us to track the import of The Mexican, invented at the México-Texas border, a figure of pollution, banditry, invasion, and threat.42 The century of circulation of anti-Mexican imaginings encourages sites of public, performative violences.43 By emphasizing the nationalizing of The Mexican in U.S. rhetoric of colonialism and Manifest Destiny; of Native massacre; of The Texas Revolution; of The Mexican revolutions and during the domestic front of World War I, I argue that the border maintenance that is alive in communities like Shenandoah and Long Island draws on “nostalgic militarism.” Lynchers have worked to continue the race war constructed at the México-Texas border, insisting that their violent and murderous acts are necessary boundary maintenance. Their racist attacks allow participation and re-enactment of the U.S. pattern of victory and victimhood. Recognition of today’s lynchings allow us to explore the mobility of ideologies and practices of racist violence against ‘The Mexican;’ to understand lynching as a tool of colonial occupation; and as a continuing technology of terror and dominance. Recent contemporary examples of lynching are evidence that the lynching phenomenon is not an occurrence that ended at some time in the past—we can affirm that past and present are one in this respect. The figure of “The Mexican” is invented in Texas and is critically forged by the cycles of war and the conditions for reenactment. 405 El Por venir (The What is to Come) In order to do the work of recognition and relational, I argue for a radical rehistoricizing of anti-Mexican violence—this includes the refining of the definition of lynching; the understanding of violence as a tool of racialization; and most importantly, a revisiting of the available archive. While I initially began my study with the premise that the lynching of Mexicans had been erased and hidden, what I found was that the lynching of Mexicans was in plain sight in photographs, postcards, local and national media reports (in both Spanish-language and English-language newspapers). My false premise led me to reconsider, reread, and re-see the massive available archive. Thus, while much work can be done to assemble more sources into the archive such as the collection of oral histories; the excavation of Spanish-language newspapers, which are an invaluable source for contemporaneous reports of anti-Mexican violence, we must also work to re-read current sources.44 As historians, we must take, especially, images not as evidence of fact, but as constructed for a purpose. Exploring this historical terrain of violent expansionism reminds us that, as Ken Gonzales-Day writes: Lynching and other forms of community-driven violence were deeply linked to the formation of our young nation; from vigilance committees to the anti-lynching movement, the history of lynching has touched many communities and continues to serve as a powerful catalyst for thinking about race, ethnicity, and national identity.45 This catalyst is a call to make further inquiries—this study points to beginnings rather than ends. Further work, for instance, must be done on the construction of narrative. How have violently subjugated communities recorded and/or resisted lynching? Certainly, the anti-lynching campaigns of the African American community helped to document lynchings and this detailed documentation nourished African American cultural 406 production, such as James Baldwin’s spectacular short story “Going to Meet the Man,” one of my earliest inspirations for this study. Though I have pointed to the relative absence of lynching representations in the Mexican and Chicano narrative traditions, there are hints and murmurs. For instance, Américo Paredes’s George Washington Gomez, which represents lynching and Gloria Anzaldúa’s poem “We Called Them Greasers” from her Borderland/La Frontera collection. While there has been a relative lack of attention to the lynching of Mexicans, the field of scholarship has begun to grow and the ruptures that appear in small ways insist the dominant narratives need not accomplish a totalizing silence. Michel-Rolph Trouillot cautions, Silences enter the process of historical production at four crucial moments: the moment of fact creation (the making of sources); the moment of fact assembly (the making of archives); the moment of fact retrieval (the making of narratives); and the moment of retrospective