In 1657, the marquis of Villagarcía was appointed as president of the Audiencia of Charcas. Although, he eventually declined the post, his nomination generated an unusual trail of private documents. Using my study of this correspondence as a base, I will discuss how the networks of patronage were built and sustained, how they operated, and how they impacted the global mobility of imperial officials. Patronage networks were indispensable to itinerant officials who relied on their clients, patrons, and brokers to help them govern distant regions by gathering resources and information, and implementing their objectives. Moreover, this particular case gives us a glimpse into the relationship between Villagarcía as husband and his wife, and the private assessments and negotiations surrounding the transatlantic journey.

In her study on the configuration of difference in colonial New Granada, Joanne Rappaport contends that many studies “tend to ignore how different practices of distinguishing one individual from another came into play in concrete situations,” and as a result they “end up labeling as ‘race’ something that was much more multifaceted.” Subsequently, she urges scholars to interpret colonial subjects and their identities on their own terms. This study responds to Rappaport's call by analyzing the workings of the historical concept of calidad in colonial Spanish America.

My experience of doing Latin American history has been inseparable from dialogical and communal dynamics. In my view, every history is a question, and behind every question is a community or set of communities. So let me begin with a question made famous by Marc Bloch: What's the use of history? Looking at our globalized society, where short-term commercialism runs rampant, and breeds temptation to push aside broad education in critical thought while pursuing a more narrowly focused credential, we can ask the question again. What indeed is the use of history? It's a legitimate question. Students have a right to know what we think about it. They may have experienced history in school as learning stuff that doesn't seem relevant.

Juana Tapia did not know how to sign her own name. Yet, on September 12, 1900, Tapia successfully initiated a suit in federal district court for her son's release from military service. Her son, Miguel Álvarez, had been imprisoned by a local prefect during the recent municipal elections in the city of Hermosillo, Sonora, for alleged criminal activities. Instead of consigning Álvarez to a criminal judge to be prosecuted for these alleged crimes, the local prefect had ordered Tapia's son to nearby Torim to serve in the Mexican army's twelfth battalion.

On January 13, 1803, the French notary Derieux visited the first of several estates owned by Domingo Rodríguez, recently deceased. Rodríguez's property lay in the environs of Santiago de los Caballeros, a town in the north-central valley of Santo Domingo on eastern Hispaniola (today, the Dominican Republic). Over a three-week period, Derieux traveled with a team of witnesses and assessors to properties as far away as coastal Puerto Plata in order to assess the value of Rodríguez's cloth store, home, cabins, pasture land, livestock, cane and foodstuff fields, and sugar-processing equipment. Two of the three plantations also included a different kind of asset. At the sugar estate Gourave, Derieux wrote down the names of the 35 cultivateurs, cultivatrices, and enfants, that is, male and female agricultural workers and their children.

This article examines criminal court cases about conflicts related to the electoral process at all stages from determining how elections would be administered to disputes about results. It argues that contemporary allegations of fraud, corruption, and misconduct during elections can inform us not only of the anomalies but also of the ways in which elections worked as expected, according to the laws and norms of the time. We can also see how participants defined and defended the democratic ideal. A careful reading of participants' complaints to local authorities about electoral law violations, including incidents that ended in violence, can provide important insights into partisanship, the mechanics of elections, and the formation of political culture. The use of democratic rhetoric in these complaints suggests a consensus around a democratic ideal based on free and fair elections even though that ideal was not yet realized. Through the analysis of criminal court cases, it also introduces a broad range of questions about how nineteenth-century Chileans understood and practiced democracy that suggest avenues for further research.

Abolition forced planters in the post-Civil War US South to consider new sources and forms of labor. Some looked to Spanish America for answers. Cuba had long played a prominent role in the American imagination because of its proximity, geostrategic location, and potential as a slave state prior to the Civil War. Even as the United States embraced abolition and Cuba maintained slavery, the island presented Southern planters with potential labor solutions. Cuban elites had been using male Chinese indentured workers (“coolies” or colonos asiáticos) to supplement slave labor and delay the rise of free labor since 1847. Planters in coastal Peru similarly embraced Chinese indentured labor in 1849 as abolition neared. Before the Civil War, Southerners generally had noted these developments with anxiety, fearing that coolies were morally corrupt and detrimental to slavery. However, for many, these concerns receded once legal slavery ended. Planters wanted cheap exploitable labor, which coolies appeared to offer. Thus, during Reconstruction, Southern elites, especially in Louisiana, attempted to use Chinese indentured workers to minimize changes in labor relations.

