Following independence from Spain in 1898, Cubans hoped to create a new independent, more egalitarian nation built on the dreams of numerous well-known revolutionaries like José Martí and Antonio Maceo as well as lesser known radicals like the anarchists Enrique Creci, Enrique Messonier, and Adrián del Valle. Like so many of their fellow residents on the island, though, the anarchists quickly grew disillusioned with independence. Their disillusionment rested on repeated U.S. military occupations, a business and commercial class that put individual profits over the well-being of all, a government that seemed to repress labor and the popular classes in order to curry favor with international and national investors, and educational systems that anarchists charged taught obedience and subservience instead of freedom.

On February 16, 1696, Doña Inés Velarde, the widow of Capitán Don Miguel de Vera, a former notary of the Mexico City Cabildo, redacted her will before Juan de Condarco y Caceres, a notary public in New Spain’s capital. Despite the typhus (matlazáhuatl) epidemic that ravaged the city in that year, Doña Inés was in good health. She had carefully prepared for the pious act of will writing, issuing over thirty meticulously designed religious directives in her last will and testament. Two directives in particular reveal much about colonial Mexican religious sensibilities. In the thirty-seventh clause of her twenty-page will, she founded a perpetual act of charity with the capital of 3,000 pesos.

On 6 March 1701, the municipal government of Puebla de los Angeles received a cédula commanding the performance of an oath ceremony, or jura del rey, for the new Bourbon monarch, Philip V. Twelve days later, a second cédula arrived, ordering the celebration of royal funerary honors, or exequias reales, for the last Spanish Habsburg king, Charles II. Puebla's municipal leaders, or regidores, attributed great importance to public ceremony and began planning for the events immediately upon receiving Queen Mariana's instructions. Like the political elites of many early modern cities, Puebla's councilmen consistently dedicated a significant share of the city's resources to mount spectacles to commemorate such events as viceregal entrances, patron saints’ days, royal births and marriages, and Spanish military victories. These occasions provided local leaders with opportunities to instruct the populace in the authority of the king's primary representative, the primacy of the Catholic faith, the power of the city's leaders, the importance of hierarchy in colonial society, and the loyalty due the royal family and the Spanish Empire.

After Spain’s defeat in the Seven Years’ War (1757-1763), when the British had occupied Havana and Manila, a series of territorial, commercial, and tax reforms brought significant change to the viceroyalty of Peru. Their economic effects have been matters for debate ever since. Some historians have emphasized their positive effects. Following promulgation of the Reglamento de comercio libre of 1778, the volume and value of European manufactures exported to the Pacific coast of Spanish South America increased. Lima and its port city, Callao, remained important as commercial centers of Spanish South America. But others suggest that the viceregal capital—home to a powerful mercantile elite, the magnates of the consulado (merchant guild) of Lima—suffered a decline in its economic fortunes, as did the entire viceroyalty. Support for this point of view was widespread in late colonial Peru. In spite of the evidence for growth, a rising chorus of complaint bemoaned the increasing poverty of the viceroyalty in general and Lima in particular. How can we account for this discrepancy?

For most residents of Mexico City at the turn of the nineteenth century, daily life was cash poor. Homemakers with servants or without, merchants and artisans, carpenters and domestic servants all turned to pawnshops to finance routine household, business and recreational needs, some on a daily basis. At the end of the colonial period and in the first decades of independent republican rule, residents from the lower and intermediate ranks of the city commonly raised cash by securing loans with possessions as collateral, leaving clothing, tools, and jewels temporarily with pawnbrokers. Based on more than 8,000 transactions culled from pawnshop records from the 1780s to the 1820s, this article argues that pawning material goods served to alleviate economic and other pressures at the household level.