significance (the making of history in the final instance).46 In these same moments, we may begin to address silences. We may understand ourselves as standing at the intersection of various moments of historical production. Some fact assembly has been accomplished by collecting stories ignored or misrepresented otherwise, and in addition, we can re-read the archive and participate in archive creation through oral history, pictorial and document collection. We might find places for continued affiliation in resistance to racist violence, following the hope of George Lipsitz, who writes in “Our America,” The same crisis that seems to constrain the culture of America to a narrow exercise in militaristic, racist, and plutocratic self-justification is also throwing forward artists, intellectuals, and activists inside the U.S. and around the world with new cognitive mappings and imaginaries, new senses of affiliation, identification, and association.47 Perhaps most key in the forging of these affiliations, we must take the decades of work; 407 the model of African American anti-lynching campaigns; document and record preservations that have included independent investigations and media as our most critical model. Though many scholars—most markedly Chicano scholars—have talked about bodies on the border, in thinking about U.S. colonialism, I propose that borders are written with bodies. This is a proposition that has been clear in the scholarship by African Americans like Ida B. Wells-Barnett, who decoupled lynching from crime and punishment in her first published pamphlet The Red Record. When we look at the mappings of communities and nations—the cartographic representations of the land, the new boundaries—these mappings, we must recognize these bisections were marked violently. Raced bodies have been mutilated and murdered, and these bodily acts can be read for their textual function—where revocations of national belonging are inscribed on human flesh. These bodies—disappeared near Point Isabel; shot into unrecognizability at Porvenir; hanged at Olmito; posed at Norias and Columbus—these bodies are sites, locations, of meaning. They do not, as Wells-Barnett insisted mark criminality, but rather make visible unbelonging, and the transgression of boundaries most often unarticulated. Lynching is a practice of power in social and political organization. Lynching organizes states and communities with principles of terror. U.S. history has positioned public violence against Mexican bodies as “frontier violence,” the unfortunate moments of “Manifest Destiny,” even “Indian Wars;” yet, we must understand these moments as not wars but attacks. Conversely, we should understand the “bandit war” “Border War” period as the domestic front on World War I. Manifest Destiny, the so-called “Indian Wars” (which are best understood as not wars, but attacks); the Mexican-American War (or rather, the U.S. Invasion of Mexico) were 408 not only fought on battlefields—these took place in the fields, the streets, the town square, on the hanging tree, in the pueblo, acre by acre, bodies in the brush, on the roadside, half-submerged in the rios and swamps. Again we might spend time considering the words and the actions of the women in communities who often after lynchings, cut down their own dead; collected their own men, their brothers, their husbands; joined a lineage of widows and family members who have sought to make the lynched loved ones recognizable. Like Elizabeth Till Mobley, these women have been part of the continuum of attempts to make lynching visible. At Porvenir, the widows’ move toward tracking terror for a claim to justice reminds us of the testimonies of resistant of women, such as Ida B. Wells-Barnett and Elizabeth Till Mobley. They like, Antigone—who refused the orders of Creon to allow the body of her slain brother Polynices to be left on the plain outside the city, outside of citizenship, to rot and be eaten by animals laid claim to their dead, insist on recognizing the lynched as human, as tied to the land. These women insist on burial.48 Toni Morrison in her Nobel Lecture said, “We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.” She asked of storytellers, “Tell us… What it is to live at the edge of towns that cannot bear your company.” 49 409 Notes to Conclusion 1 Ida B. Wells-Barnett, The Red Record: Tabulated Statistics and Alleged Causes of Lynching in the United States. This pamphlet was first published in 1895 but was subsequently reprinted. 