On March 10, 1910, Pío Coronel informed his readers that he was abandoning his home in the western province of Pinar del Río and saddling up his horse to set out on an important journalistic and political assignment. The black press journalist noted that once he got wind of Cuban president José Miguel Gómez's plans to set off from the presidential palace on a political campaign across the island, he kissed his wife goodbye and took off in pursuit with little more than a pen and a shoulder bag. In the following weeks, Pío galloped hundreds of miles across the Cuban countryside, or, as he called it, the “ill-fated American Colony,” to report on how black communities from Havana to Guantánamo received President Gómez. In other words, Pío showcased Cuba's black public sphere, which despite its effervescent political and civic life was outside the purview of Cuba's mainstream reporters. As this article argues, it was also largely neglected by subsequent generations of historians.

On May 15, 1930, in the small border town of Naco, Sonora, census enumerator Miguel Robles started to count. When he finished walking his assigned portions of Calle Hidalgo, Avenida Independencia, and Calle Morelos, he had enumerated 143 individuals, each of whom answered the single question regarding religious identity the same way: Catholic. A block over, a carpenter named Ignacio Ledgard left his tools for the day to canvas his own neighborhood, counting 252 individuals, including his own family. They also all identified as Catholic, except for two Chinese men with no religion.

The 1950s stand out as the “Golden Years” in the collective memory of many Brazilians. Sandwiched between the authoritarian periods of the Estado Novo dictatorship led by Getúlio Vargas (1937–45) and a military dictatorship (1964–85), the decade was a time of great optimism for the country's future. Many hoped that the country would enjoy a lasting democratic system accompanied by the ever-increasing trappings of modernity. Indeed, a surge of economic growth and industrial development during Vargas's return as a democratically elected president (1951–54), followed by a massive industrialization program crowned by the construction of the ultramodern capital of Brasília under Juscelino Kubitschek (1956–61), gave true believers reason for optimism.

The influenza of 1918, the disastrous global pandemic known to many as the Spanish Flu, could not have come at a worse time for Mexico. The nation was eight years into its decade-long revolutionary struggle, a conflict that claimed the lives of well over a million citizens. Of those lost, several hundred thousand perished due to the influenza alone, usually from secondary complications such as pneumonia or bronchitis. Along with exposure, famine, and a myriad of other wartime ailments, the 1918 flu ranked as one of the leading causes of death in the Revolution, far surpassing combat casualties.

In October of 1958, amidst the guerrilla war to topple Fulgencio Batista, Fidel Castro's Rebel Army passed an Agrarian Reform Law that would serve as an embryo for the Cuban Revolution's 1959 land reform. Relying on rare documents from the insurgency, this paper reanimates the debate over the role of peasants during the war, arguing that peasants not only helped shape the movement to topple Batista, but that their mobilization led to the articulation of important guerrilla agrarian policies—including land reform. As the liberated territories became a laboratory in which rebels experimented with how to run a state, peasants took part in civil projects, simultaneously bestowing legitimacy on the movement and harnessing its organizational apparatus for the achievement of the peasants’ own goals. In highlighting the political subjectivity of Cuban peasants, this paper also gives new insight into everyday life during the rebel insurgency.