It was mostly women managing households who provided for dependents and/or maintained class and ethnic identities through creative financing strategies that depended on regular use of petty credit mechanisms. Archival documents and literary sources suggest that there were fundamental continuities in this material history of Mexico City from the last decades of the colonial period well into the decades after Independence, which was achieved in 1821. Material goods continued to serve as collateral for small loans throughout the nineteenth century. Pawning was a regular strategy used by many urban residents to negotiate the colonial and post-colonial political economy as well as cultural hierarchies. Petty credit secured by women helped individuals and families steady their precarious foothold on the social ladder of hierarchy. While pawning could allow some to maintain their status or even ascend the ladder, for most people collateral credit cushioned (or simply prolonged) the slip down.

The 1920s saw the emergence of a distinctive, new urban culture in the city of Buenos Aires. Although this culture did not extend to the borders of the nation, it was a national culture in the sense that it continually manufactured and reproduced images of Argentine national identity. Research conducted over the last two decades has greatly improved our understanding of this new culture. We know that it was, to a great extent, forged in the city's new, outlying barrios where manual workers lived side by side with skilled workers and members of the middle class. The relatively strong performance of the Argentine economy during these years made social mobility a more for realistic aspiration for more people than it had ever been before. Partly as a result of this economic reality, the new barrio culture revealed a less militant attitude on the part of porteño workers, a trend visible as well in the significant decline in membership and effectiveness experienced by labor unions. But the new cultural milieu reflected more than just economic prosperity; it was intimately tied to the birth of a mass culture disseminated by radio, cinema, and tabloid. In particular, the 1920s witnessed the commodification and massification of tango and football, two popular cultural practices that were now transformed into quintessential representations of Argentinidad.

On a spring morning in 1919, worshipers leaving Mexico City’s cathedral were horrified to discover the body of a little girl who had fallen to her death from the Hotel del Seminario. Yet as far as the Excélsior newspaper was concerned, the tragedy that had ended that morning had actually begun with her conception. Her mother was a prostitute who lived in the hotel and busybody guests reported that the mother neglected her child. On the day of Domitila’s death, her mother was not at the hotel, as she had been admitted to the Morelos Hospital, which specialized in syphilitic prostitutes. The hotel’s guests did their best to care for Domitila, giving her food, affection, and chiding when she played on balconies: one moment of inattention allowed the tragedy. The article concluded that perhaps it was for Domitila’s own good that she had died falling off a balcony. Readers did not need to be told why Domitila was better off dead, because the case encapsulated common anxieties about childhood and parenting in Porfirian and revolutionary Mexico.

In his 1927 annual report to the Pernambucan state legislature, Governor Estacio de Albuquerque Coimbra wrote that “the economic, intellectual, moral and civic value of the Nation and the State is shaped, with the expression of human activity, in the excellence of physical and moral robustness of its population.” He believed that government was responsible for improving the condition of its citizens, and that “man, healthy or sick, … ought to fall under the knowing gaze of the Governments, preserving or restoring him to health, to benefit the Nation.” Under Coimbra's administrations, the Pernambucan government inaugurated public health, public assistance, and education programs designed to improve the material and physical well-being of Pernambucan citizens. This was not an easy task; regional economic underdevelopment and perennial budget crises threatened government-sponsored social programs. While public health programs could be implemented and administered with relative ease in the state's capital of Recife, transportation problems and low population density made the extension of such services to the residents of the state's interior almost impossible. Despite these obstacles, public health programs and the physical well-being of the state's populations had become the single most important concern of the Pernambucan government by the mid 1920s, and the expectation of future economic development and social progress was tied to the development of effective public health programs.

On April 5, 1723, Juan Joseph de Porras, a mulatto slave laboring in an obraje de paños (woolen textile mill) near Mexico City, appeared before the Holy Office of the Inquisition for blasphemy. According to the testimony of six slaves, including Porras’ wife, while his co-workers prepared to bed down for the night in the obraje Porras had blasphemed over a beating he had received from the mayordomo (overseer) earlier in the day. Señor Pedregal, the owner of the obraje, testified that Porras was one of nearly thirty workers, all Afro-Mexican slaves or convicts, who lived and labored in his obraje without the freedom to leave.