2 Reies López Tijerina, Mi Lucha por la tierra (México, D.F.: Fonda de Cultura Económica, 1978) 381; Rudy V. Bustos, King Tiger: The Religious Visions of Reies López Tijerina (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2016), Chapter Two: “Revealing King Tiger”; Amy Nathan Wright, “Reies López Tijerina: American Activist,” Encyclopedia Britannica 27 December 2015. http://www.britannica.com/biography/Reies-Lopez-Tijerina 3 Reies recalled wearing his first pair of shoes at age thirteen. Reies López Tijerina (1978); Angel B. Collado, “Reies Tijerina: Héroe o Malhechor?” El Hispano 2:8 (8 August 1967); Bustos, Chapter Two: “Revealing King Tiger.” 4 David Colker, “Reies Lopez Tijerina dies at 88; Chicano Rights Leader,” Los Angeles Times 22 January 2015. http://www.latimes.com/local/obituaries/la-me-reies- lopez-tijerina-20150123-story.html; Phaedra Haywood, “Land Grant Activist Reies López Tijerina Dies at 88,” Santa Fe New Mexican 19 January 2015. http://www.santafenewmexican.com/news/local_news/land-grant-activist-reies-lopez- tijerina-dies-at/article_f9288097-7a5a-561a-a37f-9c0936a56786.html 5 Unpublished account from the Alfonso Sanchez Papers. MSS 805 BCC, Center for Southwest Research, University Libraries, University of New Mexico, (Box 1, Folder 12). For more on Reies López Tijerina, see Bustos (2016), who emphasizes analysis on Tijerina’s mystical visions that inspired his political ideas and practices. 6 Haywood, Wright (2015). 7 Oropeza sees Tijerina as the militant alternative within the 1960-70s Chicano Movement, which was then dominated by the pacifism of Cesar Chavez. Colker; Sam Roberts, “Reies Tijerina, 88, Dies; Led Chicano Property Rights Movement,” The New York Times 27 January 2015. http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/28/us/reies-tijerina-88-dies-led-chicano-property- rights-movement.html 8 Haywood. 9 Tijerina’s legacy is controversial and polarizing. In his later years, he would become virulently anti-Semitic, his children would remember him as leaving them vulnerable to violence and poverty on his quest for greater justice, and many in New 410 Mexico would disagree with his methods that ultimately failed to improve land grantee conditions—though he did being the first national attention to the issue. Tijerina, however, for many, has become a folk hero immortalized in ballads, such as the “Corrido de Rio Arriba:” Ano de sesenta y siete, cinco de junio fue el dia, Hubo una revolucion alla por Tierra Amarilla. Alla en la casa de corte, pueblo de Tierra Amarilla, Nuevo Mexico el estado, condado de Rio Arriba. Un grupo de nuestra raza, muy descontentos bajaron, Y en oficiales de estado su venganza ellos tomaron. Su jefe les suplicaba, “No deberia haber violencia” Pero no los controlaba, pues perdieron la paciencia. Un diputado en el suelo se queja con agonia Con una bala en el pecho, alla por Tierra Amarilla. Las mujeres y los ninos iban corriendo y llorando. En ese instante pensamos que el mundo se iba acabando. Fueron treinta que lograron para la sierra escapar. Y el gobernador llamo a la Guardia Nacional. Cundo fueron capturados, a la prision los llevaron Para que fueran juzgados del crimen que se acusaron. Este corrido termina cuando se haga la justicia, Para que no se repita lo de alla en Tierra Amarilla. English translation: In the year of '67, the 5th day of June was the day there was a revolution in Tierra Amarilla There at the courthouse, town of Tierra Amarilla New Mexico the state, Rio Arriba the county A group of our people came down very discontented And on state officials they took vengeance Their leader begged them: “There should be no violence” But he didn’t control them. Well, they lost patience 411 A deputy on the floor moans in agony, with a bullet in his chest Up there in Tierra Amarilla The women and children went running and crying At that moment we thought that the world was ending There were thirty that managed to escape to the mountains And the governor called up the National Guard When they were captured, they took them to prison So they would be judged for the crime of which they were accused This corrido will end when justice is done So that what happened in Tierra Amarilla will not be repeated. The corrido itself is interesting in that it does not name Reies López Tijerina, unlike most corridos, which name their hero. In addition, the corrido enters the community and makes women and children visible. Like other corridos, however, it is careful to make state power obvious. The “Corrido de Rio Arriba” was written by Roberto Martinez, and a version of it performed in 2012 by Norio Hayakawa can be found at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b4fGrPAXL_E; Roberts. 