In March 1855, a literary newspaper in Rio de Janeiro printed the first installment of Nísia Floresta's “Páginas de uma vida obscura,” a serialized short story inspired by Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin (1852). Seven more chapters followed, keeping “Páginas” in the public eye for months. The Jornal do Commercio, arguably the national paper of record, mentioned the story in its announcements. Floresta (pseudonym of Dionísia Gonçalves Pinto, 1810–1885) centered her storyline on the Congo-born Domingos, the “Brazilian Tom,” who exemplified the attributes of Christian virtuosity and resignation found in Stowe's internationally famous novel. Set in the nineteenth century, “Páginas” begins with the ten-year-old Domingos's enslavement on the African coast, and highlights the human devastation of the internal slave trade through his movements across Minas Gerais and on to Porto Alegre and Rio de Janeiro. It ends with Domingos's death, at age 54, grief-stricken over his son's recent passing. In part, Floresta's “Páginas” emerged from the Brazilian schoolteacher's longstanding critiques of patriarchy, nation, and education. Twenty years earlier, Floresta had drawn from Mary Wollstonecraft's A Vindication of the Rights of Woman to write Direito das mulheres e injustiça dos homens (1832), a book that went through three editions in its first decade. More directly though, Floresta had connected to the so-called “Tom mania” while living in Paris in 1852. The following year, back in Rio, she wrote a pamphlet on women's education—Opúsculo humanitário (1853)—that parsed key aspects of Uncle Tom's Cabin, among a larger discussion of women's achievements internationally. Two Rio newspapers excerpted the pamphlet, and, boldly, published the chapters focused on Uncle Tom. This attention in the press raised the profile of a book the public already knew to be controversial, as newspapers had earlier carried reports of port authorities seizing shipments of Uncle Tom's Cabin in Rio, Salvador, and Fortaleza. In writing “Páginas,” then, two years after the Opúsculo, Floresta not only carried forward her literary dialogue with Stowe, but also posed the work as a challenge to the status quo. “Páginas” was necessary, she explained, because “slavery is not an issue of concern in the press.” If overstated, given that the topic of slavery was quite prevalent in public discourse, Floresta's assertion nonetheless signals an opportunity for scholars to probe further into the relationship between slavery and the public sphere in the mid nineteenth century. More specifically, it suggests connections to be explored between the press and the early reception of Uncle Tom's Cabin in Brazil, and, more broadly, connections between the representations of slavery in the press, and the institution's enduring legitimacy.

As young medical students at Guanabara State University, Luiz Roberto Tenório and Ricardo Agnese Fayad received some of the best medical education offered in 1960s Brazil. For six years, the peers in the same entering class had studied the principles of the healing arts and practiced their application at the university's teaching hospital. They had also witnessed the Brazilian military oust a democratically elected president and install a dictatorship that ruled the country for 21 years (1964–85). After graduating, however, Tenório and Fayad embarked on very distinct paths. The former became a political dissident in opposition to the military regime and provided medical assistance to members of the armed left. The latter joined the armed forces and, as a military physician, participated in the brutal torture and cruel treatment of political prisoners. At the end of military rule, Brazil's medical board would find him guilty of violating the Brazilian code of medical ethics and revoke his license.

“B. D. Q. C.,” as he signed his letter, must have felt pretty special that New Year's Eve of 1973. Some time that evening, the 15-year-old Communist boy from Santiago de Chile kissed a 17-year-old Communist girl admired for her beauty by all the young Communists from the local headquarters of the Juventudes Comunistas de Chile (JJCC), or Jota, as the youth wing of the Partido Comunista de Chile (PCCH) was nicknamed. He had never dated an older woman before, and though he bragged about having kissed thousands of other girls, he had never truly fallen in love until then. “I dated her for only 13 days. We broke up, but every day that goes by I love her more and more,” he confessed in a letter to the editor of the young Communists’ magazine a few days later. To make matters worse for our lovelorn teenager, the object of his affection did not stay single for long. “She is now dating another guy from the Jota. Every day that goes by I grow more jealous of him and of everyone who talks to her, because even though I'm not with her any more, I dream we are still together, and I have hopes to be with her again.” The existence of a place like the JJCC local headquarters, which all the people involved in this romantic affair visited regularly, was the cause of both solace and affliction for this young man: “I waste the whole afternoon in the headquarters waiting for her to arrive and greet her, so my eyes can take her in. I think about her every minute, while she has thousands of things to think about, and I have only one.”

It was in January 1950 that Guatemalan Col. Carlos Castillo Armas, a rather unfamiliar figure at the time, headed for El Salvador, giving no sign that he would eventually become one of the most notorious antagonists in the destruction of the 1944-54 Guatemalan Revolution. Late in 1950, he and some 70 compatriots attacked Guatemala City's Base Militar, hoping to overthrow Juan José Arévalo's government and prevent Jacobo Arbenz from assuming the presidency. Though the assault failed and its participants were imprisoned, the dissident bribed his way out of jail and took into exile a newfound reputation as an influential conspirator.

In his 1611 Treasury of the Castilian or Spanish Language, Sebastián de Covarrubias began his definition of the word duende as follows: “It is one of the spirits of those who fell with Lucifer, of which some fell to the depths, others remained in the airy region, and some [landed] upon the surface of the Earth, as it is commonly held. These tend to be found inside houses and among mountains and in caves, frightening with their occasional apparitions, taking on fantastic shapes.” Over a century later, the 1732 Diccionario de autoridades was more concise; a duende was simply “a species of hobgoblin or demon that, as the name suggests, ordinarily infests houses.” Had Enlightenment reduced one of Lucifer's minions to a household sprite?