The case against Juan Joseph de Porras and dozens of others like it in the Mexican archives raise important questions, not only about the makeup of the colonial obraje labor force, but also about the importance of Afro-Mexican slavery in the middle of the colonial period. Was the Pedregal labor force, composed entirely of slaves and convicts, the exception or the rule within obrajes of New Spain? If it was not exceptional, how important were slaves to that obraje and others like it? What exactly was the demographic makeup of the obraje labor force in the middle of the colonial period? And, how might the answers to those questions change our understanding of the histories of labor and slavery in colonial Mexico?

One day, a young romance writer who has lost his place to urban expansion in Buenos Aires overhears this intimate conversation coming from another bedroom in an all-women's residence hall. An “invisible houseguest” in Madame Bazan's pensionado for middle-class women of all ages, Mauricio Ridel works on finishing a happy ending for his latest serialized novel. During the writing process, however, he finds himself distracted by the sounds and rhythms of the house, his focus carried away to the conversations in the house on fashion, family life and female emancipation. Careful not to indicate his presence in any way (for he has agreed to respect the privacy of the women who live there), Ridel listens in to the conversations between female residents from the comfort of his assigned room. Believing themselves removed from male listeners, the female characters of Juana Manuela Gorriti's Oasis en la vida (1888) openly discuss their concerns and desires in the security of enclosed spaces. The dialogic sequence that begins this essay demonstrates the relief that a group of unnamed women experience when removing their uncomfortable clothing. They complain about the weight and needless complexity of their fashions and even flesh out a conspiracy theory concerning a few of those crazy designers. As the women contemplate the changes that tomorrow's fashions will inevitably bring, their soft, sweet voices appear punctuated by the incongruous thud of tossed garments.

The relations between the Chilean Movimiento Nacional Socialista (MNS, or Nacismo) and the German-Chilean community, i.e., Chilean citizens of German origin, as well as the attitude of the former towards the Third Reich are still largely unexplored topics. Despite the growing number of studies on the nacista movement since the late 1980s, which rounded off and partly corrected earlier studies, and thereby substantially increased our knowledge of its ideology, political activities and leader, Jorge González von Marées, they have received little scholarly attention so far. In general, and this reservation applies to earlier as well as more recent publications, authors only briefly refer to the similarities between Chilean Nacismo and German Nazism, and either note the important role German-Chileans played in the organization or state that they were insignificant for its overall development. The only partial exceptions to this rule are Olaf Gaudig and Peter Veit’s as well as Jiirgen Muller’s works, which provide some information about these issues, and especially the relationships between the Chilean fascists and the German-Chileans.

It is generally recognized that the grave military reverses of 1762 impelled Charles III “to place his American Empire on a competitive military footing.” A crucial element in this process was the “expansion of the regular, or veteran garrisons. . . .” This is not to say, of course, that there were no military establishments in the Indies before the Seven Years War. Indeed, as Allan J. Kuethe points out:

Yet, how different was this “promising defense system” from that put into place after 1762?

La medicina científica was a popular journal read by Mexican doctors at the end of the nineteenth century. Each edition contained articles on the latest research and developments in the profession and also medical news from around the world of potential interest to subscribers. An excerpt from a February 1889 entry noted that Carolina Schultze had recently passed her medical oral exams in France. One of the evaluators acknowledged her obvious skill and “the great service she will perform to society.” But the article's focus, and the probable reason for its inclusion in this Mexican journal, quickly turned to whether or not other women could match her talent. The author presumed that she was, in fact, unique. “The female doctor,” he said, “neither has been nor is nor ever will be more than an exception, as there are exceptional women in all fields of knowledge, art, science, and literature.” Even more suggestive about late nineteenth-century bias were the reasons why he thought that female doctors, if they must exist, should only specialize in the illnesses of women and children: “when women enter into the practice of a profession appropriate only to the strong sex, they are never satisfied with a secondary role and always want to shine in the front row.”