10 Importantly. Lévinas’ formulation of ‘the Other,’ is distinct from the concept of the Orientalized “other” proposed by Edward Said in Orientalism and used most often in Ethnic Studies and Cultural Studies discourse, where archetypal and dichotomous social locations are signaled by the West and the “other” Orientalism (New York: Patheon Books, 1978). Instead of signaling a social location of, for instance, “race,” by Other Lévinas means: the one outside the self who is unknowable, the one who cannot be reduced to the same as the self. Emmanuel Lévinas, Humanism of the Other (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2005), Nidra Poller, translator, 12, 23. 11 Lévinas, 25-26. Lévinas stresses the importance of recognizing embodiedness—his project is not simply concerned with the mind or soul, but his considerations make the human body central. For Lévinas, the body, and the actuality of embodiment is more than a physical fact—for Lévinas, considerations about the body are not simply about corporeal form, but rather he understands the body as life—it is the body that acts, that has effects on other bodies. His consideration of the totality of being is about a body that uses vision to recognize itself and others: “that the totality overflows the sensible given and that vision is embodied— belong to the essence of vision… The totality of being must produce itself to illuminate the given… But that illumination is a process of collection of being. Who operates this collection? It so happens that the subject who is there in front of being to ‘receive the reflection’ is also beside being to operate the collection. This ubiquity is embodiment itself, the marvel of the human body” (14). Thinking through the relationship between culture and language, Lévinas defers again to the body, writing that the production of 412 culture does not express thought, but being. He writes: [L]anguage through which signification is produced in being is a language spoken by embodied minds. The embodiment of thought is not an accident that happened to it, that makes its task heavier by deflecting from its rectitude the straight movement by which it sights the object. The body is the fact that thought is immersed in the world that it thinks and consequently expresses this world at the same time as it thinks it. The bodily gesture is not a nervous discharge, it is a celebration of the world, poetry. The body is a sensing sense… We are not subjects of the world and part of the world by two different points of view; in expression we are at the same time subject and part (16). 12 Paredes was the first Mexican American to be awarded a PhD at the University of Texas at Austin and would teach there from 1958 to 1984. He would describe his birth (September 3, 1915) in Brownsville as coterminous with the coming of citrus orchards, which were developed “during the height of the border troubles, when there was ethnic cleansing, to use current term, along the border when Rangers and others murders a number of Mexicans and intimidated a lot of others to leave the country; in other words, so the country could be developed. That’s why we have grapefruit orchards and all of that in the Brownsville area.” From Manuel Medrano in Américo Paredes: In His Own Words, an Authorized Biography, “Appendix One: Unedited Transcription of Favorite Interview with Dr. Américo Paredes, September 22, 1994,” (Denton: University of North Texas Press, 2010), 137. 13 Paredes would dedicate With His Pistol in His Hand to his father, “who rode a raid or two with Catarino Garza; and to all those old men who sat around on summer nights, in the days when there was a chaparral, smoking their cornhusk cigarettes and talking in low, gentle voices about violent things.” 14 The corrido is a narrative musical ballad, very often with an editorializing or subversive message. Work with particular interest on the corrido tradition in Mexican and Mexican American communities in the United States is Richard Flores’ “The Corrido and the Emergence of Texas-Mexican Social Identity,” which reflects on the corrido “Los Sediciosos,” that emerged in 1915 in south Texas. Flores argues that this corrido is an example of the ways in which group identity—here the Tejano or Texas-Mexican—is expressed. Richard Flores, “The Corrido and the Emergence of Texas-Mexican Social Identity,” Journal of American Folklore, Volume 105, (Spring 1992), 166. In addition, T.M. Scruggs traces the corrido tradition to modern Nicaragua as form that is used to record and to perform public history. T.M. Scruggs “Music, Memory, and the Politics of Erasure in Nicaragua,” Memory and the Impact of Political Transformation in Public Space (Durham: Duke University Press, 2004), 255-276. 15 Gonzales-Day, 148-149. 413 Cida S. Chase, “Américo Paredes,” from Dictionary of Literary Biography, 16 Volume 209: Chicano Writers, Third Series (Santa Barbara: University of California, The Gale Group, 1999), 182-193. 17 The interviews with Martina Briseño and Nora Aréchiga are listed with “Historical References – Primary Sources,” 255. They are also housed at the collection of “Américo Paredes Papers, 19xx -1998,” Benson Latin American Collection Rare Books and Manuscripts, University of Texas at Austin. 18 Paredes, 27. 19 Juan Bonilla Flores spoke with his great-nieces Elida Tobar and Elisa Pérez about the violences and killings he witnessed. See: “The Massacre at Porvenir, Texas,” https://primaelisa.wordpress.com/2010/04/21/the-massacre-at-el-porvenir/ and “Ode to Gode,” Prima Elsa Wordpress. https://primaelisa.wordpress.com/tag/gode-davis/ In addition, the story of the mass lynching at Porvenir opens Chapter Four – Awful Lawful Texas. 20 Emanuella Grinberg, “Town Struggles with Fallout from Immigrant’s Fatal Beating, CNN News 31 July 2008. http://www.cnn.com/2008/CRIME/07/31/shenadoah.beating/index.html?iref=nextin 21 Antonio Olivo, “Immigrant’s Death Splits Blue-Collar Town,” The Chicago Tribune 12 August 2008 http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/nationworld/chi- hatecrimeaug12-story.html 22 Michael Powell and Michelle García, “PA City Puts Illegal Immigrants on Notice,” Washington Post 22 August 2006. 23 Grinberg; Hamill. 24 Katie Nodjimbadem, “Emmett Till’s Open Casket Funeral Reignited the Civil Rights Movement,” Smithsonian Magazine 2 September, 2015; Shantell E. Jamison, “60 Years Later: Remembering Emmett Till,” Jet Magazine 28 August 2015. http://www.jetmag.com/life/60-years-later-remembering-emmett-till/ The original section devoted to Emmett and Mamie Till-Mobley appeared in Jet Magazine’s 15 September 15, 1955 edition. The Chicago Defender would also publish images of the child’s open-casket funeral. See Stephen Whitfield A Death in the Delta: The Story of Emmett Till (Baltimore: John’s Hopkins University Press, 1991), 23. Till-Mobley would join the NAACP on a recruiting five in 1955discussing her child’s lynching and the trial of his lynchers. It remains one of the singularly most successful recruiting and fundraising drive in the NAACP’s history. Mamie Till-Mobley and 414 Christopher Benson, The Death of Innocence: The Story of the Hate Crime That Changed America, (New York: Random House, 2003), 191-196. 25 Nicole Weisensee Egan, “A Town Torn Apart: Illegal Immigrant Luís Ramírez Died in a Fight with Three White Teens. Was It a Tragic Brawl—or a Hate Crime?” People Magazine Volume 70, No. 10, 8 September 2008, 105. 26 Ed Pilkington, “Pennsylvania Police Accused of Cover-up in Immigrant’s Murder, UK Guardian: U.S. News 16 December 2009. http://www.theguardian.com/world/2009/dec/16/mexican-immigrant-murder 27 Jacinth Planer, “Killing puts focus on crimes against Latinos,” CNN News 24 October, 2009. http://www.cnn.com/2009/CRIME/10/22/lia.shenandoah.killing/index.html?eref=rssus 28 See the full discussion on the shifting definitions of lynchgin and the rationale for my own definition here in Chapter One – The Word Become Flesh, 28-38. 29 Grinberg, Hammill, Olivo, Planer. 30 Naimah Jabali-Nash, “Four New York Teens Sentenced in 2008 Hate Crime,” CBS News 26 August 26, 2010. http://www.cbsnews.com/news/four-new-york-teens- sentenced-in-2008-hate-crime/ Journalist Mirta Ojito has written about Lucero’s lynching and the long pattern of anti- immigrant violence in Long Island in Hunting Season: Immigration and Murder in an All-American Town (Boston: Beacon Press, 2013). The book includes a number of interviews conducted by Ojito. 