In recent years, most historians have abandoned the idea that the revolutions that shook the Atlantic world between 1776 and 1848 were the work of a single social class. A number of studies on the social composition of the groups that ignited and propelled the different revolutionary processes demonstrate the diversity of conditions and social backgrounds of the revolutionaries. However, this revisionism is posing new questions as to why these contingencies in Europe and the Americas decided to mobilize, to construct new liberal national states, and how they carried it out.

Spain is a good sample case for this historiographical inquiry. At present, few historians accept the idea that the series of upheavals that brought about a new liberal state during the 19th century resulted from the exclusive pressure of a national bourgeoisie. Recent scholarship has revisited the classic bourgeois revolution paradigm by presenting liberalism as an ideology that captivated the imagination of Spaniards of a variety of social ranks, with special impact among urban middle and popular groups. But if Spanish scholars are providing better explanations regarding who embraced liberal ideas and facilitated their spread, the answers for the “why” and “how” this process occurred are, in my opinion, less convincing.

Tourists who visit a Mexican market to observe a butcher at work will readily notice the difference between the material cultures of meat in Mexico and the United States. Instead of thick, neatly cut steaks, wrapped in clear plastic, they will find butterflied strips of meat, corresponding to no known part of a cow, sawed with ragged edges but remarkable thinness, and hung on hooks and rods. Thick slabs called suadero might be steak except for the checkerboards carved across the front, and seemingly random chunks of retazo complete the baroque display of craftsmanship. Although of little use in making Anglo-American roasts or steaks, these cuts are ideal for such delicacies as carne asada (grilled meat) and mole de olla (chili pepper stew). Indeed, fajitas—skirt steak pounded thin and marinated, then seared quickly on a hot fire, and served with salsa and fresh tortillas— are nothing more than a Tex-Mex version of the standard method of cooking and eating beef in Mexico. Moreover, the differences between U.S. supermarket meat counters and Mexican artisanal market displays extend beyond national culinary preferences to reflect the historical growth of industrial supply chains. Indeed, meat provides a case study demonstrating the significance of consumer culture in shaping the development of Mexican capitalism during the dictatorship of Porfirio Díaz (1876-1911).

The Lipan Apache mission on the banks of the San Sabá River was located on the northern boundary of Coahuila, New Spain, in the center of today’s state of Texas. On March 16, 1758, Norteño tribes, allied with the Comanches, attacked and destroyed the mission, demonstrating their hostility to what they saw as the Spaniards’ unjust support of their traditional enemy, the Apaches. The destruction of the mission contributed to the failure of the most far-reaching attempt by the Spanish Crown and the Franciscan Order to settle the Apaches in Texas. The Spanish believed that the mission was the only means to ensure a peaceful settlement of central Texas native tribes and simultaneously to check French illegal arms trade in the northern borderlands. Once the Lipan Apaches were pacified, the reasoning went, definitive settlement of all the Norteño tribes and their allies would follow. These settlements of pacified tribes would also provide the much-desired direct link between Spanish settlements in Texas and those of New Mexico.

Following the revolution of 1910-1917, a new era took shape in the port of Veracruz, Mexico as residents (porteños) took to a variety of recreational pursuits that included baseball, social dances and, increasingly, film. No one activity proved more significant, however, than the revival of Carnival in 1925. That year, members of the Veracruz railroad workers union (Alianza de Ferrocarrileros) along with a coordinating committee made up of representatives from various community associations organized the first public celebration of Carnival in nearly five decades. Assembling just outside the union hall on the afternoon of Saturday February 21, 1925, hundreds joined in an afternoon parade that circulated through the central city. Carrying assorted musical instruments and noisemaking gadgets, an enthusiastic throng engaged in a hunt to capture a ritualistic “enemy of the people” known as Mal Humor. After members of the procession seized their prey, a tribunal headed by King Juan Carnaval tried the offender and sentenced him to death.