31 Ted Hesson, “Angel Loja Recounts the Attack That Led to the Death of His Childhood Friend, Marcelo Lucero,” Long Island Wins 24 March 2010. http://www.longislandwins.com/news/detail/angel_loja_recounts_the_attack_that_led_to _the_death_of_his_childhood_frien 32 Manny Fernandez, “Guilty Verdict in Killing of Long Island Man” in The New York Times 20 April 2010 http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/20/nyregion/20patchogue.html; Kirk Semple, “4 Years Later, Still No Answers in Killing of a Long Island Laborer,” The New York Times 28 July 2014, A18. http://nyti.ms/1nSawWI 33 “Group Slams Long Island Trump Event Planned Near Site of Immigrant’s Murder,” CBS New York 13 April 2016 http://newyork.cbslocal.com/2016/04/13/donald-trump-patchogue-long-island/; Julianne Hing, “A Portrait of a Town Where Attacking Latinos Was Sport,” Colorlines 26 November 2013 http://www.colorlines.com/articles/portrait-town-where-attacking- 415 latinos-was-sport 34 Ray Sanchez and Cindy Y. Rodriguez, “Hate Crime Killing Triggers Federal Oversight of Town’s Police,” CNN News 17 December, 2013. http://www.cnn.com/2013/12/17/justice/new-york-hate-crime-police/ 35 Ibid. 36 Hing. 37 Ibid. 38 Joanna Walters, “Trump urged to cancel event near place where Latino man was killed in 2008,” The Guardian 14 April 2016. http://www.theguardian.com/us- news/2016/apr/14/donald-trump-long-island-hate-crime-marcelo-lucero 39 Sanchez and Rodriguez (2013). 40 Raul Reyes, “Trump’s Planned Long Island Visit Is Insult to Slain Latino,” NBC News 14 April 2016. http://www.nbcnews.com/news/latino/opinion-trump-s- planned-long-island-visit-insult-slain-latino-n555886; “Group Slams Long Island Trump Event” (2016). 41 Lucero’s mother, who was a resident of Ecuador, has since passed of Parkinson’s disease. The annual procession is led by community leaders and Lucero’s younger brother, Joselo Lucero. Joselo Lucero has since become the Community Outreach Coordinator for the Hagedorn Foundation, a Long Island social justice initiative. Semple; “Joselo Lucero Shares His Story of Loss and Hope with Stony Brook Students,” Stony Brook University Happenings 11 March 2014. http://www.stonybrook.edu/happenings/oncampus/joselo-lucero-shares-his-story-of-loss- and-hope-with-stony-brook-students/ 42 Appadurai (1996). 43 In addition, a new way in which Texas’ rhetoric and imaginings are dispersed nationally, is through the U.S. textbook market. As one of the largest textbook markets in the nation, Texas determines the content of textbooks nationwide. As documented in the film The Revisionaries, publishers’ textbooks are shaped by the Texas school board. Texas’s student enrollment is second only to California—5 million and 6.2 million respectively. Thus, as Gail Collins has written, “No matter where you live, if your children go to public schools, the textbooks they use were very possibly written under Texas influence.” Gail Collins, “How Texas Inflicts Bad Textbooks on Us,” The New York Review of Books 21 June, 2012. http://www.nybooks.com/articles/2012/06/21/how- texas-inflicts-bad-textbooks-on-us/ See also: Ellen Bresler Rockmore, “A Texas History Lesson, The New York Times 21 416 October, 2015, A31; Scott Thurman, dir. The Revisionaries (Austin, Texas: Co- production of Making History Productions, LLC, Silver Lining Film Group, and Magic Hour, in association with Naked Edge Films, 2012), film. http://www.pbs.org/independentlens/films/revisionaries/ 44 As A. Gabriel Meléndez chronicles in So All Is Not Lost: The Poetics of Print in Nuevomexicano Communities, 1834-1958, more than one hundred and ninety Spanish language newspapers were founded in the Southwest between 1880 and 1935 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1997), 6. 45 Gonzales-Day, 4. 46 Trouillot, 26. George Lipsitz, “Our America,” American Literary History, Volume 17, 47 Number 1, (Spring 2005), 135-140, 138. 48 Antigone, Oedipus the King, Electra (Oxford: Oxford World’s Classics, 2009), Edith Hall, ed. H.D. F.Kitto, translator; Gita Wolf and Sirish Rao, Sophocles’ Antigone (Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum, 2001). 49 Toni Morrison, “Nobel Lecture,” Nobelprize.org. Nobel Media AB 2. 7 December 1993. http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1993/morrison-lecture.html 417 BIBLIOGRAPHY I. 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